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 LI E> R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UN1VLR.5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 ■RS43i 
 
 V. I

 
 IN LOW RELIEF
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/inlowreliefbohem01robe
 
 IN LOW RELIEF 
 
 A BOffKlUIAN TRANSCRIPT 
 
 MOKLEY HOIJERTS 
 
 AUTHOR OF -THE WEBTEBN AVERKU8 
 
 fii Cluo Tolumrs 
 VOL L 
 
 LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL 
 
 Limited 
 
 1890 
 
 [All right* rfgerrrd']
 
 WESTMIXSTKK : 
 
 PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS, 
 
 25. PABT/TAMKNT STREET
 
 ?A3 
 
 v.. \ 
 
 « CONTENTS OF VOL I. 
 
 .^ 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 ^ A STUDY IX THE IDEAL ...... 1 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 V MAIDEN LANE AND MARY 
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A CIRCLE OF THE INFERNO 31 
 
 ■^ CHAPTER iV 
 
 ^ pAir 
 
 PAb'L ARMOUR S STUDIO ... 4U 
 
 4^
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 SAINT PRISCILLA 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 A VISION IX MARBLE 
 
 CHAPTER YII 
 
 THE END OF THE FIRST ACT 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HER PROMISED VISIT 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 TOWARDS TWO ENDS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 58 
 
 74 
 
 87 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE NATURAL MAN ...... 106 
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PAUL AND MARY . . • . • ■ .155 
 
 180
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 HEROES AND VALETS 197 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Paul's view of the situation .... 252
 
 IN LOW EELIEF 
 
 CHAPTEP. I. 
 
 A STUDY IN THE IDEAL. 
 
 " AYlio was vour model, Georsre ? " 
 
 " Do YOU mean of that head ? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 '^ She is very well known. I thous^ht vou 
 
 must have seen her. She sits for Tadema 
 
 sometimes, and for a lot of well-known men. 
 
 Her name is Morris." 
 
 ^' Is it true, or have vou faked it ? " 
 " As true as I can do it. I can't fake." 
 There was a moment's pause, during Avhich 
 
 tlie first speaker stared earnestly at the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 m LOW BELIEF. 
 
 canvas which stood aside on the oldest easel 
 in the studio. 
 
 " She must be very beautiful ; a strange 
 and rare type. What did you say her name 
 was ? " 
 
 But George Eaeburn, being absorbed in 
 the adjustment of a kettle hanging over 
 his gas-jets, did not answer ; and John 
 Torrington, who had asked the last question 
 nlmost mechanically, took no notice of his 
 silence, thougli he still studied the canvas 
 with attention. 
 
 It was no more than a sketch of a girl's 
 face ; for the amber beads on her neck and 
 the drapery over her shoulders were only 
 faintly suggested, while part of the head 
 was still as rough as it had remained when 
 first blocked in. "Jlaeburn seemed to have 
 been so led away by the eyes, which were 
 spiritual in intensity, and the hair which 
 was just beginning to flow loose and light 
 above the broad brows, that he had attained 
 something: bv accident, if he had not indeed
 
 A STUDY IX THE IDEAL. 
 
 painted part of a rare and strange reality 
 in which the eyes represented a soul and 
 the hair a mortal crown. If he did not 
 see so much, his friend and visitor did, for 
 Torrinc^ton turned awav at last with a sisrh 
 and threw himself into a wicker-work chair 
 which creaked under his weight. He leant 
 his head against an old oak press upon 
 which stood a cast in plaster of the Venus 
 of Melos. Ey his left side was a curtained 
 corner of shelves ; next that, a dull coke 
 fire burned in a fireplace with a tiled hearth; 
 opposite him a Japanese screen glinted with 
 golden birds. On the wooden walls were 
 many framed and unframed engravings, 
 water-colours, and oil-sketches. He was in 
 the cosier part of the divided studio, Raeburn 
 in the larger, where a litter of canvases, 
 colour-tubes, brushes, and scattered trifles 
 belonging to a painter made the place look 
 more like a workshop. 
 
 '' You will stay and have some tea, 
 Torrington?" E^aeburn asked after a short
 
 IN LOW EELIEF. 
 
 ■silencej wliicli lie had occupied in putting 
 things a little straight. 
 
 ''Eh! what's that?" said his friend, 
 waking from a reverie; ''tea — yes, if you 
 like. It's better to have tea with some 
 one than by one's self. I am rather tired of 
 that." 
 
 '' Then get the cups out, and I'll wash 
 my brushes." 
 
 As the dull Pebruarv evening^ drew in, 
 the fire seemed to gain new vigour, and 
 asserted itself more in the dark corners 
 where the odd cupboards held the ill-assorted 
 crockery of a Bohemian bachelor. Torring- 
 ton rose lazily, and going first to one and 
 then the other drew forth fragments of 
 many sets, grunting dolorously as he saw 
 hew various they were in shape and 
 colour, 
 
 *' You had better get out three cups," said 
 Eaeburn, as he passed him to go to the 
 liead of the stairs, where his water-tap 
 was.
 
 A STUDY IX THE IDEAL. 
 
 '•'If I can I ^yill/' growled Torrington. 
 '•'Why, George, yours is an amateur harlequin 
 set of crockery. This" — he held up a saucer 
 of prodigious weight and thickness — " should 
 be a survival of your most poverty-stricken 
 days. It must be like a skeleton at your 
 feast. And this" — a delicate china cup — 
 " possibly represents a picture sold when 
 sudden hope was that sales would hence« 
 forward proceed in arithmetical progression. 
 This teapot, ah ! — did not some lady fair 
 oive it vou ? Everv time you touch it her 
 hand meets yours, from its blessed spout 
 comes nectar, the delicious tears of love ; its 
 rosy roundness suggests — how coldly now — - 
 her tender cheek. Sweet tea-pot, romantic 
 old ruin ! Bah ! the ancient leaves at the 
 bottom are blue mouldy, the spout is 
 chipped, the handle cracked, the fancy 
 faded.'' 
 
 He chuckled sardonically. 
 
 " You are a foolish fellow, and must for 
 ever be talking," said Raeburn. " Perhaps
 
 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 I bought it at a pawn-shop for eighteen- 
 pence." 
 
 *' Silence, George, silence, let my illusions 
 alone. Have you none yourself, or have 
 they gone blue mouldy too ? " 
 
 He turned and laid his hands on the 
 artist's shoulders, suddenly serious. Eaeburn 
 smiled and then sighed. 
 
 " Nay, oh artist!" cried Torrington, '^ you 
 have some yet. When the artist has no 
 illusions he is either dead or successful. But 
 this is nonsense, and beside the mark. 
 Where's the milk?" 
 
 Id stead of looking for it he sat down, 
 while B^aeburn sought in vain. 
 
 "William never brought any, the care- 
 less scoundrel," he said at length. " I must 
 run across the yard to Armour's and see if 
 he has any." 
 
 " You need not trouble for me," shouted 
 Torrington, as George quitted the studio. 
 
 *' ISTo, for some one else. If any one comes 
 let him wait."
 
 A STUDY m THE IDEAL. 
 
 Tomngtoii leant his head against the oaken 
 press once more and stretched out his long 
 legs, trying to discover a comfortable atti- 
 tude in a wholly impossible chair, for he 
 was a considerably bigger man than Rae- 
 burn. The fire, which he had replenished, 
 suddenly gleamed a little and cast a light 
 upon his features, which were overshadowed 
 by a vague mass of thick and long brown 
 hair, and seemed with the accentuation of 
 flickering shadows more than irregular. 
 His eyes were expressive, though inclined 
 to be melancholy in silence or solitude ; 
 his jaw was firm and square, but so neutra- 
 lised by the mobile and fickle lips which 
 were rarely set, and the quick glance which 
 was seldom steady — save in direct and earnest 
 talk — that the face it seemed to give 
 character to left an impression of mingled 
 power and weakness which made any ac- 
 curate judgment of the man at first sight 
 impossible. He was a modern neurotic 
 type, though physically powerful.
 
 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 Very certainly lie was of a nervous tem- 
 perament, for Ills lips trembled as he re- 
 flected. His thoughts ran in a familiar 
 channel suggested by this tea-making. It 
 was the manifest duty of a woman to make 
 tea, thought Torrington, and it was a mani- 
 fest injury that he should have to make it 
 himself. He had said anything was better 
 than having tea alone. It was another 
 insult tliat he should be so often obliged 
 to take it in solitude. It was the duty of 
 destiny to supply him with a comfortable 
 home, a respectable income, and — a wife. 
 Many artists have had the same thoughts 
 as they toiled supported by little more than 
 their belief in themselves, and though Tor- 
 rington was not of the species painter he 
 believed himself generically an artist, even 
 when he wrote pot-boiling articles for a 
 solitary and meagre livelihood. 
 
 Some men really soliliquise oflP the stage, 
 though it is only solitaries who do, and 
 Torrington muttered aloud :
 
 A STUDY IX THE IDEAL. 
 
 " The world's wrong, civilisation and the 
 Caucasian are both failures, things are 
 crooked, and tlie universe doesn't work. 
 At least my part doesn't. Carlyle was a 
 humbug. Why shouldn't a man have a 
 right to hajDpiness ? He might keep his 
 blessedness. I will take that later on, 
 please ; it is black coffee and a cigar after 
 dinner. I think he did keep it so close that 
 not even his wife discovered it. Ah, his 
 wife ! " 
 
 He twisted in his crazy chair until it 
 creaked again and then lay back quietly. 
 Very quietly, and almost in a dream, for the 
 foolish fellow was conning the elusive phan- 
 tom of an ideal vision. "What should such 
 a restless dreamer need ? He had often 
 asked himself, and answered it thus : 
 
 '' A woman who is both good and beauti- 
 ful, and yet poor enough to come to such a 
 home as I may, by striving, give her. She 
 should be a light in its darkness to a man 
 who is not naturallv sad nor naturallv evil,
 
 10 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 but who has never known pure or prolonged 
 joy. A woman, thoughtful and sympathetic, 
 who will not be wholly wax in my hand nor 
 utterly stubborn ; who will love me more 
 for what I w^ould be than for what I am, 
 and whom I shall never know entirely. 
 Eor there is a strange fire in mystery, and I 
 am apt to despise what I believe I have 
 fathomed. But where shall I find her, 
 where ? " 
 
 He sighed a little bitterly and came back 
 suddenly to facts, when Raeburn's quick 
 step was heard on the stair. 
 
 " You have been a long time, George," he 
 said. 
 
 '' I liaven't been more than five minutes," 
 answered the artist, putting down the milk ; 
 " you must have been asleep." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Torrington, in an altered 
 voice. " I was dreaming of a phoenix. Let 
 us have tea." 
 
 "In a minute," replied Eaeburn. "I 
 must wait."
 
 A STUDY IN THE IDEAL. 11 
 
 The studio was rapidly growing dark, for 
 the sky was overcast and threatened rain. 
 Indoors the low fire only twinkled on the 
 dull brass- work of the old press and gleamed 
 vaguely on its lack-lustre wood, while the 
 gas under the kettle, beyond the dark 
 dividins; curtain, srave no more lif^ht than 
 sufficed to discover its presence. JFor a few 
 minutes there was quiet, only broken by the 
 singing of the heated water. Presently the 
 lower door at the bottom of the stairs 
 creaked, and a step was heard. 
 
 " Some one is coming up," said Torring- 
 ton. 
 
 " I left the door open on purpose." 
 
 As E^aeburn spoke there was a knock, 
 and he called : 
 
 '' Come in ! " 
 
 Ey her light step and rustling garments, 
 the new-comer was evidently a girl. 
 
 '' It is I, Mr. Eaeburn," said a sweet soft 
 voice which pleased John Torrington's sus- 
 ceptible ear. Looking up, he saw no more
 
 12 IN LOW BjELIEF. 
 
 than a vague and slight figure which stood 
 against the golden screen. 
 
 " I expected you would come, and tea is 
 almost ready." 
 
 " Then I am not late ? " 
 
 "Ah," said Ilaehurn gallantly, ''you are 
 always too late for me. But let me intro- 
 duce Mr. TorrinG^ton to you." 
 
 'John rose from his shadowy corner and 
 moved forward a pace or two. He was- 
 already pleased with this womaD, whose 
 face he had never seen, who was as yet no 
 more to him than a voice. 
 
 " It is surely dark for an introduction, 
 George," said he. " Besides, you have not 
 told me whom I am being introduced to." 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, I'm sure," said 
 Uaeburn. " Then this is Miss Morris. All 
 of us about here love her. She is like light 
 to us." 
 
 *' I can believe that even if I only see 
 you darkly now. Miss Morris," Torrington 
 replied, as he held out his hand with a
 
 .1 STUDY IN THE WEAL. 13 
 
 warm impulsive gesture. For although he 
 was unable to see her face distinctlv, vet it 
 seemed bcjautiful, and her voice at any rate 
 was so pleasant that his own instinctively 
 took a tender accent in sympathy. 
 
 '•' Have you brought the curtains ? " asked 
 E^aeburn, when she was seated. 
 
 She answered in the affirmative, and laid 
 a roll of stuff on the table. 
 " I wanted to see if they fit." 
 '' Xo matter if thev don't," laus^hed 
 Tomno;ton. '' Anvthinsr will be better than 
 tlie collection of holes which he at present 
 dignifies with the name of curtains. He 
 is very careless in the use of language." 
 
 "I dare say," remarked Raeburn, as he 
 brought in the steaming kettle and put it 
 on the fire, thereby rendering the studio 
 darker than ever. " You see I sometimes 
 differ with Torrington, Miss Morris, and 
 dare to have opinions of my own about my 
 own art at variance with his. You see he 
 may be a poet "
 
 14 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 "He is, of course," said Torrington shame- 
 lessly, ^* a great one. But, George, a light." 
 
 '' And a journalist or what not, still he 
 doesn't know everything. And as to the 
 curtains " 
 
 " Be quiet, George," said John, with a 
 mock air of firm and gentle authority. 
 *' Let me alone now. And do bring in 
 that light." 
 
 His friend smiled at him, and brought 
 into the smaller apartment the movable gas 
 standard, with its four flaming jets over 
 which the kettle had been boiled. Torrington 
 now looked at the girl with covert curiosity 
 and ahuost started. Surely he had seen 
 her before. Those great soft eyes and that 
 mass of loose hair seemed strangely familiar 
 to him. But how ? " Ah ! " he said 
 suddenly, and stopped. She looked at him 
 and he turned away. He had recalled the 
 study of a head which stood on Baeburn's 
 easel. It was she, assuredly. 
 
 While they had tea he talked rapidly.
 
 A STUDY IN THE IDEAL. 15 
 
 though with intervals of sudden silence, and 
 made the girl laugh witli his aimless chatter, 
 full of quaint metaphors and odd similes. 
 When he did hold his ton2jue he sat lookinor 
 at her whose monosyllabic answers seemed 
 eloquent to him, so greatly was he affected 
 by her sweet and rare beauty. After tea, 
 she andEaeburn looked over the new curtains 
 together. The artist was so pleased with 
 them that he gratefully called her an 
 an2:el. 
 
 ''No/' said Torrington suddenly and very 
 seriously, " not an angel, George, an angel 
 is not human. You mean a saint." Eor 
 he caught the girl's pure profile against a 
 golden bird on the screen, and standing thus 
 with her hands clasped, she reminded him of 
 a young madonna whose gravity was as yet 
 no more than the imminent shadow of pain, 
 and as vague as the glory coming to her 
 in recompense. 
 
 " Yes, you mean a saint." 
 
 He repeated the words two or three times
 
 16 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 to himself J and rose to go. When lie saw 
 liis bat in his liand, Eaeburn turned towards 
 him. 
 
 " You are not going yet ? " 
 
 '' Thanks for the implied invitation, but I 
 remember I have an engagement — with a 
 sinner — and I am always punctual. Ah, it 
 is my only virtue. I pride myself in it. If 
 I lose that I am morally done for. I am like 
 an artist with one eye, or one arm, or — or — 
 well, or like a crab with one claw, or an 
 amputated octopus clinging desperately to 
 respectability with a single sucker." 
 
 " It is a ^ood thins; vou ai'e not endowed 
 with eight tongues," put in E^aeburn. 
 
 '' Thanks," chuckled Torrington. '' Good- 
 bye, Miss Morris. Did you say she was a 
 model? " lie asked, in a low voice, drawing 
 Kaeburn outside the studio. 
 
 " I did ; so she is." 
 
 " A model ! " 
 
 It was said more in wonderment than 
 anvthing else, but to Eaeburn his voice
 
 A STUDY IX THE IDEAL. 17 
 
 seemed to have that doubtful ring in it 
 which those accustomed to studios could 
 interpret. It annoyed him. 
 
 '' Yes. a model," he said warDily, " and 
 as good as she is beautiful." 
 
 Torrington glanced at him curiously. 
 
 '' I never said she was not," he replied, 
 after a moment's pause. '' I can see she is 
 good, and I think she is beautiful. Or 
 perhaps I ought to say I can see she is 
 beautiful, and believe she is good. Though 
 to be sure goodness is a queer thing to define. 
 She reminds me of something, perhaps some- 
 thing I saw in a dream once. Yes, I do 
 think she is beautiful. But there, to a man 
 like me any really sweet woman ought to 
 be lovely. Well, good night." 
 
 Tlie two friends shook hands and Torring- 
 ton descended a stair or two. 
 
 ^' By the way, whose studio is that 
 last one on the other side opposite you ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's Armour's place. I got the 
 milk from him just now." 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " He looked a fine fellow, as I thought," 
 said Torrington. " I was a little curious to 
 know. Good night again." 
 
 And he went away without any more 
 questions.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MAIDEN LANE AND MARY. 
 
 The group of studios in which George 
 Raeburu and Paul Armour lived and 
 worked some five years ago reckoning from 
 eighteen hundred and eighty-nine, lay not 
 further than half a mile from the last 
 remaining colony of rooks in some ancient 
 elms on Haverstock Hill. In all there 
 were six of them, built on opposite sides of 
 a yard entered by a wide gate and paved 
 with concrete, upon which lay a few blocks 
 of rough marble. Across the narrow lane 
 was another long studio, occupied by West 
 the sculptor, to which was attached a shed 
 containing works in progress and otiierslong 
 past hopes of sale, while at its northern 
 c 2
 
 20 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 extremity a bronze-casting furnace some- 
 times shot at niglit a blue flame far above 
 its iron chimney. The lane itself was 
 a "no thoroughfare," encumbered with 
 sundry old carts, belonging to the owner of 
 the property, which were gradually falling 
 to pieces, and the vague melancholy which 
 always broods over a spot of little traffic 
 in a busy neighbourhood made the place 
 seem as far from the respectable houses 
 in the near streets as the artists were in 
 mind from the people of worldly activity 
 or the retired bourgeois who occuj)ied them. 
 John Torrington had spoken to his friend 
 Raeburn concerning the artist who occupied 
 the opposite studio, because he had been 
 struck by him in a manner which after- 
 wards seemed curious and almost prophetic, 
 seeing that the threads of their lives were 
 suddenly to be twisted together in an un- 
 expected and remarkable way. Though he 
 had but lately come to live in intimate 
 contact with this isolated group of workers.
 
 MAIDEN LANE AND MABY. 21 
 
 they had had a very decided influence upon 
 him already. Whether it was entirely 
 chance or an inborn tendency towards an- 
 other art than that he deemed his OAvn 
 which had led him into the neighbour- 
 hood of Raeburn, formerly an acquaintance 
 but now a friend, it is difficult to say ; yet 
 when he had taken up his abode in Camden 
 Town he had an incontrollable impulse to 
 spend most of his spare time in surround- 
 ings which were not only congenial but 
 novel as well. He became almost a part 
 of the place. 
 
 Torrington's earlier life and training (or 
 rather want of training, for he had grown 
 up nearly wild) made him easily fall in 
 with the freer ways of Bohemia. The im- 
 possibility of controlling him had led very 
 early to his lejiving home ; many years of 
 his early manhood had been spent in aimless 
 wanderings about Southern Europe and 
 and Northern Africa ; many more on his 
 return to Enscland had been wasted in a
 
 22 JiY LOW BELIEF. 
 
 vain efPort to make himself part of the 
 ordinary civilisation to which he ostensibly 
 belonged. In the end he became a journal- 
 istic hanger-on to some London papers, and 
 picked up a precarious livelihood by pot- 
 boiling articles in various magazines. He 
 also wrote verse, which, if not brilliant, was 
 at least fair in quality, and by adding 
 gradually a certain flashy dexterity in 
 water-colour work he bade fair to become 
 an artistic jack- of- all- trades. Yet there 
 certainly seemed at times promise of better 
 things in him, if rare flashes of brilliancy 
 and some moments of solemn earnestness 
 bore witness of the truth. 
 
 Perhaps the interest he took in Paul 
 Armour, to whom he had never yet spoken, 
 was in one way creditable to his instinct, if 
 not to his sympathy. Por though Torring- 
 ton little knew it, the greatest trials and 
 triumphs and defeats of his life were inextri- 
 cably mingled with those of Armour; and 
 strangely enough, although he was so ig-
 
 MAIDEN LANE AND 2IABY. 23 
 
 norant of tlie future, there was a certain 
 heaviness about his heart as he passed that 
 day out of the lane, a heaviness which lasted 
 until he suddenly recalled Mary Morris's 
 face, and brightened as he did so. He 
 thought of her often during the next week. 
 
 Paul Armour was a man of an original 
 stamp, or at least one who seemed original 
 in these times. Perhaps in the days of the 
 Italian Eenaissance he would have been a 
 commoner type, but still remarkable for a 
 certain silent strength, both of mind and 
 will and of body. He was scarcely handsome, 
 but the cliaracter of his face was beyond 
 mere beauty, and bore that cast of thought 
 which is not morbid brooding, but a healthy 
 intent of meditated purpose. He looked 
 sad when alone or when unmoved, but the 
 sweetness of his smile when he greeted one 
 he loved, or thought of something which 
 was beautiful and inspiring, gained much 
 from that very melancholy in its subtle 
 contrast, just as the glory of the afterglow
 
 24 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 is intensified and made manifest by the 
 lower tones of the earth, which no longer 
 receives the dh^ect rays of the sun. And 
 every one that knew him liked him, a 
 strange thing in a man of evident power 
 and talent. 
 
 He had lived in the same studio in 
 Maiden Lane, as the blind alley was usually 
 called, although it bore no painted title at 
 its entrance, for nearly four years, and had 
 occupied himself purely with art, and his 
 particular branch of it, which was line 
 etching. 
 
 He worked hard and laboriously towards 
 such a technical dexterity as would enable 
 him to do the work he knew himself best 
 fitted for, and took but little relaxation, 
 though the piano, which occupied far too 
 much space in his abode for material 
 comfort, was a great, perpetual, and in- 
 creasing delight to him. Perhaps it was 
 her love of music which first made Mary 
 Morris ready to visit him, and having once
 
 3IAIDEX LAXE AXD 2IARY. 25 
 
 entered the place, her feminine instincts led 
 her to help him in the adornment of his abode. 
 In this voluntary service she did no more 
 for him than for TTynne and Raehm^n, to 
 both of whom she occasionally sat. Eor 
 Raeburn was one of her earliest employers. 
 
 To many outsiders studios are mere dens 
 of dreadful impropriety, and the habit so 
 common among artists of treating all the 
 days of the week as the same, adds some- 
 times a religious odium to the old notions 
 of Bohemian art -land, which have not died 
 out. Yet, as artists may nowadays be 
 gentlemen, so they are not all libertines, 
 and a girl who respects herself will be 
 respected there, even though she be a 
 model. This Mary Morris speedily dis- 
 covered, although it took some time for 
 her to free herself from nervousness when 
 she first took to sitting, after the death of 
 her father, who left no means to support 
 his two young daughters. They went to 
 live with their only relative, an aunt, but
 
 26 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 soon becoming aware that work of any kind 
 was preferable to such wretched dependence, 
 both of them found an ere ploy ment in which 
 Mary's strange and saintlike beauty usually 
 kept her fully occupied. Yet in spite of 
 that she often found time to run into her 
 new friend Armour's place, when she was 
 sitting for any painter in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Armour was intensely wrapped up in his 
 work. One day his neighbour Wynne, who 
 had been a friend of his from the earlier 
 days of their training, asked him whether 
 he ever meant to get married. 
 
 '^ No, I think not," was his answer, *' or 
 at least not for some time. It is bad, it 
 must be bad, for one's art. A man ought 
 to have one aim, and that aim his undivided 
 attention. In one sense it would be like 
 suicide, for to have a number of children to 
 keep almost necessarily compels us to do 
 potboilers. And I want to do only good 
 work ! " 
 
 AVynne agreed with him emphatically.
 
 2IAIDEX LAXE AXD 2IABY. 27 
 
 " When I marry," said he, '*' I should like 
 to get some one who would be a help, not a 
 hindrance. One ought to marry a little 
 money, eh ? " 
 
 ''I daresay," answered Paul, without know- 
 ing quite what he said, for he w^ould not 
 have assented to the painter's question un- 
 conditionally. The conversation had set him 
 thinking about a matter which troubled him 
 no little just then. Por it occurred about 
 a year before Torrin2;ton met Mary Morris, 
 who had been accustomed for some time to 
 see Armour once or twice a week or even 
 more often. He was not a vain man, no 
 one was less so, but nevertheless there was 
 a possibility that she might become fond of 
 him. Sometimes he thought the mischief 
 was done, and he felt very conscience-stricken 
 when he made this declaration to Wynne. 
 He determined to speak to the girl in a way 
 which would, he thought, free him of this 
 responsibility. Certainly it was only right 
 that he should.
 
 28 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 Two days afterwards Mary came as usual, 
 bringing some little feminine knick-knack 
 which she herself had manufactured, and 
 after thanking her rather coldly, as she felt, 
 he went to the piano and played quietly, 
 while she sat in a large wicker arm- 
 chair looking at the artist and musician 
 pensively. 
 
 ''How I love it," she said, when he 
 paused. 
 
 He turned over the music slowly. 
 
 ''So do I," he answered. " I wish I could 
 play better. Well, I dare say I shall have 
 to put up with having some one near me 
 who can do it better." 
 
 Mary could not play at all. 
 
 "And," he went on deliberately, though 
 he felt anything but comfortable, " I think 
 I shall have that." 
 
 " Yes ? " said the girl inquiringly, though 
 without lifting her head, which rested on 
 her hand. 
 
 " Yes," he ansAvered. "I shall get married
 
 MAIDEN LANE AND 2IAEY. 29 
 
 one of these days. And she plays very well 
 indeed." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then 
 Mary spoke so cheerfully as to make Paul 
 quite at ease again. 
 
 " You must tell me, Mr. Armour, when 
 it is going to happen, and I will give you a 
 present." 
 
 '' Thank you, Mary," he said gravely. 
 But strangely enough he took up Schu- 
 mann's Addio, and sang that. 
 
 This haj)pened fully a year hefore John 
 Torrington met Mary Morris in E^aehurn's 
 studio, and since then things had continued 
 quite in their old way. But nevertheless it 
 was very commonly reported among the 
 other men that she was engaged to Paul, for 
 having no purpose to serve hy spreading the 
 news of an engagement which did not really 
 exist, he did not tell others what he had 
 told her. And it was in this way that John 
 Torrington afterwards came to helieve that 
 the girl he admired was engaged to a man
 
 30 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 whom he soon got to know and admire as 
 well. Eor there is nothing which appeals so 
 to a man of many and diverse aims as the 
 strong single purpose, or to tlie lax man, 
 who is not utterly bad, as a pure morality 
 without pretence.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A CIRCLE OF THE INEEUNO. 
 
 DmiXG the whole of the spring of this year 
 Torrington had been so extremely unlucky 
 \vith regard to making money at his business, 
 that he was more than once so hard pushed 
 as to be huns^rier than Avas reasonable. It 
 is true that his disposition was naturally 
 idle, and no less true that he might haye 
 done better if he had worked harder; but 
 having little purpose in life, he deemed it 
 almost as well to spend it in dreaming as in 
 labour, untillie felt the hard pinch of poverty. 
 That reacted upon him again, so that he 
 could not work even if he tried. And the 
 end of it was that his brain began to get 
 worried. He even contemplated suicide in
 
 32 IN LOW BJELIIJF. 
 
 a way that was the more dangerous as It 
 was quite calm. Eut it seemed that he was 
 reserved by Fate, if not for better things, 
 at least for a longer trial, since an editor — 
 who had usually declined his work with a 
 continuity of perseverance in evil-doing 
 which maddened unlucky Torrington — at 
 last accepted an article on condition that 
 the author excised all his pet passages. 
 This he did with much lamentation, but 
 when he received the proofs, the first he 
 had handled for more than six months, his 
 gratitude and relief were as intense as his 
 melancholy and opj^ression had been before. 
 '*' Now I can go into the country," he 
 said to his friend Arthur Gaskell — a man of 
 something the same disposition, who earned 
 his living by the most precarious draughts- 
 manship — as they walked on Hampstead 
 Heath one evening late in May. "I can 
 borrow a fiver on what is coming from this 
 article, and get away from the maddening 
 whirl of town."
 
 A CIRCLE OF THE IXFEE^W. 33 
 
 He suddenly stopped and caught Gas- 
 kell's arm. 
 
 "Mv God ! " he said, in a tone '»yhich was 
 dreadfully serious. *'You don't knoAV, old 
 fellow, how near I was, even a week ago, to 
 killing myself. It would have killed my 
 poor mother too, if I had. How I thank 
 this blessed mas^aziiie editor. I almost wish 
 I coukl thank heaven too ! " 
 
 Gaskell pressed his arm kindly. Poor 
 fellow, he too Avished he could make five 
 pounds. He certainly had not seen so much 
 for a long time. Eut Torrington went on 
 talking excitedly. 
 
 " Think of it, think of it, that so little 
 should mean so much to us. I didn't know 
 the heavy weight that was on me till now. 
 I didn't know how I was being crushed out 
 of sanity and existence till this day. ISi ow 
 I can get out of it for a while and watch 
 the sea come in white on the beach, and 
 hear it lap quietly on the rocks, and listen 
 to the wind and see the stars through the 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 smokeless air. Yes, think, in a week I shall 
 look out of some window at night time witli 
 only a few people about nie. I don't know 
 why it is, but many months in a city with 
 millions maddens me. I suffer for their 
 sins as well as my own. I feel their life, 
 and it is too much for my brain. And then 
 to think how many people are happy — in 
 homes — with wives and children. Do you 
 know, I wish I had children of my own. It 
 is miserable being alone, miserable." 
 
 " Yes, it is," said Gaskell, with a dull throb 
 in his own heart. Por he too had a love 
 story of his own. 
 
 ''That," went on Torrington, " is the reason 
 I am such a brute. Sometimes I am as low 
 as a dog, or lower. Oh ! life is a cruel thing 
 to men such as we. We ought to have 
 been born with just enough brains to be the 
 merest blackguards. Then there would be 
 no repentance. What is that but sorrow in 
 vain when there is no Paradise for us ? And 
 there is none, none at all. No, none.
 
 A GIBCLE OF THE INFEBNO. 35 
 
 Ey the way, Arthur, do you know Paul 
 Armour well ? " 
 
 " Pretty well," said Gaskell dully, for he 
 was thinking of his own troubles, and a 
 girl's face came up to him in the gathering 
 darkness like a star across the lightless 
 heath. 
 
 "What kind of fellow is he, or rather, 
 what do you think of him ? I own I like 
 him very much, better than he likes me, 
 I fancy, though I have been in his studio 
 once or twice lately." 
 
 " I think he is very clever," answered 
 Arthur, " and he is a good fellow too, I 
 should say." 
 
 '^ He is going to marry Mary Morris, isn't 
 he ? " asked John, vaguely wishing to hear 
 that it was not so. Por thous^h he was bv 
 no means in love with the girl as yet, her 
 face haunted him more and more the oftener 
 he saw her. And now he saw her often 
 enough. But Gaskell's answer supported 
 common rumour. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 '' I suppose so," said he. '* She is often 
 there, and they say as much." 
 
 Ho relapsed into silence, and Torrington 
 sighed a little, but did not speak. Yet his 
 thoughts ran again in the channel they had 
 occupied just before he first saw the girl 
 he had in his mind. 
 
 " Yes, a woman who is good and beautiful, 
 and poor enough to come to my poor home. 
 Eor I am not so evil as I seem. I Avould 
 be better if I could. She would make me 
 so, and love me for what I wish to be. 
 And I mustn't understand her altogether." 
 He laughed so bitterly that Graskell stared 
 at him. He turned round towards his 
 friend. 
 
 '' Yes, Arthur. I have made up my 
 mind to marry the next woman I meet 
 who numbers among her ancestors Venus 
 Anadyomene, the Sphinx, and Sir Galahad. 
 That is to say, if the latter ever got married 
 himself. I forget. No, I remember he 
 didn't."
 
 A CIBCLE OF THE INFEBXO. 37 
 
 Arthur, who always let Torrington do the 
 talking, did not answer, prohahly because 
 he did not understand, and they turned 
 homeward. When they came back to the 
 verge of the dark heath, from which a vast 
 part of lighted London could beseen,Torring- 
 ton stayed once more and pomted down the 
 slope. 
 
 '' That is the best example of a hell we 
 are ever likely to know outside our own 
 minds, Arthur. And now we go down into 
 it, you and I. I don't at i)resent see any 
 road out. I wish I did. I have no fancy 
 for the Inferno. I am going out next week 
 it is true, but I return again. Probably I 
 shall come back worse than I went, a 
 greater, gaunter pig than before, perhaps 
 with a fainter nose for the divine than I 
 have now. Por I am going to live on pig- 
 nuts. Can, can Ca-caliban," and he hummed 
 Caliban's drunken song through. 
 
 "You're a nice companion," said Gaskell, 
 staring at him. " I thought you said you
 
 38 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 were much saner than vou were. I confess 
 I fail to perceive it from your talk." 
 
 Torrington burst into a roar of laughter. 
 
 "Poor fellow," said he at last, "I am 
 sorry, hut I never said I was saner. What 
 I said was, if I remember, that I no longer 
 feared I was going mad altogether. Now 
 I'll tell you what. Suppose I were to get 
 married and have about a hundred and 
 fifty a year, and be fairly happy in my 
 companion, there wouldn't be a saner man 
 in this mad city, or a lighter man, or a less 
 bitter man. But you see I want the chance. 
 Now if I get it " 
 
 He paused a moment and whistled a bar 
 or two of the Dead March. 
 
 '' I will bury the past deep, as deep as 
 the lowest depths in Tophet. But if I 
 don't " 
 
 And he paused again, meaning to go on. 
 But he did not, and they got to the bottom 
 of Haverstock Hill before either of them 
 spoke. And then their words were but
 
 A CinCLE OF TEU INFEBNO. 39 
 
 " good night," supplemented by a warm hand 
 pressure, for they loved each other in a 
 fashion. 
 
 " 'They be all mad in England,' " quoted 
 Torrington, as he went home. 
 
 At the end of the week he was in 
 Devonshire.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 PAUL ARMOUH'S STUDIO. 
 
 Toerington's departure westward was at 
 the end of the last w^eek in May; about 
 which time the great general exodus of 
 London artists yearly takes place. Pew, 
 save here and there the merest studio 
 painter who never troubles to take a fresh 
 look at nature, remain in town then if 
 they have, or can beg or borrow, the where- 
 withal to get into the country, and though 
 it be no further than red-roofed Surrey, 
 or that unknown Essex which most Lon- 
 doners firmly believe is entirely level and 
 without even a wooded rise, the artist is 
 content to be free from the smoke and 
 smell and garrulous clangour of London town.
 
 PAUL ARMOURS STUDIO. 41 
 
 At first, Torrington showed his uneasiness 
 of disposition by remaining in no one 
 place longer than a fortnight. Knowing 
 Devonshire well, he stayed first in Bideford, 
 then in Barnstaple, and after trying Clovelly, 
 which gradually became too fashionable for 
 liim, he went to a little village called Croyd, 
 and there apparently settled down. He had 
 brought with him a quantity of manuscript 
 paper, for he was lazily ambitious of doing 
 something bigger than an article, but it 
 remained a reproach to him. He spent his 
 time in swimming, fishing, and boating, while 
 every night or evening he sedulously 
 courted some village girl or another in order 
 to kill the time ; and more than once nar- 
 rowly escaped trouble with some irate young 
 fishermen who wondered what the Londoner 
 wanted there at all. Yet Torrington did 
 no particular harm, and had nothing to 
 reproach himself with when he went away, 
 for he did not lack a certain morality which, 
 though narrow, was sufficient to prevent
 
 42 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 him doing deliberate passionless mischief to a 
 fellow-creature. He used to say, carelessly 
 enough, that that was not more praiseworthy 
 than not throwing stones at a country jackass 
 or not ill-treating a horse. 
 
 " I have heard," he remarked once, in a 
 very moral conversation, during which he 
 had been taken to task by a much worse 
 man than himself, ''that it is very easy 
 not to write a tragedy in five acts. It is 
 pretty nearly as easy not to act the heavy 
 villain in a real tragedy if you are not 
 quite selfish. Do you understand ? 'No ? 
 Then here's a moral apophthegm for 
 you. If you can't eat salt fish, go with- 
 out." 
 
 His companion stared at him, no doubt 
 with a great deal of reason, and Torrington 
 laughed. 
 
 ^' Ho I speak darkly ? Am I Lycophron 
 or Heraclitus ? I suppose so. But I 
 won't interpret to you. Go home, thick- 
 head, and think it out."
 
 PAUL AEMOUB'S STUDIO. 43 
 
 And with that he turned away. Eor he 
 naturally delighted in puzzling a man he 
 despised. 
 
 Yet when his hetter self came to the 
 surface he threw aside his amusements 
 and walked for hours on a long solitary 
 stretch of sand, dreaming rather sadly of 
 his life that was passed, and not alto- 
 gether hopefully of the portion yet to come. 
 The man was a dreamy nature, strong in 
 feelins:, weak in will, and his srood inten- 
 tions failed, as some crops do in northern 
 lands, not from the poverty or unfitness of 
 the soil, hut from the brevity of the 
 season of hope. His autumn for ever cut 
 short the reign of summer, and winter trod 
 hard on autumn's heels. He was always 
 making up his mind to do something 
 w^hich should greatly succeed, and then — 
 did not care much whether it did or not. 
 Because he had nothing to work for, so he 
 said, forgetting that he might have what he 
 needed if he worked. If any friend of his
 
 44 m LOW BELIEF. 
 
 told him so lie answered in the language of 
 fatalism. 
 
 During the whole of this holiday he never 
 quite forgot Mary Morris, and when he 
 wrote Arthur Gaskell to send him another 
 sketch-block, for he made a certain pretence 
 of working in water-colours, he asked about 
 her. Somehow he was glad that Arthur 
 did not answer that part of his letter. If 
 he had been sorry it would, have been a 
 bad symptom, and yet his being glad was 
 not wholly a favourable one. He thought 
 so himself, but dismissed, the matter to 
 chaff a fisherman's wife from his window. 
 And he did it very well, so well, indeed, 
 that when she went back to her house 
 with the pitchers of water, she declared 
 to her Trinculo of a husband that Mr. 
 Torrington was the most amusing gentle- 
 man wlio had ever come to the place. 
 Trinculo assented, for John had stood liim 
 a pot of beer the day before. 
 
 During the greater part of this time
 
 PAUL AB^IOrWS STrmO. 45 
 
 "Wynne and Raeburn had been staying at 
 Lynmoutb, and were bard at work painting. 
 Torrington did not go to tbem, in spite of 
 a desire for more intellectual conversation 
 than could be got in bis village, partly 
 because tbey bad a good deal more money 
 tban he. Probably bis sensitiveness on this 
 point was superfluous, but tbat was the 
 reason he gave himself. The real reason 
 was more likely his belief that Paul 
 Armour was with rhem, and though he 
 liked him very Avell, it was not without a 
 certain dull feeling of jealousy that he 
 thought of him in connection with Mary. 
 The man was fairly j)rosperous and happy. 
 In a little while he would be able to stop 
 the girl sitting for a living, and would 
 marry her. What had John Torrington to 
 do with such a happy man unless to serve 
 as a sauce piquante to his dish ? He would 
 decline the office ; and thus he remained at 
 Croyd. 
 
 Yet he might certainly have gone over to
 
 46 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 Lynmouth without meeting Paul ; for the 
 latter, who never gave Torrington a thought, 
 Avas still in London, working at a series of 
 etchinsrs to illustrate the book of a luckier or 
 more laborious writer than John. He was 
 there still when Torrington returned on the 
 last day of August, having just about a 
 sovereign in his pocket to meet all expenses 
 for some time to come. It was a fortunate 
 thing for him that his landlady was a 
 most gentle, amenable, and fairly prosperous 
 person, who liked him too w^ell to trouble 
 him for money if she could help it; although 
 I much doubt if she w^ould have taken him in 
 again if he had once settled up and gone away. 
 Yet Torrington, being always in her debt, had, 
 as he sometimes smilingly remarked, a hold 
 upon her which his goods and chattels scarcely 
 counterbalanced. When he reached home 
 he merely left his bag there, for feeling the 
 solitude and heat irksome, he determined 
 to go round to the studios on the chance
 
 PAVL AE2I0rB\S STmiO. 47 
 
 of finding some one in them. There 
 were others with whom he was acquainted 
 besides the five men in the lane, and he 
 at anv rate counted on seeins; Gaskell, who 
 never appeared to have enough money for 
 a long holiday. 
 
 The heat of the noon was so intense and 
 the white dust of the main road so un- 
 pleasant that it was quite comforting to 
 turn into the quiet lane which ran north 
 and south and was lined on its west side 
 hv a few elms that cast a crrateful shadow 
 over a high wall in a ruinous state of pre- 
 servation. As Torrington passed E/aeburn's 
 and TTynne's he took no notice, being aware, 
 of course, that they were away ; but just as 
 he was on the point of knocking at Gaskell's 
 studio he heard the piano in Armour's place, 
 and, tempted by the sound, stepped inside 
 the outer door, which he found open. He 
 knocked at the inner door, which was just 
 ajar. The music ceased, and Armour came
 
 48 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 to answer him. He smiled pleasantly, a 
 smile which was without mirth, but grave 
 and sweet always. 
 
 "Oh, it's you Torrington, is it? Come 
 in," he said, opening the door wide, " come 
 in. I'm glad to see you. Just got back, eh?" 
 
 Then Torrington saw that Mary was there. 
 He let go Armour's hand, which he had 
 shaken, and advanced towards the girl. 
 
 ''Ah, yes," said Armour, '^you know Miss 
 Morris ? " 
 
 She laus^hed lis^htlv and looked at Paul. 
 
 '' Of course Mr. Torrington knows me, 
 Mr. Armour ; don't you remember we met 
 here just after the Academy ? " 
 
 " I dare say," replied the other, as he sat 
 down. '' I think I do remember." 
 
 " And before that twice or more at 
 Eaebnrn's," said Torrington. "Indeed I 
 hope we are quite friends." 
 
 And he sat down by her side. 
 
 " How are Eaeburn and Wynne, Torring- 
 ton?" asked Paul, taking off a cap which he
 
 PAUL ABMOUB'8 STUDIO. 49 
 
 might have dispensed with in such weather, 
 if it had not been his habit to wear it. 
 
 " Well enough, I think, but until I heard 
 your piano I thought you were with them. 
 I understood that was the arrangement ? " 
 
 Paul nodded. 
 
 "So it was, and is, but work kept me in 
 town. But you don't say you didn't go 
 over to Lynmouth? Wynne said you were 
 near in his last." 
 
 " I was close, I own, but — but I didn't go 
 over. Too lazy, or too busy fooling round," 
 said John. 
 
 "What, didn't you work, Mr. Torrington?" 
 asked Mary. 
 
 " I'm not a painter, Miss Morris," said 
 he, " and I went away to amuse myself." 
 
 " And you did it, eh ? " said Paul. " You 
 look well enough." 
 
 " I am well, and I did amuse myself," 
 answered Torrins^ton. Then he added 
 recklessly, and with a certain emphasis, 
 " scandalously." 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " Oh!" said Paul, a little stifEy, evidently 
 not pleased, and that made Torrington 
 sorry for sucli a speech. But seeing her 
 there put him a little out of temper. He 
 said to himself, '' I am a good mind to ask 
 him if he really is engaged to her the first 
 chance I get." But he never did. 
 
 " If you don't mind my staying for a 
 while," said Torrington, after a moment's 
 pause, " please play something to me. I 
 have heard nothing since I left London, and 
 music is like water to me. I can't get used 
 to going without drink. I like expensive 
 kinds too. Please draw me a draught of 
 Beethoven." 
 
 Paul smiled at the conceit, and answered 
 in the same vein. 
 
 "'- He's not on tap. But a commoner 
 vintage you can have. Will Mendelssohn 
 do?" 
 
 '' Admirably," nodded Torrington, and 
 he began to roll a cigarette as Paul played, 
 takins: in the surroundinors as he did so.
 
 PAUL ABMOUB'S STUDIO. 51 
 
 for it was the first time he found himself 
 sitting down there quietly. But before long 
 almost everything in the studio was to be 
 burnt into his brain. Por what we see 
 about us in great sorrow or great joy 
 remains for ever with us, just as a stamp 
 coming on a copper plate leaves its own 
 impress on one side and the inequalities of 
 the bed on the other. 
 
 The studio was long and narrow, and 
 would have appeared longer yet but for a 
 curtain drawn across the end, which con- 
 cealed a truckle bed of simple and almost 
 mean appearance. The room was lofty, 
 with a north light, and on the wooden walls 
 were a number of Armour's own etchings, 
 together with aquatints and mezzotints done 
 by other men. Even the screen which kept 
 the draught out by the door had its adorn- 
 ment of pictures. Besides the black and 
 white reproductions and original etchings, 
 there were a number of good water colours, 
 some few oP which Paul had done himself, 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF lUINOfS
 
 52 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 while others were the work of neighbouring 
 and friendly artists, with whom he had 
 made an exchange. Near the door was a 
 large stove, the chimney of which ran close 
 up to the ceiling, and then passed through 
 the wall at a right angle. The furniture 
 was simple, for besides the piano, which 
 was on the left, there was nothing but one 
 table covered with papers and books, and 
 another which formed the artistic and 
 characteristic feature of the place as in- 
 dicating, to one who knew, tlie nature of the 
 work done there. It was covered with 
 etching tools of all descriptions, with bottles 
 of chemicals, with dishes for the greenish 
 acid, wherein the copper plates, some of which 
 still unused glowed there red and bright, were 
 bitten, while above it at an angle was 
 suspended a white tissue-paper screen to so 
 subdue and diffuse the light while Armour 
 worked that the reflection should not pre- 
 vent him following the graving tool with 
 the accuracy such a delicate task demanded.
 
 PAUL ABMOUE'S STUDIO. 53 
 
 A shelf of books, among wliicli Avere many 
 English poets, and a pile of music on the 
 piano, indicated the degree of culture to 
 which his naturally artistic nature had been 
 able to attain in spite of the incessant work 
 which had raised him to a position of 
 comparative eminence in his profession. 
 
 There was, to Torrington, something 
 extremely pleasant in the picture wdiich the 
 man made as he sat at the instrument 
 playing. Eor one thing Paul's arms were 
 bare half-way to the elbow, allowinsr one 
 to see the play of the great muscles which 
 seemed far too great, either for a piano 
 or for etching, since Armour was im- 
 mensely powerful in build, and might have 
 sat for a gladiator. Yet with all his 
 strength his expression was so exalted and 
 curiously difiPerent from what one naturally 
 connects with great bodily strength, that it 
 would rather have suited the head of some 
 mediaeval and very thoughtful Florentine. 
 It is true that from some points of view he
 
 54 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 was not handsome; indeed, before the end of 
 this story we may learn that a frivolous 
 woman considered him ugly ; yet his profile, 
 as Torrington saw it while he looked up and 
 away, was what might be called even beau- 
 tiful. Por it was then almost melaacholv 
 in the expression of a mournful theme, 
 which he played with feeling if not with 
 great skill of execution. It was as if he 
 were performing a religious rite. He looked 
 capable of anything unselfish, of self- 
 sacrifice, of renunciation. But Torrington 
 did not think that then. He was looking at 
 Mary Morris. 
 
 The pencil of Raphael and the pen of 
 Dante might do her but scant justice, though 
 they mystically joined together to accomplish 
 at once her beauty and almost pathetic 
 purity. The type is common in no country, 
 and verv rare in Ensrland. And now as she 
 sat listening, with her head bent a little side- 
 ways to rest upon her open palm, she seemed, 
 even in the strong light which poured from
 
 PAUL AB3WUE\S STUDIO. 55 
 
 the broad glass above her, too ethereal and 
 fragile to be quite mortal. Yet as her eyes 
 half closed, and their long lashes shadowed 
 tlie pale yet rounded cheek, veiling the soft 
 brown pupils, the attitude of resignation, 
 which came as naturally and truly to her as 
 thouo^h she had been influenced bv some 
 sorrow even before her birth, showed she was 
 not only truly human but a woman, who 
 w^as no longer a child, as w^ell. 
 
 Her hair, which was very abundant and 
 soft, dropped lightly and loosely about her 
 temples, that showed faint blue veins under 
 a delicate skin, pale rather from an indoor 
 life than from ill-health, and was drawn 
 backwards to be fastened, rather negligently, 
 in a knot near her neck. That was very 
 finely modelled and slender, bearing her 
 bended head as the lily's drooping stalk bears 
 its crown. Her hands were well shaped but 
 not very white They showed marks of work 
 with the needle. 
 
 And the music ceased.
 
 ^6 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 Torrington rose with a sigh. 
 
 ^^ Thank vou, Armour." he said softlv, 
 for he was easily influenced, and now Mary- 
 added strangely and subtly to the charm of the 
 harmony. '^ I am always glad to hear music. 
 And I am glad that I am. It shoAvs I am 
 not altogether evil, which I sometimes 
 suspect, not quite dimly." 
 
 Armour smiled and ran his fingers lightly 
 over the keys, while !Mary rose and put on 
 her hat. 
 
 ^' You are a stransre David to be musician 
 to my Saul truly. But, well, I am only 
 talking nonsense after all. Good-bye, and 
 good-bye to you. Miss Morris." 
 
 He turned away, but stopped. Armour 
 looked up. 
 
 '' Are you going away at all ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 '' Certainly," replied the artist, " in a day 
 or two. I am going to join E^aeburn and 
 Wynne at Lynmouth, if they are still there. 
 I must do a little water-colour work to keep
 
 PAUL AE2inrPiS STUDIO. 57 
 
 my eve in for colour, or else I shall see the 
 world all black and white, and mere liues 
 at that. I suppose you have finished your 
 holiday ? " 
 
 Torrington nodded. 
 
 ''My money too. That's the cause. 
 Therefore I am here with three million 
 others who have the same good reason. 
 And you. Miss Morris, are you going 
 away ? " 
 
 The girl smiled and shook her head. 
 
 '• Xo, Mr. Torrington, out I am to have 
 a holiday. I shall not sit for a week or 
 two." 
 
 He smiled at them, nodded, hesitated a 
 little, and finally took himself off. But he 
 wondered that Armour did not see she got a 
 real holiday. 
 
 '' Why doesm t he marry her at once ? 
 By Jove ! if I knew him better I would 
 ask.'' 
 
 But he didn't know him better, vou see.
 
 CHAPTER V, 
 
 SAINT PRISCILLA. 
 
 How Torrington lived, in a material sense, 
 during the next few weeks, it would liave 
 puzzled him to say. Eor having taken it 
 into ]iis head to write a novel — a whole three- 
 volume novel — while at that he did no thins; 
 else ; and having by neglect lost a pupil who 
 was learning Italian, he neither troubled him- 
 self to find another, nor to write the little 
 articles, nor to do the trifling sketches by 
 which he usually managed to get bread and 
 cheese. He sim^Dly wrote and wrote, getting 
 later and later each day, until in a couple of 
 weeks he was risins^ somewhere between four 
 and live. His landlady thought he did it to
 
 SAIXT PEISriLLA. 59 
 
 save a meal, and if she was not quite right 
 in that, he was often hard pressed to find 
 even two sufficient ones. 
 
 His idle time, which was between five in 
 the afternoon and ten, he spent in walking, 
 or in sitting lazily in GaskelFs studio, where 
 he sometimes did an abortive water-colour 
 sketch. He went into Armour's studio 
 with Arthur the day before the etcher went 
 to Devon, and there had a conversation, 
 which not onlv showed him at his worst, 
 but rather worse than he was, seeing that 
 Armour naturally knew but little of his 
 best side. And, as events proved, he had 
 some reason to regret his talk, of which, 
 strangely enough, Mary Morris was the inno- 
 cent cause. Por he had met her on his way 
 through Camden Town, and she, being busy 
 thinking, did not notice him. Although 
 he knew quite well that she did not see 
 him, he was very irritated, and said 
 loud enouo^h to astonish an old man who 
 was just then passing him, ''Damn all
 
 60 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 women ! " And when he was in Armour's 
 studio he enlarged on that as a text. 
 
 " What did I do in Devonshire ? '' he 
 said. " Oh, for one thing, I did a few 
 million (more or less) sketches, of which 
 I still possess— say ten. And I hehaved 
 very hadly indeed.'' 
 
 He winked at Gaskell, who laughed, and 
 went on without noticing Armour's face, 
 which showed a decided distaste for the 
 elegant extracts from his late career with 
 which Torrington proceeded to favour him, 
 flavoured as they were with the many 
 strange oaths, learnt in his travels, that 
 invariably garnished his conversation when 
 he was anscry or excited. When he went 
 away Armour turned to Gaskell. 
 
 "I don't know what to make of that 
 Torrington," said he. " He's clever, every 
 one says that, and I can see he's no fool. 
 But he's a blackguard in a good many ways, 
 and a libertine." 
 
 He meant a profligate, but the distinction
 
 SAINT PEISCILLA. 61 
 
 is not very obvious to those unaccustomed to 
 handle language nicely. Gaskell shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 '' I don't understand him either," he 
 answered, '' But he is much better than 
 you think. I have heard him talk worse 
 than he has this evening, and then he has 
 turned round and read me some stuff of his 
 which I am sure was good, and which I 
 couldn't understand his writing. But it's 
 a pity he swears so. Then he's a very well 
 educated man." 
 
 ''Then that's all the worse," said Armour. 
 " He ought to be ashamed of such talk, to 
 say nothing of acting as he does. Isn't 
 education held to be an aggravation of a 
 crime ? " 
 
 ^^ I suppose so," was Gaskell's vague reply. 
 
 " It ouo^ht to be. And to tell the truth 
 I don't much like him. Though to be sure, 
 when he is quiet and looks straight in 
 my face, I fancy I do. I suppose he must 
 have led a very strange life."
 
 62 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 ''Yes," said Gaskell, ''and if you had 
 been with us when we walked on the heath 
 before he went away, you would have 
 thousrht he was mad. He's had some bad 
 times, too." 
 
 ""We all have," said Paul a little shortly. 
 But he dropped poor Torrington with that and 
 thought no more of him. Torrington, after 
 all, was nothing to him. And nothing to 
 his life. So he packed up his traps and 
 went down to Devon, where he was greeted 
 quietly by Ptaeburn and uproariously by 
 Wynne, who, being a handsome man, was 
 the centre of a bevy of young lady students, 
 who imagined they loved art, when they 
 only adored an artist. It is no uncommon 
 case. 
 
 Torrington went on meanwhile with his 
 story and his starving simultaneously, and 
 was thus producing something so morbid 
 that there was even a certain chance a 
 publisher might be attracted to it by its 
 pathological peculiarities and buy it of him
 
 SAINT PRISCILLA. 68 
 
 as a curiosity. And he still went to Gask ell's 
 as usual, where he varied his bursts of wild 
 talk with fits of silence which were some- 
 times the result of a scarcity of the tobacco 
 that these two comm.only shared between 
 them. In the same way when Gaskell had 
 enough food to spare Torrington partook 
 of it, and when he had little or none he 
 sometimes went home to John's room and 
 had what was going, which, to say the 
 truth, was often very little. So if fasting 
 has a o^ood effect on men it ou2;ht to have 
 made both these better than they were. 
 But to quote a recent writer, '^ incredible 
 as it may appear .... there are men who 
 resent their poverty," and Torrington felt 
 a great deal more like revolt than resigna- 
 tion, in spite of his condition being in great 
 measure due to his dreamy nature, Avhich, 
 to use his own expression, was content ''to 
 let things slide." 
 
 Things, indeed, slid along in a curious 
 way, and he was coming to a point in liis
 
 6-i IX LOW BELIEF. 
 
 life. Just before lie found that out lie had 
 a talk with his only feminine friend, who 
 gained a poor enough living by teaching, 
 and as he had the floor as usual, they 
 talked about life in general and his own in 
 particular. 
 
 '' I know I am morbid," he declared 
 honestly, but still as if he was rather 
 proud of it than otherwise, " and so I 
 take a morbid view of things. Perhaps I 
 see things out of focus ; perhaps I am 
 morally colour-blind or mentally myopic ; 
 but nevertheless I take an interest in life 
 and get a good deal out of it. Sometimes, 
 it is true, I think living is a mistake, but 
 that's only when I find it very hard to live. 
 When I get enough to eat life is intensely 
 interesting. I am nearly always in the first 
 or second volume of a novel." 
 
 '' Writing one, you mean ? " said Miss 
 Mowbray, who had known him for years, 
 and had argued about ten thousand things 
 with him.
 
 SAINT PEISCILLA. 
 
 " No, I don't," he returned. " I mean 
 living one. They are mostly not very 
 serious; sometimes they are even comic; 
 sometimes I am a subsidiary character, some- 
 times a chief one ; sometimes even a poor 
 substitute for the hero, and occasion allv 
 perhaps the villain. But in whatever caj)a- 
 city I act I am interested. I have just 
 finished one. In that I was a sort of 
 detective, in whose hands Eate put a dozen 
 different clues. I didn't play the villain's 
 part J however, and as far as I know that novel 
 ends there. Of course it may go on, but at 
 present I am out of it. In fact I have 
 nothing in hand now." 
 
 '' What, nothing ? " asked Miss Mowbray. 
 " Pray, aren't you the lover in any story ? " 
 
 " No," Torrington declared earnestly. " I 
 am twenty-nine and haven't been in love 
 for five years, so I have almost forgotten 
 what it felt like. I don't even know now 
 whether I took it very seriously. I hope 
 I got over it, for what's the use ? " 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 He turned very solemn for just a moment. 
 Yes, what was the use ? Por where was he 
 to find his ideal ? He went on again : 
 
 "However, the main thing is that I am 
 interested. I know nothing more interest- 
 ing than life, and it pays to take an interest 
 in a game one is playiug. I dare say I shall 
 have a new story on hand soon, a real one I 
 mean. Ihopeto finisli the novel beforelong." 
 
 ''Yes ? " said the teacher; " and what is 
 that about ? " 
 
 " It vrould take too long to tell," answered 
 Torrington. " But it is undoubtedly very 
 morbid and most disagreeable. It isn't 
 immoral. I didn't mean that ; but the 
 man dies, you know, and every one is very 
 wretched indeed." And here he almost 
 smacked his lips, while Miss Mowbray 
 burst into a merry peal of laughter. 
 
 '' But why do you write such things, 
 Mr. Torrington ? " she asked, when the lit 
 passed. 
 
 " I can't help it," said the author. *' You
 
 SAINT PBISCILLA. 67 
 
 see, liappy tilings don't appeal to me, and 
 I can't be bright and cheerful on paper to 
 save my life. I wish I could. It's quite 
 enough not to have the blues when one 
 comes out of one's burrow. I dare say 
 cheerfulness will come by-and-by." 
 
 "In the next romance you live through, 
 I hope," said she. '' You must come and 
 tell me that it ends very happily, and that 
 you were the hero this time." 
 
 He laughed heartily, by no means looking 
 as morbid as if what he had said were true, 
 though it certainly was, and rose to go. 
 
 "If it does, you shall know," he said 
 gaily, and so departed. 
 
 This conversation was a curious prologue 
 to the life he led the next month or so. 
 For one point in this story came next day 
 when he met Mary Morris at the foot of 
 Haverstock Hill. He had not seen her 
 since she had passed him unwittingly in 
 Camden Town, but now, as if to show him 
 how wrong he had been in his irritable 
 F 2
 
 68 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 estimate of her, slie was the first to see 
 him and to show it by smiling. 
 
 ^^ Ah, Miss Morris," he said, " I am very 
 glad to see you. And to see you repent for 
 cutting me dead two weeks ago." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Torrington, I never did, I'm 
 sure/' the girl declared. 
 
 " Well, I don't really believe you saw me. 
 So I forgive vou. How well vou loot." 
 
 She certainly did, for there was a better 
 colour in her face than he had ever seen 
 there, and in her straw hat and rather loose 
 sesthetic frock she was looking charming as 
 she stood before him in the warm sunlight. 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ^^Well, Mr. Torrington, I think it is 
 because I am blushing a little," she said 
 quite simply. '^ It is very strange, but I 
 believe you always make me blush. It is 
 because you look so intently at me, I 
 think." 
 
 There was a certain naive compliment in 
 this and the way it was said, though it was
 
 SAINT PEISCILLA. 69 
 
 quite true. John had a curiously steadfast 
 way of looking* at peoj)le when he talked 
 with them. 
 
 " I'm glad," he declared lightly, '' that I 
 have so much power over you. But how is 
 Mr. Armour ? " 
 
 He asked it quite seriously, hut to his 
 surprise Mary looked just the very least 
 annoyed. 
 
 "I don't know, Mr. Torrington," she 
 said. 
 
 '' What,'' he cried, " haven't you heard 
 from him ? " 
 
 '' No, I haven't." 
 
 " But why not ? " 
 
 '' But why should I ? It is too absurd. 
 Every one comes up and says, ' Oh, Miss 
 Morris, how is Mr. Armour ? ' It's quite 
 ridiculous. I have been asked it twice to- 
 day already, and now you are the third." 
 
 Torrington grew very serious. If she 
 spoke in this way she surely was not en- 
 gaged to Paul. Certainly she was not
 
 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 crafty enough to hide the fact so well. 
 Yet every one said so. The thoughts passed 
 through his head like lightning. Surely it 
 was best to know the truth. Perhaps she 
 was not aware what people said. She ought 
 to be told. 
 
 "Well," he said, after a moment's pause, 
 " don't you know " 
 
 " What ? " she asked. 
 
 ^^Tliat people say — mind, it's no business 
 of mine, but I think it's only fair to tell 
 you — that you are engaged to Mr. Armour." 
 
 She looked him straight in the face with- 
 out blushing. "It's not true, Mr. Torring- 
 ton. And it never will be. Why, Mr. 
 Armour is engaged to some youDg lady in 
 the country." 
 
 Torrington whistled gently. 
 
 "Hum/' he said; ^'well, I'm glad I've 
 told you. A girl ought to know what is 
 said. And, of course, I thought it was true, 
 for I was told so months ago, soon after I 
 first met vou at Mr. E^aeburn's."
 
 SAIXT PE ISC ILL A. 71" 
 
 '' Then you can contradict it," said the 
 girl. 
 
 '' I Avill most loudly/' said Torrington 
 "in tones of thunder, with a speaking 
 trumpet, and the voice of a town- crier. 
 Eor— -well, no matter. Do you know, Miss 
 Morris, I have got a new name for you ? " 
 
 She started a little. 
 
 '^Xo, Mr. Torrington. What is it ? I 
 hope it's pretty." 
 
 " Very pretty," he declared ; "for it suits 
 you. It is Saint Priscilla." 
 
 She looked rather pleased. 
 
 " I wonder no one thought of it before,'* 
 he said, '' for you look like a saint." 
 
 '' Then I wish I was as good as I look." 
 
 Torrington shook his head wisely. 
 
 '' Nay, my dear girl, no one could ever be 
 as good as you look, but I believe you are 
 as good as any one can be. That is as much 
 as a mortal may, these times. I sliall see 
 you soon. Are you working now ? " 
 
 '' Yes," said the girl. '' I am sitting to
 
 72 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 Mr. West, the sculptor. Oh, he is a dread- 
 ful man to sit to ! " 
 
 ^'We must make him mend his manners," 
 said Torrington. " Good-hye, Saint Pris- 
 cilla." 
 
 '' Good-hye, Mr. Torrington," she said, 
 and they shook hands. He pressed hers 
 just a little. 
 
 That night he did not work, but walked 
 
 up and down his solitary room, which 
 
 somehow did not look now as if it were so 
 
 by fate and for ever. He did not think 
 
 clearly or put his thoughts into words, but 
 
 seeing his past life he bit his lips with 
 
 anger, hearing his OAvn spokeD words he 
 
 winced for their follv. He who sows the wind 
 
 shall reap the whirlwind, he thought, but 
 
 came to no conclusion. At last he put on 
 
 his hat and walked right down into Oxford 
 
 Street, and further still to Charing Cross, 
 
 hardly knowing whither he went. When 
 
 he returned he was very tired, but things 
 
 seemed to have droj)ped into order once
 
 SAINT PBISCILLA. 73 
 
 more. Life was not all chaos. He had a 
 new hojje, and with it a sweet desire. 
 Nothing stood in his way, for he might 
 accomplish his dream and he no more 
 solitary and alone. Eor here was the woman 
 he had looked for, free, free ! How Avas it 
 so sweet a girl had not heen home hy some 
 lover from her toil in triumph, far from 
 cold studios and long hours of labour, in 
 which the muscles grew so cramped and 
 tired ? Why they must have been blind, 
 blind, all of them. 
 
 He rose up from his chair and spoke : 
 " By heaven ! the girl shall be my wife.'^ 
 And as he went to bed he thought of the 
 lovers in the " Blessed Damozel," who 
 spoke '' their rapturous new names," and he 
 fell asleep smiling as he murmured, " Saint 
 Priscilla."
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 A VISION IN MAKBLE. 
 
 ToRRiNGiTON did not let the resolution he 
 had come to interfere with his work. He 
 indeed went at it with renewed vigour, 
 seeing that there was now a certain possi- 
 bility of money and success being more 
 necessary to him than it had been hitherto. 
 Within a week the book was finished and 
 sent to a publisher, who returned it with 
 what the author considered wholly un- 
 necessary celerity. He then despatched it 
 to another, and went to see Gaskell, to 
 whom, being then full of his own affairs, 
 and in fairly good spirits in spite of this 
 repulse, he related at length his method 
 with his natural enemies the publishers.
 
 A VISION IX JilABBLE. 
 
 '' You see, Arthur," said lie, as he cleared 
 a space on a table and sat down, " that I 
 send it to one who has a good reputation 
 for steadiness and honesty. If he returns 
 it (and he does invariably), I send it to one 
 against whom no one eyer alleges anything 
 in the least criminal, but who is reputed 
 more venturesome and speculative. When 
 he returns it (and as I said before he does 
 so without any hesitation), I send it to 
 another whom the Incorporated Society of 
 Authors would warn one against. He is 
 my last chance. If that kedge anchor 
 doesn't free the ship from the mud flat of 
 manuscript, I put the detestable creation on 
 the volcanic mountain I add to at intervals, 
 and start another. I don't blame them at 
 all. They know their business. That's in 
 their favour. I don't know mine, as is 
 evident, or they would buy from me. That's 
 not in my favour, I own. Still I must keep 
 at it, and I will." 
 
 " You do at any rate," remarked Arthur
 
 76 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 rather sombrely, as he worked at a sketch in 
 water colour. Eor he knew Torrington's 
 volcanic pile well. 
 
 '' Of course I do/' replied the other, re- 
 suming his parable. '' Hang it though, 
 what a consolation Balzac is to an unsuccess- 
 ful author. I don't mean that I am a frost- 
 bitten Balzac, Arthur, though I suspect you 
 wouldn't know the enormity of my vanity 
 if I did. Because you can't read his 
 language, you miserable wretch. But what's 
 that you are doing ? " 
 
 He slid ofip the table, and in so doing 
 dislodged a bulging sketch book, which fell 
 on the floor with a crash, and disgorged its 
 contents. He took no notice of that, how- 
 ever, and went to look at his friend's work. 
 It was a simple enough study of a girl in 
 sunshine, but it took his fancy. The reason 
 he knew full well. 
 
 '' It's rather like Mary Morris," he 
 remarked. '' I tell you what, if you'll give 
 it me, I'll owe you ten shillings, Arthur."
 
 A VISION m MAEBLE. 77 
 
 The artist grunted. 
 
 *•' I don't want your money. Take it and 
 welcome, for I shall never sell it." 
 
 Torrington shook his head. 
 
 " Thanks, old man," he answered, " hut 
 I'll give you something. Next time I come 
 in I'll bring vou a new canvas, sav a 24 bv 
 18, or half a pound of tobacco. Have you 
 got any now. Oh, yes, here it is. Then 
 I'll roll a cigarette and be off." 
 
 Which he accordingly did, bnt instead of 
 going into the main road he turned to the 
 right and knocked at West's door, hoping 
 he might find Mary there. The sculptor, 
 who had met him three or four times at the 
 other studios and asked him to call, opened 
 the door, with his sleeves rolled up, and his 
 hands exceedingly dirty with clay. 
 
 "Ob, it's you, Torrington ! Come at last, 
 eh ? Well, come in," and he characteristi- 
 cally offered his wrist for him to shake, 
 which the other did with a smile. For no 
 one could meet West once without likins:
 
 78 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 jiim. Unless, perhaps, he were a rival 
 '' image maker," with more jealousy than 
 judgment. 
 
 The studio was divided into two parts, 
 and was, even in that warm weather, 
 exceedingly cold. It was filled in both 
 compartments with work in clay, marble, 
 and plaster, while many pictures decorated 
 bare brick walls. A huge stove in the 
 centre gave promises it never fulfilled, 
 though it was urged to its duty ever so 
 much, while the various draughts, which 
 contended there for the mastery, imparted 
 for ever a waving motion to the bundle of 
 reeds and grasses which decorated both the 
 corner where the sculptor usually sat to 
 write and the coats of his visitors. 
 
 West was a man of the middle height, 
 very strongly built and powerful in the 
 arms from continually using the hammer 
 when working in marble, with a very bright 
 and pleasing face, which indicated both 
 sensibility and refinement. His eyes were
 
 A VISIOX IX MAEBLE. 79 
 
 almost sparkling in liis merrier moods, but 
 grew intense and solemn in the rarer 
 moments Avhen he spoke out to some 
 sympathetic soul what a man usually keeps 
 silence about, his hopes and desires, his 
 aims and methods, his feeling for nature, 
 for the world and man. Eor he was intensely 
 spiritual under a thin cover of materialism, 
 and gloried in his art, which he held to be 
 based on Truth and Eight, as both consolation 
 and reward of the worker. 
 
 '' You don't mind my going on, of 
 course," said he to Torrington, who knew 
 by intuition they were much in sympathy, 
 and felt at home at once. " So I'll finish 
 building up this clay. I have a sitter 
 coming in the morning." 
 
 " Haven't you had one to-day ? " asked 
 Torrington. 
 
 ''Yes, Miss Morris was here this morning. 
 Go and look at that relief over yonder." 
 
 Torrington rose and crossed the studio to 
 where a slab of marble was placed on a kind
 
 80 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 of revolving easel, solidly fixed in a block, 
 and there savr, strangely enough, not the 
 Mary Morris whom the other men knew, 
 but his Saint Priscilla, pinker than any 
 mortal, melancholy, and down- drooping, but 
 sweet and very fair and reverent. It was 
 a lovely piece of work considered only as 
 such, but to him who saw it, it was more, 
 for now he was almost a lover of this 
 woman. He stood on the very verge of 
 passion, and a touch niight whelm him deep 
 in its troubled and bloodstained sea. He 
 almost received that touch then, for here 
 was a man with sight like his own, and 
 insight perhaps deeper, since the ac- 
 complishment of his vision in the stubborn 
 marble could not equal the unattained ideal 
 that the artist saw in the reality. 
 
 "It is very beautiful," he said, rather 
 moved, and West, dropping a lump of clay, 
 came over to him. 
 
 *' No," said the sculptor, '^it is not 
 beautiful. She is, I i^rant von, but I fail, I
 
 A VISION IN MABBLE. 81 
 
 fail ! I see so much more and can't get it. 
 I shall cut it back and start it as^ain." 
 
 Torrington looked, as he felt, almost 
 horror-struck at the notion. 
 
 ''No, "West," he exclaimed, ''don't do 
 that; it would he almost sacrilege. Ee- 
 memher there are limits to work such as 
 yours, and you can't get beyond them. You 
 have succeeded. I have seen sketches of 
 her by the other men. But they didn't see 
 her thus. Why, I spoke to her the other 
 day and saw this. I called her Saint 
 Priscilla. How beautiful she is ! " 
 
 He stood in silence, while West shrugged 
 his shoulders at his own work with utter 
 dissatisfaction as he went back to the baser 
 clay, and slapped it about as though in 
 irritation. Perhaps he hardly knew that he 
 would never satisfy himself. That is the 
 bitter reward of the true artist, whatever 
 material he works in. Be content, ye 
 otlier mortals, for lie shall never be content. 
 
 At last Torrington turned away. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " I'm going now, West. I'm very glad I 
 came in. But I won't look at anything 
 after this. Tell her I saw it, and liked it. 
 What a sweet face it is ! " 
 
 ^^Yes," said West fervently. ''She is 
 sweet and good too." 
 
 Then Torrington again shook him by tlie 
 wristband, which humorous proceeding did 
 not strike him as at all comic, and going 
 out into the lane went home again. 
 
 About three daj^s afterwards he met Mary 
 at the entrance of Maiden Lane and stopped. 
 After a few words he spoke to her about his 
 visit to West's. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Torrington," she said, '' he 
 told me about it. But he has begun it all 
 over again." 
 
 ^^ Yes ? " said he. " Has he cut it back ? " 
 
 She nodded, and Torrington felt quite 
 angry with the sculptor. 
 
 " He will never get again what he bad," 
 he exclaimed. " I know it."
 
 A VISION IN MABBLE. 83 
 
 He was quite right, for though in the 
 end it was beautiful, there was something 
 gone, something which was as hard to define 
 as it was subtly felt in its eternal loss. 
 
 " Ah, I don't know," said the girl. " He 
 is very clever. But he is very hard to sit to. 
 Sometimes he swears " 
 
 " Not at you ? " cried Torrington, almost 
 savagely. '' But no, that would be too absurd 
 to swear at a saint who was being patiently 
 carved for some high niche in the church of 
 the arts." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Oh no, it is at himself, and the hammer 
 and the chisel, or the marble. The other 
 day he threw the hammer almost through 
 the door, and looked so miserable that I 
 cried. Then he said he was a beast to worry 
 me, for it wasn't my fault." 
 
 ^' I should think not," said Torrington 
 warmly ; '' a saint's fault indeed ! " 
 
 The girl looked up and laughed. 
 g2
 
 84 IX LOW BELIEF. 
 
 '' Ah, you mustn't call me a saint. In- 
 deed I have a very, very bad temper, and 
 can get in a great rage sometimes." 
 
 '' I don't know whv vou shouldn't," 
 answered Torrington, " there are i^lenty of 
 things in this world to make even a saint 
 angry. Beside, your saintship I take to be 
 plus your womanhood, not minus." 
 
 She looked a little puzzled, as well she 
 might, for what he meant was certainly 
 not correctly expressed, but did not answer. 
 
 " You must have a long talk with me 
 some day," said he; ''I should like to 
 know how you came to be yourself. Are 
 your sisters like you, that is if you have 
 any?" 
 
 '^ I have one, but she isn't a bit like me. 
 You see I'm like my mother. But I must 
 go now, or Mr. 'West will be furious. 
 Have anv of the other artists come back 
 
 yet?" 
 
 Torrington shook his head. 
 
 " iS^o, but I think it won't be lons^ now.
 
 A VISION IN 2IAEBLE. 
 
 I heard from Mr. Wynne. He said Armour 
 would be home first. Aren't you glad ? " 
 
 It was said with a certain touch of 
 jealousy, but the way she answered put him 
 at rest, it was so entirely open. Yet that 
 is not always a sign with a woman. 
 
 " Why of course, I am, Mr. Torrington^ 
 for he was always kind to me. But then 
 every one is. Good-bye." 
 
 He raised his hat as she went, and stood 
 watching her. 
 
 ^'D^. — it," he muttered, *'but I wish I 
 could stop her going to that chilly hole of 
 West's. She doesn't look very strong, and 
 such a place might sow the seeds of con-^ 
 sumption in a bronze Hercules." 
 
 As he went down town to the British 
 Museum Library, where he was at work 
 digging up information about an early and 
 unknown Italian poet, with the hope of 
 making an article out of his bones, he mused 
 and almost soliloquised. 
 
 *' I wonder if I could make her fond of
 
 86 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 me. I don't see why not. Women have 
 been fond of me before this. I'm not par- 
 ticularly ngly, and I'm fairly big and strong. 
 Besides, even my enemies say I have some 
 brains. That ought to be enough to start 
 on. Then I'm earnest enough when I am 
 earnest. And that is the great secret in 
 courting. That and perseverance, which 
 indeed it implies. Well, I don't know. 
 I think it would be wise, to put it on that 
 ground. " The expanse of spirit in a waste 
 of shame," says Shakespeare. Hum ! I 
 think I'll ask her to go somewhere with me. 
 and then, if she seems to trust me, I'll get 
 her to come round and see me. Hang it, 
 she goes to the studios. Perhaps she'll 
 come to see me. She shan't repent it any- 
 how. I think that's the conclusion. And 
 the moral resolution." 
 
 Which he certainly intended to keep.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE END OF THE EIKST ACT. 
 
 Things do sometimes happen, even in com- 
 mon-place lives, which fall as pat to the 
 purpose as the most ingenious forethought 
 in fiction could ordain. Torrington wanted 
 to take the girl, whom he now hegan to 
 look upon as his future wife and peculiar 
 property, to the theatre, and for a clay or 
 two vaguely hoped that a kind providence 
 would drop enough money into his hand. 
 He had indeed want of money for such 
 matters as food and rent, though he managed 
 to scramble along just then without any 
 absolute starvation, hut his present purpose 
 required at least ten shillings, and such a 
 sum he could by no means command.
 
 88 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " It is true I could sell some books," he 
 reflected, '' but then it takes a big pile of 
 old classics and modern poets in cheap 
 bindings to make up the amount. Borrow 
 I won't. Am I not now up to my fool's 
 ears in debt ? I must consider." 
 
 His consideration lasted three days, and 
 on the third an actor whom he knew slightly 
 sent him two orders, not entirely by chance 
 it is true, for John had mentioned to liis 
 sister — he had one, and one only — that 
 he was desirous of taking a friend to the 
 theatre, and she, discreetly refraining from 
 making inquiry as to who this friend Avas, 
 told the tragedian what her brother wanted. 
 The receipt of the orders made Torrington 
 sing aloud, and he straightway sent a note 
 to Mary Morris. 
 
 '^Deak Miss Moeejs (or rather Dear 
 Saint Priscilla), 
 '' I was very poor just now; but at present 
 I am rich, very rich, having in my possession
 
 THE EXD OF THE FIEST ACT 89 
 
 two tickets for the Globe for to-morrow. I 
 want you to go witli me. You might take 
 it as no compliment if I said I could think 
 of no one else who could go, but really it 
 is true. You see with all the men away 
 what can I do ? Still if they were here, 
 all angrily demanding to be taken, I should 
 ask you first. Don't refuse, for if you 
 do the tickets will be wasted. I won't go 
 alone, for it takes two people to see a play, 
 just as it takes two to make a quarrel. Let 
 me know at once, or I shall be ready to take 
 my share in the last-mentioned kind of en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 " Yours verv sincerelv, 
 
 " John Toeeingtox." 
 
 To make sure of its delivery he left this 
 letter at her lodgings himself, for she lived 
 no more than twenty minutes' walk away 
 from him in a quiet little house, where she 
 had the two small rooms at the top. The
 
 90 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 situation was none too pleasant, indeed none 
 of the closer quarters in Camden Town can 
 be considered desirable, and two undertakers, 
 rivals in their dismal trade, made the short 
 street somewhat more melancholy than it 
 might otherwise have been. Opposite, too, 
 was a chapel with a cracked bell, and next 
 to that a shoeing forge, which could be smelt 
 afar off on busy days. John cursed the 
 locality as he looked at it. 
 
 " She has no business to live here at all. 
 She shan't always," he said earnestly. 
 
 Some people might have wondered whether 
 she might not come to live in a worse place if 
 she were to marrv John on an income which 
 varied from ten to fifteen shillings a week. 
 But Torrington saw all things in a sunny 
 light just then, even though the autumn 
 was earlier than usual, and was giving way, 
 even in October, with tears to winter. He 
 went home through the rain in perfect 
 content, and waited for her answer without 
 any misgivings, although he might have
 
 TBE END OF THE FIEST ACT. 91 
 
 had some if he had known with what 
 feelings Mary Morris read his letter. Bnt 
 she accepted his invitation and made him 
 happy, for he had nothin^^ else to judge 
 her hy than her acts and Avords, and had not 
 yet come to analysing either. 
 
 He had to borrow some money after all, 
 for his entire cash amounted to no more 
 than eighteenpence on the following after- 
 noon, wliich was too little to pay for fares 
 and some very possible refreshment. 
 
 At seven o'clock he knocked at her door, 
 and giving a loud rat-tat, she came down 
 herself. 
 
 " Come in, Mr. Torrington, please. You 
 are punctual, aren't you ? I'm not ready 
 yet, so you must come upstairs and wait." 
 
 Torrington shook hands with her warmly, 
 without speaking for just a moment. He 
 wondered what kind of a place she lived 
 in; what kind of setting this rare pale 
 saint had, who was vet so blithe and cheer- 
 ful. He knew it must be poor.
 
 92 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 '' I don't mind waiting, Priscilla" — she 
 laughed lightly at this *' rapturous new 
 name," which he spoke with a certain 
 tenderness — ''for as Ions; as I am in time 
 myself, no one can blame me. Take me 
 upstairs, if your landlady isn't a fierce 
 dragon who abhors men." 
 
 '' I don't mind her in the least," said 
 Priscilla. ''Sometimes Mr. West calls here, 
 and Mr. Vyse, the Academy student, and 
 Mr. Armour, too, if they want me to sit 
 and don't care to bother about writing. And 
 she doesn't know you're not an artist.'^ 
 
 " I hope I am," replied John lightly,. 
 " but that's a mere detail, and hypercritical. 
 Is not a versifier an artist ? Yes, to be 
 sure." 
 
 They entered her sitting-room, which was 
 lighted by a lamp and a bright fire, for it 
 began to get chilly of nights. Besides, she did 
 her cooking there, in the same way that 
 Torrington sometimes did his in his room, 
 which has not yec been described. Hers
 
 THE EXn OF THE FIBST ACT. 93 
 
 was nearly square and very plainly f urnislied, 
 with but one comfortable arm-cliair, yet it 
 was on the whole very tastefully arranged 
 and decorated. On the walls was an etchins: 
 of Armour's, and an oil painting of a harvest 
 field by Raeburn ; under the table was a 
 terra-cotta bust of herself by West, and on 
 it a medallion as well. That same table, 
 which was set between the windows, had a 
 large basin full of yellow and white chrysan- 
 themums. Torrington smiled when he saw 
 them. 
 
 '^ Are you fond of flowers ? " said he, 
 without letting her see the smile. 
 
 ''Oh, yes, Mr. Torrington/' she exclaimed, 
 "I love them, and especially these soft white 
 blossoms. Some one sent them to me last 
 niglit. I thought it was Mr. Armour who 
 had come back, for now and again he gives 
 me some; but " 
 
 '*He comes back to-morrow," said Tor- 
 rinsrton. '' I heard from Eaeburn this 
 morning/'
 
 94 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 '•' Then I taxed Mr. Monk (you know 
 him, in the Raven Road studios), and he 
 wouldn't say yes. But I know he did." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said John ; ^^then he'd better 
 — not equivocate again — because " 
 
 Priscilla (it is better to call her so, for 
 Torrington always did) turned round, and 
 seeing his face, clapped her hands. 
 
 "Ah ! " she said ; ''I knew you sent them. 
 I was really sure, but wanted to find out. 
 Thank you very much. ISTow I'll change 
 my dress, and if you like you can smoke a 
 cigarette. I don't mind smoke at all." 
 
 '^ A very good thing," said Torrington as 
 he sat down, " for I smoke a good deal." 
 
 Thouo^h that was when she had left the 
 room, it never occurred to him that he was 
 hurrying matters a little, that he was dis- 
 counting the future on small security, and 
 might do better to be a little less sure. He 
 was now on the very verge. Even yet he 
 might have drawn back, saying firmly, "Xo, 
 I will not love this girl. I will think no
 
 TEE EXD OF THE FIBST ACT. 95 
 
 more of lier, and go my way alone." But 
 then, if he had said so much, he would not 
 have been quite John Torrington, and the 
 word ''alone" would have but confirmed 
 what was now his purpose, and to-night 
 would be his passion. 
 
 He waited Tery calmly though the time 
 Avent on and it grew a little late. It was 
 sweet to be in this her room, to think that 
 she slept beyond that thin wall, that she 
 trod here daily, and was to be won to adorn 
 his home which did not yet exist. He leant 
 back as he felt the enervating warmth of 
 the fire, and with its heat came her influence 
 wrapping him closer and closer, like a 
 very faint odour which steals on the senses 
 and soothes the soul even as music played 
 softly. Was she not like a flower, like 
 music, like a song about a blush rose set to 
 a sweet tune born in the brain of a lover ? 
 Yes, she was as soothing as falling water. 
 And soon, John Torrington, she shall be 
 like a flame of fire about you, a very fervent
 
 96 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 heat that shall burn you to ashes, or refine 
 you to the best within you, or show you 
 clay for ever. But he dreamed on idly and 
 flicked away the ash from his cigarette as 
 it measured out the long full minutes of the 
 reveries wdiich usher in a storm of passion. 
 And she entered the room. 
 
 There are pictures in every man's life, to 
 some but a few, which are faint and remain 
 not deeply impressed on the brain ; to 
 others a great gallery full of the vivid 
 and varied interest of an ardent and im- 
 pressible life. John Torrington had seen 
 some strange and beautiful things in his 
 little tiuie, whose memory was both sweet 
 and bitter to liim. He saw, or could see in 
 a quiet hour, the faces of those whom he 
 had loved in his youth, faces of men and 
 of women, faces real and faces imagined in 
 dreams which remained as realities. There 
 were immense and terrible landscapes before 
 him, and in them he walked alone ; there 
 were pictures of great cities crowded with
 
 THE EXD OF THE Fill ST ACT 97 
 
 human beino;s where he had been lonelier 
 yet ; there were sunny nooks of pleasure 
 and shadowy groves of pain wherein the 
 ghosts of great dead hours walked with 
 lightless lam^os like the foolish virgins, but 
 in his gallery there is one sweet picture, 
 which should be always dear. Por lie calls 
 it " Saint Priscilla," as she was when she 
 came to him who heard the first faint prelude 
 of the passionate music whereof she was the 
 theme. Beautiful, beautiful she was, beyond 
 the poet's words, beyond the brush of the 
 painter, even beyond the higli and sacred 
 art which can be expressed in the cold, 
 sweet purity of marble, and yet he who saw 
 this had to speak in strange commonplace 
 words, leaving the apt and fitter worship of 
 reverent silence. Yet he was silent enough 
 that night. 
 
 The play was but a melodrama, wherein 
 the villain triumphed, as usual, for four 
 acts, and banged the sapless and unlucky 
 hero on every opportunity, until, in the fifth, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 IN LOW rxELIEF. 
 
 virtue was at last successful, and had the 
 pleasure of seeing vice laid dead at his feet. 
 
 But Torrington never knew even as much 
 as that. What he saw was Priscilla Avith a 
 single white chrysanthemum in her hair, 
 and one upon her breast, as she bent 
 forward with breathless interest and prayed 
 for the extinction of the " heavy man," who 
 scowled at the audience in a manner which 
 was approved by hisses from an enthusiastic 
 and for the nonce virtuous gallery. Eor 
 Torrington was playing over the drama of 
 his life, and saw things past and possible 
 things to come. The man was exalted 
 strangely. Let us follow his thoughts and 
 set them straight and plain. 
 
 " I never j)layed in the prologue, and 
 don't know much of it. It lasted for strange 
 thousands of years, I know that, but who 
 my ancestors were I cannot tell. There 
 must have been some devils in it, and 
 perhaps a saint or two, like Priscilla, who 
 sent me down a drop of pure blood. And
 
 TEE EXD OF THE FIEST ACT. 99 
 
 perhaps a madman, certainly a philosopher. 
 And again a gipsy, for I have loved to 
 wander. Eor I am the outcome of it all. 
 Perhaps I should not have been if the 
 Israelites had not crossed the Eed Sea ; 
 perhaps the Eoman Eepuhlic begat me, or 
 the State of Athens. More likely the Huns 
 and Goths, the Visigoths and Vandals. A 
 Genghis Khan or a Semiramis, Rameses or 
 Romulus, an angel descended or a devil 
 risen. For I am a result, and manifestly a 
 fool — but with some brains." 
 
 He smiled stransrelv and Priscilla looked 
 np. For the first act had ended. When 
 the curtain rose his thoughts wandered 
 again. 
 
 '^Does not the first act begin in pain? 
 What was my childhood ? A cruelty, through 
 ignorance, not through malice. A time of 
 strange visions. I used to look up into the 
 sky and wait the apocalypse. I am waiting 
 yet. At nights, too, visions of terror which 
 perhaps were prophecies. Even then I 
 h2
 
 100 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 loved nature, and could see it more than 
 most children, not only near flowers and 
 birds, but far skies and distances under 
 the skies. And all the while my home was 
 almost hateful to me. Yet I thought that 
 was in the course of nature. "What a pity 
 I started so, on such a key-note. 
 
 ''What was the second act? My school days 
 I suppose, which little devils made a torture 
 to me till I cried with rage, and hated all 
 the world but my mother. Until I grew 
 more able, and read by night and day books 
 which no child should have touched. It 
 ought to have cracked my brain. Then — 
 the third act, from the day I was eighteen 
 to twenty- six, when religious demons tor- 
 mented me, and got cast out at last, and 
 my chambers were not only swept and 
 garnished, but locked up. Then the con- 
 sciousness of a certain amount of brains. 
 Why, that's the seven devils after all ! 
 
 "And the fourth act I am ending now. 
 It has been a Walpurgis night, a dance of
 
 THE END OF THE FIRST ACT. 101 
 
 death, a maniacal, demoniacal rout, of 
 all the virtues and all the vices, who 
 have fought for conquest and precedence in 
 the kingdom of my soul, until they seemed 
 to slay each other in a murder grim and 
 great. And there is nothing, or was nothing, 
 left but a blood-stained hall, with this lame 
 virtue struggling or the other half-stifled 
 vice trying to rear its head. Upon my 
 life I think but two wholly survive, a queer 
 love of Truth and a satvric she-demon. 
 Now cannot a saint bring order into the 
 place ? It is a task no mere mortal should 
 attempt. I wonder what the fifth act will 
 be." 
 
 He spoke the last words aloud. 
 
 ''Why it's only the second act yet," said 
 Priscilla. "Doesn't she play well, Mr. 
 Torrington ?" 
 
 The scene was a garden with some trees, 
 and there stood the persecuted hero, re- 
 nouncing his lady love without giving a 
 reason, but lookins; horriblv miserable about
 
 102 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 it. The acting was certainly good, indeed 
 that particular part was the best in the play. 
 Por a while it arrested Torrington's attention, 
 the words of passion appealed to him. 
 But how weak they were ! When the scene 
 was over he turned to Priscilla. 
 
 ^^Do you think he should have done 
 that?" he asked. 
 
 " I don't suppose he could help it," she 
 said, looking up. 
 
 " Help it," he exclaimed, loud enough to 
 draw the attention of the people next 
 them, '' help it, why I would die sooner 
 than give up a woman if she loved me. 
 Were you ever in love, Priscilla ? " 
 He lowered his voice and spoke very 
 quietly. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Xever, Mr. Torrington. At least I 
 
 don't think so. And " She hesitated 
 
 then and stopped. A faint colour stole over 
 her face as he looked at her. 
 
 ^' And what ? — nothing I suppose. Well,
 
 THE EXD OF THE FIBST ACT. 103 
 
 well, perhaps, Priscilla, you will be some day. 
 And then you will judge rightly/' 
 
 By this the girl had recovered her con- 
 fidence, which his tone had slightly disturbed, 
 and she made a natural enough retort. 
 
 '' Can you judge rightly ? " 
 
 '' Yes," said Torrington, '' but perhaps I 
 mightn't have done a year ago." 
 
 " Then you are in love ?" she said. 
 
 " I can't sav, Priscilla, but I will tell you 
 one of these davs. It is not a thins; to talk 
 of rashly. I know there is and can be 
 nothing greater than love. Though I am 
 rather a scoundrel. As I dare say you have 
 heard." 
 
 Priscilla looked up in surprise. 
 
 "Who should tell me such a thing, Mr. 
 Torrington ? Besides, I don't believe it." 
 
 ''Thank you, my dear girl," he said, a 
 little moved. " You, at any rate, shall never 
 find me so. Still I am not very good, that's 
 a fact." 
 
 She laughed gently.
 
 104 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " Nor am I. Didn't T tell you the other 
 day that I get into most dreadful tempers? 
 Why, I nearly boxed my sister's ears this 
 evenins^." 
 
 "What was that for?" he said, a little 
 absently, for he was thinking of the dif- 
 ference between her goodness and his. 
 She did not answer the question. Yet 
 perhaps it was that which made her turn her 
 attention to the play. He miglit have 
 given something to fathom her thoughts 
 then, and yet if he had done so he would 
 scarcely have found much in them of value 
 to him as regards himself. 
 
 When he left her at her door at a quarter 
 past twelve he walked home fairly satisfied. 
 Eor one thing he had gained ground wdtli 
 her ; she did not resent his slight air of 
 protection nor his affectionate familiarity ; 
 she looked at him with very friendly eyes, 
 that was evident, and so far did not think 
 ill of liim. He believed that with such a 
 vantage ground he could win her love. But
 
 THE END OF THE FIIiST ACT 105 
 
 strangely enough most of liis satisfaction arose 
 from the fact that he now knew he was 
 passionately fond of her, and would not 
 draw hack from what he had set his mind 
 on. She should he his wife though he 
 courted her for years. The decision was not 
 his hut Pate's. It did not seem to have 
 lain in his hands at all, for the past never 
 does. The future has that semhlance, and 
 as he walked home he thought he had the 
 power to hend and shake her until she lay 
 in the hollow of his hand. But he was 
 more humble and thankful to whatever gods 
 there were than he had ever been, for there 
 was a promise about her which was sweeter 
 than the possession of any other on the whole 
 earth. A little while ago he might have 
 loved any loving Avoman in pure desperation, 
 but now, by the quality there is in passion, 
 in her alone lay all the blessings that there 
 were in the world's womanhood.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 
 
 It is not the lateness of the year itself but 
 its inclemency which sends the artists back 
 in flocks to London, where those who would 
 always work with nature stay disconsolate, 
 like seagulls in inland waters, till the storms 
 of winter are past and done. The autumn 
 is the most beautiful and the most melan- 
 choly season of the year ; it is the time for 
 vintage and harvest, and the time for labour, 
 since the sun of the summer ripens not only 
 the wheat of the fields but the thoughts of 
 men. Its melancholy is the visible evidence 
 of completion. It suggests the end, and 
 even an abundant accomplishment is not 
 always joyful. But to an artist especially.
 
 TEE XATUEAL 2IAX. 107 
 
 tlie last of the available autumn is the last 
 of the great pleasure of the year. 
 
 On the third day after the visit to the 
 theatre the studios were once more occupied 
 by Wynne, Eaeburn, and Armour, who re- 
 turned from North Devon together. Tor- 
 rington was in his usual afternoon lounge, 
 Gaskell's place, when two cabs drove down 
 the lane and disgorged the three, who looked 
 ruddy and brown with exposure. After a 
 liandshake and jovial greeting and a few 
 wholly unnecessary expletives, expressive 
 of joy on his part, he turned to and helped 
 his acquaintances with their easels, can- 
 vases, and other luggage, of wliicli there 
 was a great quantity. 
 
 ^^ Why didn'fc you come over to see us ? ^' 
 asked Wynne, as he set down a bag and sat 
 on it in temporary exhaustion. '' You are 
 a pretty fellow, after saying you would." 
 
 Torrington laughed. 
 
 '^ I didn't want to come over and see all 
 the orirls dans^lino^ after vou. Confound vour
 
 108 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 lianclsome face, old man, I should have been 
 jealous, becau.se I love them all mj^self. 
 Besides, I did very well where I was. I 
 had no rivals." 
 
 ''U I'd known," declared Wynne, ''I 
 would have come over and spoilt the place 
 for you. But what have you been doing ? '^ 
 
 " Writing, as usual," replied John, " and 
 a most disaorreeable storv such as I delight 
 in, where every one is very miserable." 
 
 '' You won't sell it then ? " said Wynne. 
 
 '^ I must," returned the other. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I'm going to get married." 
 
 ^'' fiddlesticks, don't be a fool, Torrington. 
 You can't mean ifc. Who is she ? " 
 
 '' A dowager duchess, my dear fellow, 
 with ten thousand a year at least." 
 
 And then Wynne smiled incredulous of 
 everything. But so did John Torrington. 
 
 "He will be surprised, I know," he 
 thouo^ht, " and think me a worse fool than 
 ever. But, by heavens ! if all the world does.
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 109 
 
 I don't care. I wouldn't mind sliontins^ it 
 out in the streets, crying it with a bell, or 
 going round with it placarded on sandwich 
 boards, if that would make it certain. Did 
 you do much work ? " he added aloud. 
 
 Wynne nodded at a lot of canvases. 
 
 ''And more coming by luggage train. 
 Ey Jove ! I made the rest w^ork. I drove 
 them, out to it as if I were a slave-driver." 
 
 "Armour too ? " asked Torrington. 
 
 " No need to drive him. He's a beggar 
 to work at everything he takes up. Eut 
 there, you lazy devil, make me some tea, 
 I'm tired out." 
 
 Torrington made some, and then went. 
 He spoke to Armour, who was standing out- 
 side his door, but did not go in. He fancied 
 the artist was a little stiff and cold, which 
 repelled him instantly, though he was re- 
 luctant to believe it. Yet he chuckled to 
 himself to think what Armour's wonder 
 would be at the possible news. So he made 
 a remark.
 
 ilO IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " I saw Miss Morris three days ago, and 
 she looked very well, in spite of sitting 
 again for that exigent, imperious West. 
 He is working at a relief. It is very 
 beautiful." 
 
 '' His stuff usually is," replied Armour. 
 
 "With such a model," said John almost 
 joyously, and then nodded farewell. 
 
 Paul looked after him in silence as he went 
 into Eaehurn s, and then muttered, " I 
 wonder if — but no. That's absurd.'' And 
 whatever thought disturbed him fled in- 
 stantly. He hardly remembered thinking 
 it afterwards. 
 
 Thous^h Torrino^ton had shaken hands with 
 E/aeburn outside he did it again when he 
 entered the studio, but without speaking, 
 and in a way which was very pleasant to see. 
 Then he rested his hand on his shoulder 
 lightly and twisted him round. 
 
 *' Ah, those great works of yours, old 
 man ; may I ? "
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. Ill 
 
 George smiled and nodded his consent, so 
 John unstrapped some six canvases and set 
 them up in a row very deliberately. Then 
 lie stood hack and looked at them critically, 
 saying at intervals, " Hum, hum," in a way 
 which amused Eaeburn, but puzzled him 
 too, for with such a vague expression of 
 criticism, coming from a facejset in the way 
 Torrington sometimes afPected, it was hard 
 to judge whether the effect was favourable 
 or not. Presently John picked out four, put 
 them in another light, and then placed tliem 
 against the wall. 
 
 "I do that because they are good," he 
 remarked at length, *^ hut I don't congratu- 
 late you on them." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Eaeburn, a little 
 impatiently. 
 
 " Because I expected you to do good 
 work. But I congratulate you on these." 
 
 He turned round smiling. 
 
 " And why these again ? "
 
 112 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " Because, my dear friend," said Tor- 
 rington sententiousiy, *' because they are 
 failures." 
 
 The congratulated one started. 
 
 '' I don't follow your reasoning, Torring- 
 ion." 
 
 '' Hum, I dare say not ; but I don't 
 believe in a man who never fails. Constant 
 success is an almost infallible sign of medio- 
 crity. It is true constant failure is no sign 
 of a genius, though some folks think so. 
 Success always, or almost always, spoils an 
 artist. That is usually late in life. Success 
 very early shows he can't be spoilt, simply 
 because there is nothing in him to spoil. 
 That's a rule. There are exceptions.. I grant, 
 but I never met one personally, and hardly 
 expect to do it. You have been aiming 
 high and have missed. It's a coarse artistic 
 aphorism, I know, but here's one for you. 
 It's much easier to stick a pig than shoot 
 an eagle. Eut from our point of view a 
 wing feather is better than roasl" pork even
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 113 
 
 witli apple sauce. Come now, you haven't 
 shot the eagle, but here's a wing feather 
 for you. You never did a better piece of 
 technical work in your life than this square 
 foot ! " And he pointed out a piece of 
 '' distance " in a landscape. 
 
 ^^Yes?" returned Raeburn, just a little 
 ruefully, '' I dare say you are right. But 
 damn it, you see I can easier take your 
 word for its being generally a failure than 
 for that piece being well painted. Eor 
 what do you really know about painting ? " 
 
 Torrington shook his head. 
 
 '^ That's always the w^ay wit4i an artist. 
 He must have it all praise. When an out- 
 side critic butters him all over, he thinks 
 the outsider's judgment good, but woe to 
 the poor fellow if he even substitutes a 
 commoner kind of grease. Then he knows 
 nothing. I won't argue with you, for you 
 must be tired. No! I'll put them away 
 for you. Don't you trouble," 
 
 When he had done so he sat in the low 
 
 VOL I. I
 
 114 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 arm-chair while Raeburn occupied the sofa, 
 and there was silence for a while — that kind 
 of silence which shows that men are friends 
 better than any words. Por George was 
 thinking how much truth there misrht he 
 in Torrington's discourse, while he, for his 
 part, was wondering whether he could tell 
 the other what strange revolutions w^ere im- 
 pending in his life. 
 
 " But I suppose I had better not. There 
 is no need to say anything explicit or 
 particular until I know^ Perhaps Priscilla 
 mightn't like it to come out for a while 
 even if she does say yes," 
 
 That was his thought on the subject, but, 
 though he kept to his resolution, the train 
 of ideas he followed led to his next remark. 
 
 " How do you like living alone, George?" 
 
 E/aeburn looked at him quietly. 
 
 '' I think you have asked me before, my 
 friend. There is no need to answer it. I 
 am too poor not to be solitary." 
 
 " Yes, that's it," assented Torrington,
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 115 
 
 ''but it's very bard. To put it negatively 
 and absurdly, it's very bard not to be not a 
 bacbelor. I told a lady so tbe otber day, 
 and sbe agreed. I sbould find it bard to 
 get any one to sbare my present privations 
 wbo was of my own class." 
 
 " Wbat is your class, pray ? " said Eae- 
 burD. 
 
 " Well, tben, of a corresponding degree of 
 education. I sball have to put up witb that 
 though. I don't care anyhow, it would 
 puzzle seventy-seven of the wisest men to 
 pick out a wife suitable for me. I am 
 going to suit myself as far as I can. Look 
 
 here " 
 
 He jumped and got excited instantly, 
 just as water beated under pressure bursts 
 into vapour when the boiler yields. Rae- 
 burn, who knew his tricks, took no notice. 
 
 '' Yes, look here. I'm sick of being alone, 
 sick of it. To put it on the lowest grounds, 
 I spend three-quarters of my time looking 
 after myself. And I ouglit to be working 
 
 1 2
 
 116 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 instead. Then I tell you there is but one 
 heaven for me, and it is woman's love. It 
 sounds nonsense in cold blood, but I'm 
 never in cold blood, never was, and never 
 shall be, until I'm dead and frozen the 
 winter after. I tell you I liave been hunting 
 for her for years. Sometimes I thought I 
 ]iad found her ; but it was a mistake. Por 
 a time the delusion was sweet, very sweet, 
 but it was bitter afterwards. Perhaps it 
 was my fault. Heaven knows, I have 
 cnous:h to furnish a whole familv with ; no 
 one knows tbat so well as myself (bar 
 Heaven, as I remarked before), yet the fact 
 remains. But I can't live alone, and I 
 have to do it, or it seems so, or did seem so. 
 I live in perpetual folly, and run about 
 gassing to this or that one, making love 
 in a kind of bitter burlesque An old 
 friend of mine (you never knew him, but 
 he's a doctor) says I look at things out 
 of focus. Well, I can't get in focus, and 
 never shall till I settle down. Why, for one
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 117 
 
 thing, I love children, and would give any- 
 tliing to have one of my ovrn. Pew bachelors 
 would say so much, even if they thought it. 
 I believe the fools think it unmanly to 
 desire to have offspring. But men — men 
 don't; and I am a natural man in infernally 
 unnatural surroundings. I am going to 
 put an end to it somehow. I tell you it's 
 this life which makes me so cursedly 
 analytic. I always have myself on the 
 dissecting table, and take a morbid delight 
 in seeing my own quivering nerves. I had 
 better take to using the scalpel on my own 
 leg, or do as a doctor did once, inoculate 
 myself with hydrophobia for the sake of 
 science. Paul Bourcret savs observation is 
 no good for writing books, and that experi- 
 ence io everything. I say curse experience, 
 if it only means suffering. Should I go on 
 writing I have had enough of that to do a 
 score of books. Now 1 am ready to try a 
 little happiness, just by way of a change of 
 air and scene. I know what it means ; I
 
 118 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 have had it just for a moment now and 
 again ; hut the glimpses of heaven the Peri 
 got when the gate opened were rather 
 maddening I should fancy. Besides, happi- 
 ness coming that way, just for an hour, 
 breeds a kind of indigestion. A starving 
 beggar might be bilious if he sat down with 
 the Lord Mayor to turtle soup. One should 
 work up to delight slowly and stay with it. 
 I'm going to change things. For, E^aeburn, 
 to tell you the truth, I think I'm going to 
 get married." 
 
 He stopped in front of his friend, with 
 flashing eyes and heaving breast, for he 
 was greatly moved. 
 
 Raeburn sat up. 
 
 '' My dear fellow, if you can do it wisely, 
 I shall be glad." 
 
 Torrington burst out at him. 
 
 " Wisely, wisely," he shouted scornfully, 
 bringing his clenched fist down on the table, 
 till the cups and saucers which stood there 
 rattled, ''confound wisdom! I have been
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 119 
 
 cautious all my life in a kind of way, and 
 now I'll take a chance. I think it would 
 be the wisest act of folly I ever did in my 
 life to get married. It would force me out oi 
 myself ; I should have to think of some one 
 else. I could make three times what I do, 
 I know it, and that would be quite enough 
 for us." 
 
 '' Who is she then r " asked Raeburn. 
 
 ^^ She's a very beautiful girl. I love beauty, 
 and always shall ; and a very poor girl too, 
 which is a blessing, I'm sure, or I should 
 never have dared to think of it, and as pure 
 and sweet a girl as ever walked this cruel 
 crowded world. And I'm bad enough to 
 know what purity is worth. I'm going to 
 marry her if she'll have me, and I think 
 she will." 
 
 "Then it's not settled ? " asked the other. 
 
 " No, it's not, but I hope it soon will be. 
 I will tell you as soon as it is, you may rely 
 on it. And I'll introduce her to you." 
 And he laughed.
 
 120 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 " What, you're laughing are you ? " cried 
 George. "Well, I've known you some 
 time, but I shall never quite understand 
 you." 
 
 " Oh yes, you will," returned Torrington, 
 who having blown off the steam became 
 once more like an ordinary individual who 
 was not in revolt, " for then I shall be saner 
 every day." 
 
 " Which is quite necessary," said George 
 drily, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, 
 " for you seem to get a little madder day by 
 day now." 
 
 " I dare say," said John. '' I do well to 
 get mad." 
 
 Then he quoted : 
 
 " He left the little wealth he had 
 To build a house for fools and mad, 
 To show by one satiric touch 
 'No nation needed it so much." 
 
 " I have some Irish blood in my veins. 
 So if I don't shoot my fair white dove and 
 bring her to my breast, I'll go over to
 
 THE NATURAL MAN. 121 
 
 Dublin and take aclvanta2:e of the 2^reac 
 Dean's bequest." 
 
 He took np his hat and held out his hand. 
 
 "Poor dear old George Eaeburn, I'm sorry 
 I've been so violent. Come round to my 
 den this evening and I'll see if I can't get 
 some whisky in. I promise not to talk 
 more than nineteen to the dozen if you 
 do." 
 
 " I won't promise," said his friend, '' but 
 perhaps I will come in about luilf-past ten 
 or so. And as to vour talkins^, I don't mind 
 that if it's only nine-tenths twaddle. A tenth 
 good sense will save you." 
 
 "Hum," said Torrington. "You are 
 rather hard oq ordinary conversationalists 
 then. Still, every good talker talks mostly 
 nonsense. That's a parallel to your failures, 
 old man. Good-bye ! " 
 
 He went away smiling without thinking 
 how good it was of Ptaeburn to listen 
 so patiently. Put then George knew it 
 was better than medicine to let Torrington
 
 122 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 ease bis bosom of sucb perilous stuff, 
 and exercised bis charity as well as bis 
 self-restraint. But perhaps he smiled a 
 little sadly as be looked round bis studio 
 and saw bow very solitary it was.
 
 CHAPTEH IX. 
 
 HER PROMISED VISIT. 
 
 It becomes evident to me as I write that 
 my friend Torrington's mind was a little 
 disordered, or that, if it was not disordered 
 in the common sense of the word, it went in 
 curious and erratic curves, which from any 
 but a far standpoint seemed to have neither 
 a common force nor a common centre. 
 Once he had a strange glimpse of the truth, 
 which came to him from his love of analogies, 
 and he seemed to see clearly that life 
 for him was founded on a wrong scheme, or 
 conceived as a far too complex system. 
 
 ** I tell you," he once said to me em- 
 phatically. ''I am so far only a kind of 
 Ptolemv. I make mvself the centre of the
 
 124 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 solar system of liunianity, and can't get 
 beyond it. Perhaps fiaally I shall be a 
 Galileo, and see that I revolve roand some 
 great centre. Doubtless, part of me will 
 revolt ; perhaps I shall be clapped in the 
 Inquisition and even recant. But whether 
 I shall ever get to my Newtonian time and 
 recognise a principle, a cause, as well as a 
 scheme, I can't say. Probably not. At 
 present I am a Cartesian, and believe in 
 vortices. But I am in a whirlpool myself, 
 a straw in it, an unconsidered chip. Never- 
 theless in my egoism, you, mvlViend, arebut 
 a vision of my own, a dream, a bundle of 
 pleasing sensations. Do you follow ?" 
 
 That was the last time I talked with him 
 before going to Italy, where I was during 
 the remainder of this story. I shook my 
 head as I looked round his room, which I 
 was to see under altered circumstances. 
 
 Torrington's room was indeed character- 
 istic of him, full as it was of strange evi- 
 dences. It was large, low, and square, with
 
 HEB PBOMISED VISIT. 125 
 
 two windows looking out upon a clingy 
 street, wherein a crowd of noisy young 
 ruffians were usually at uproarious play, 
 even to eleven o'clock at night. It was 
 carpeted with a square of greyish stuff, not 
 wholly devoid of holes, and even to the eye 
 dusty. The rug before the fireplace was 
 mostly covered with scraps of paper and 
 crumbs, \a hile the fireplace itself was rusted 
 and rarely black. Underneath the grate a 
 week's accumulation of ashes was no un- 
 common sight for the rare visitor, who was 
 naturally seldom so fastidious as to object. 
 The mantelpiece was laden with piles of 
 books, set on their sides, and runniug up 
 from a quarto or large octavo classic to a 
 diminutive duodecimo Taller^ while the 
 interspaces between these were filled up 
 with tied bundles of letters and odd docu- 
 ments of all sorts. Crowning the book 
 building was a varied collection of photo- 
 graphs, which he changed at intervals, when 
 he li'ot tired of beincr stared out of counte-
 
 126 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 nance by any particular set. Above these 
 again, banged, or nailed, or pinned to tbe 
 wall, were oil paintings, water-colour draw- 
 ings, odd etcbings, and woodcuts, some 
 being by Raeburn, Gaskell, and otber men 
 wliom be knew, wbile others were collected 
 oat of art magazines, to be preserved from 
 obscurity for a while in order to be more 
 certainly doomed to destruction. 
 
 But tbe large round table, however, by 
 tbe far corner was tbe most noticeable thins: 
 in the room. It arrogated to itself tbe 
 same inevitable position of importance that 
 Armour's etching-table did in his studio, 
 and drew the eye towards it, not only by its 
 size, which was out of proportion with the 
 room, but by the extraordinary heterogeneity 
 of its varied collections. In the middle was 
 a long row of books set upon their edges, 
 for a convenience of reference whicb was 
 rendered nugatory by a superimposed pile 
 of papers, manuscript paper, large and small 
 envelopes, Erench novels (including volumes
 
 HEE PROMISED VISIT. 127 
 
 of Gautier, Maupassant, and his favourites 
 Balzac and Daudet), English novels (in which 
 his taste was fairly catholic), and a large 
 quantity of magazines, some of which con- 
 tained articles by himself. On the far side 
 of this middle barrier was a terjYi incog- 
 nita, or no man's land, where hats, gloves, 
 cuffs, drawing and ^sketching materials, old 
 razors and brushes, and a huge bundle c-f 
 letters, lay heaped in such dire confusion, 
 that he hardly knew where anything might 
 or indeed might not be found ; while on its 
 near side his more recent manuscripts wei-e 
 piled portentously threatening the small 
 space left vacant for his lamp, ink-pot, and 
 half-a-dozen pipes, which he for ever 
 smoked when workins:. The rest of the 
 room was not out of keeping with the part 
 here described, for on every wall hung 
 pictures and sketches of a greater or less 
 degree of merit, and there was not a corner 
 in it which was not verv dustv, save for a 
 week, perhaps, after those rare occasions
 
 128 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 when some signs of grace in the man, or the 
 threatening and amused importunity of his 
 landlady, allowed or procured the temporary 
 cleansino^ of ] lis solitary den. 
 
 Torrington had not left Priscilla at her 
 door on the ni«:ht ho had taken her to the 
 theatre without extracting a promise from 
 her to come round and see him on the 
 following Wednesday. This promise was by 
 no means given readily or without much per- 
 suasion, hut when he had once received it 
 he knew well that it would not be broken 
 without cause or necessity. On the Wed- 
 nesday morning he made an effort to place 
 his room in some kind of decency, so Ihat 
 there might be no more disorder in it than 
 would suffice to amuse without quite shock- 
 ing her. 
 
 '' Bless her feminine heart," he said, 
 smiling, as he desisted, "perhaps the sight 
 of so mudi misery, the sight of a man coping 
 with such matters as dust, will arouse her 
 sympathies and make her more ready to
 
 BEE PBOMISED VISIT. 129 
 
 assist. Who knows ? There are many 
 avenues to the Temple of Love." 
 
 In order to give her no excuse he had sent 
 her a note reminding her of her promise, 
 and was glad to receive no answer, lest it 
 might have been to defer the visit. He came 
 in about half-past six, and after lighting the 
 lamp and the fire, placed some chrysanthe- 
 mums, Avhich he had just purchased, in 
 water on his table, and then sat down to 
 wait in a growing fever of impatience and 
 apprehension. Por he was so ready to 
 torment himself the moment he was without 
 some visible task. Yet withal he was sure 
 of her, sure that his love would win hers in 
 return. 
 
 It was twenty minutes past seven ere he 
 heard a knock which he took to be hers, so 
 faint a one indeed, that if he had not left his 
 own door open, for fear of some one keeping 
 her waiting, he would not have caught it. 
 He sprang up with a heating heart, ran 
 down stairs eagerly, and opened to her. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 " Saint Priscilla," he murmured, as his 
 face lighted up, for it was indeed she who 
 stood there a little timidly, as though she 
 doubted her wisdom. She had stayed once 
 or twice on her way thither, and might very 
 easily have been ten minutes earlier. But 
 now she smiled as she stepped into the 
 narrow, ill-lighted hall, for the expression 
 on his face was one of pure gladness, and no 
 one would have credited the man with evil. 
 
 " You are late, my dear girl," he said 
 lightly. '' I began to think it was only a 
 false dream which whispered to me that you 
 would come." 
 
 " I could hardly help it, Mr. Torrington," 
 she said, as she followed him up the stairs, 
 " for I was a little late coming home." 
 
 " Well, I regret nothing now you have 
 come, Priscilla. See, this is my den." 
 
 She entered and looked round her curi- 
 ously, for her artistic perceptions were true 
 and intense. It was evident the place, poor 
 as it was, pleased her, and she said so.
 
 HEB PB0MI8ED VISIT. 131 
 
 '^ I see you are fond of colour Mr. Tor- 
 rington, anrl you have good taste too." 
 
 '' Yes, for a mere man," remarked John 
 joyously ; he was so glad to see her there. 
 '' I love colour, and like it stronger every 
 day. It grows on me, and a Japanese fan or 
 a bit of beautiful drapery is like a chord of 
 music or a verse of true rhythm. I like to 
 believe that I love all beauty, all there is in 
 the world. I wish I hated evil as truly. 
 Take your hat and cloak off, Priscilla, 
 you have come to stay for a while I 
 know." 
 
 ^^ I can't stay for long, Mr. Torrington," 
 she said a little shyly, not wishing him to 
 til ink that she was too glad or too ready to 
 remain. His face grew instantly downcast, 
 for it was a very mirror for his sudden 
 changes. 
 
 " Ah, Saint Priscilla, you are cruel. Nay, 
 I don't believe you quite mean it. At any 
 rate uncloak, and let me think you will stay. 
 I am always ready to deceive myself." 
 
 K 2
 
 132 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 "With a gentle insistance he took off her 
 cloak. 
 
 " Why, your hair is clown and quite loose. 
 I never knew you wore it so." He touched it 
 very lightly with his fingers, and lifting one 
 tress out of its abundance put it reverently 
 to his lips. But she did not know that he 
 did so. 
 
 '' I washed it just now, Mr. Torrington, 
 for I have to sit to-morrow with it loose, and 
 they wanted it fluffy." 
 
 He felt a little injured that "they" had 
 any such power over her. He offered her 
 the canvas lounge, and she sat down on the 
 right-hand side of the fire, while lie drew his 
 working chair from the table and placed it 
 nearer hers. At that moment a surge of 
 blood ran up into his brain and made him 
 tremble. Por she was really sitting there 
 by his fire. She whom he loved. How 
 strange it was and how very sweet. Others 
 had sat tbere too, but no Saint Priscilla. 
 
 She was dressed in a very simple frock of
 
 BEB PEOMISED VISIT. 133 
 
 a colour resembling terra-cotta, which just 
 showed her slisrht and o^irlish fissure, and 
 round her slender neck and wrists was some 
 yellowish lace. She bent forward jast a 
 little and looked very gravely and simply 
 at the fire, which flickered pleasantly and 
 illumined the room quite as much as the 
 lamp, which stood on the table covered with 
 a green shade. Por a moment both kept 
 silence — she, because just then she had little 
 to say, and was merely content that Torring- 
 ton was glad to see her ; he, because he was 
 at a loss to choose from his thoughts, and 
 was without the impulse which might have 
 rendered a choice impossible. Por he re- 
 strained himself, wondering all the time how 
 long he would be able to do it. But he 
 did speak at last, for he desired she should 
 not note the flight of time. 
 
 " It is very pleasant to see you here — very. 
 For I lead a very lonely life, Priscilla, except 
 when I am out in the busy world. And I 
 don't like loneliness, do you ? "
 
 134 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 She looked up to him and smiled. 
 
 "Not always, Mr. Torrington, but then 
 I am busy, and have so much to do — — 
 
 "Not only for yourself though," inter- 
 jected John. 
 
 '^ Besides, my sister lives with me, and 
 then I read." 
 
 " Ah ! you do read, eh ? " said he 
 eagerly, for he was naturally anxious to 
 see what her culture was in that direction. 
 " What do you read ? " 
 
 " Not very much," she laughed ; " usually 
 novels, and sometimes a little poetry." 
 Torrington sighed gratefully, for did he not 
 write such stuff himself ? " And Mr. 
 Armour often reads poetry to me. Por he 
 likes it very much." 
 
 ^' Can you play the piano ? " 
 
 She shook her head, but then broke out 
 eagerly : 
 
 "No, but I am trying to, and I think 
 I shall. Por, oh ! I love music.'' 
 
 Would not a lover thank heaven for that ?
 
 BEB PROMISED VISIT. 135 
 
 '*Then, Friscilla, you shall hear a lot 
 of it if you are good. I will take you 
 to the popular concerts if you would like 
 to go." 
 
 She looked up almost reproachfully. 
 
 '' '\A^uld I like to 2:0 ! But it is very 
 good of you." 
 
 "No," said Torrington, "I don't think it 
 is good of me. I am not good at all. Eut 
 I love to see any one enjoy anything which 
 is good, whether it is music or a dinner. 
 If I were rich I would make a point of 
 giving a dinnc r every day to some poor devil 
 who was hungry. On the same principle, 
 which is a selfish one, I should like to see 
 you listening to something you enjoyed. 
 That was one of my pleasures the other 
 night at the theatre. I told you it took 
 two to go to one, didn't I ? and to select a 
 companion for a concert or a play is a very 
 serious matter. As serious for the time 
 being as marriage, though, to be sure, many 
 people who are married don't seem to enjoy
 
 136 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 taking their partners with them when they 
 go to such entertainments." 
 
 He laughed a little and then was silent, 
 thinkino; how he should direct the conver- 
 sation. Por he was talking with entire self- 
 consciousness, and took a certain pleasure in 
 walkins: on the thin division line between 
 ordinary chatter and that lovemaking which 
 is not direct and acknowledged, hut consists 
 perhaps more in manner than matter, in 
 pauses than in speech. 
 
 '' Ah ! so you love poetry, do you, Pris- 
 cilla ? I am glad of that — very glad. Do 
 you know why ? " 
 
 '^ Noj Mr. Torrington," she answered 
 simply. 
 
 ^' Well," he saidj ^^ I am reputed by certain 
 kind folks to be caj^able of such myself. I 
 write verse every now and again." 
 
 "What," she said, '' do you mean you are 
 a poet ? " 
 
 "Hum, my dear girl, don't ask me to 
 commit myself to such a statement. A
 
 EEB PBOMISED VISIT. 137 
 
 verse-writer is not necessarily a poet, or the 
 breed wouldn't be so scarce. Yet some- 
 times I fancy I am. Now, for instance, as 
 I see you sitting here in my solitary room, 
 by my fire, just as if it were a home. Por 
 it takes two at least to make a home. A 
 joalace may be a mere den with a solitary 
 prince in it. You see, it is like a theatre again. 
 But that makes me feel as if I were one. 
 I should be glad to do such work always. 
 But tlien there's no money in it, Priscilla, 
 and money is unhappily very necessary these 
 times. If one didn't find a pleasure in work 
 by itself it would be hard. What are the 
 two great things in life, fair saint ? " 
 
 She glanced at him, and then looked into 
 the fire. 
 
 '' I su[)pose one is work," she hesitated. 
 
 ''And the other?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 ^' Nonsense, Priscilla, you must know 
 that. You are not so div^orced of earth 
 after all. Come, now, tell me."
 
 138 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 He now bent towards her and spoke 
 tenderly, almost musically. Without look- 
 ing up this time she answered : 
 
 '' I suppose you mean love, Mr. Torring- 
 ton." 
 
 ^^ Good child," he said softly, '' of course, of 
 course. My religion is a strange heterodoxy, 
 and I worship in the church of Love and 
 Labour. Do you know your voice is a very 
 sweet one, Priscilla ? You say you are 
 learning to play; are you learning to sing 
 as well ? " 
 
 She shook her head a trifle mournfully, 
 and looked at him now as she spoke. 
 
 "No, I can't afford the time, or the money, 
 or anything else. Besides, I didn't know 
 my voice was sweet." 
 
 '' Ah, but it is," he insisted, '' and you 
 should learn to be a Saint Cecilia as well 
 as a Saint Priscilla. Fancy yourself playing 
 at the organ great strains of harmony with 
 the thunder of it in some deep-aisled church, 
 while the sunlight pours down on you, gold 
 and red and purple, through stained glass.
 
 HEB PROMISED VISIT. 139 
 
 All ! if I could but x^Iay the organ ! It is 
 the instrument of the soul." 
 
 He stayed his speech for a moment, for 
 his thoughts ran away with him into the 
 silence which was the best expression. 
 Priscilla did not quite understand him, but 
 it was pleasant to hear the man talk, for she 
 knew no one who spoke in that way. She 
 felt it was a kind of flattery that he should 
 do so in her company. Por every now and 
 again it flashed upon her how little she 
 knew, and how hard it was to express what 
 she felt, save indeed in loving service, 
 the glance of the eye, and the pressure of 
 the hand. Perhaps their thoughts ran to- 
 gether in sympathy, for his next remark 
 suggested it. 
 
 " How hard it is to say what one means 
 and feels, Priscilla. Perhaps when one can 
 the hour is not at hand. But there, that 
 doesn't worry you quite as it does me. If you 
 had to write some loathsome article for a 
 newspaper when you felt like lying in the 
 sun, you would know what I mean."
 
 140 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 '' I think I feel that, Mr. Torrington," 
 said she eas^erlv. " Sometimes I want to 
 say things and can't. And as to writing a 
 letter, or at least a long one, it worries me 
 to death. All mine are short. I wish I 
 could write heaps and do it as easily as 
 
 you." 
 
 Torrington laughed, and patted her 
 shoulder very lightly. 
 
 " Be content, my dear girl, with your 
 own burdens, vdthout longing for others." 
 She suddenly turned grave. " Por I suj)- 
 pose you have some, like the rest of us — 
 eh ? " 
 
 *' I suppose so, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 " But never mind, Priscilla, if you have. 
 That makes you a mortal ; and anyhow, 
 mortal or not, you look good enough to 
 make me feel good myself. AVhy, if I sat 
 and looked at you for a few hours I believe 
 I should gratify some I know by becoming 
 orthodox." 
 
 Just then the nearest church clock struck 
 nine, and in order to prevent her hearing it.
 
 HEB PB02IISED VISIT. 141 
 
 and thus have an excuse for going, he 
 jumped up rather noisily. 
 
 " Well, on my soul I am a lively one, too. 
 You will think I am a preacher to be ser- 
 monising so. It is disgraceful of me when 
 I ought to entertain you." 
 
 " You do entertain me very much." 
 
 *' No mockery, young woman ; I won't 
 have it. What shall I do now ? If I 
 wanted to prevent you ever coming here 
 asrain I would volunteer to read vou a 
 chapter out of an unpublished novel ; but I 
 don't. Come now, vou shall have some tea." 
 
 She protested feebly and finally acquiesced, 
 sinking back into the chair from which she 
 had attempted to rise. 
 
 '' Tea is good any time and anywhere. 
 It is the only good thing the Chinese ever 
 did." 
 
 He w^ent on chattering volubly as he 
 boiled the water in a dilapidated kettle 
 which leaked, and got out the tea-things, 
 which were also in no very fine state of 
 repair. Tea, with some bread, butter, and
 
 142 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 marmalade, was soon on the table, wliicli 
 he cleared by the summary eviction of 
 books and papers which went on the floor 
 in a pile, and they sat down. Torrington 
 was in a very happy frame of mind. She 
 had meant to go away soon after a merely 
 perfunctory visit, and he had persuaded her 
 to stay. Surely this was in his favour. 
 His hopes rose high. He was almost in- 
 clined to forget that her taking tea and 
 talking with some man was naturally an 
 almost every-day occurrence in her life as 
 she followed her vocation, and was ready 
 to base hopes on it. Soon he was on tbe 
 very verge of speaking to her seriously, and 
 had to check himself. There was no need 
 to hurry, and time was in his favour. 
 
 When tea was over he restored the cups 
 and other things to his cupboard in their 
 unwashed state, remarking merrily that he 
 was a miserablf^ wretch to have to do so. 
 
 '' No, no," be said, when she ofTered to 
 wash Ihem then and there, '' I won't allow
 
 HEB PROMISED VISIT. 143 
 
 it. You are my guest, my angel, who has 
 folded her wings here for a while, my saint 
 who has been graciously pleased to occupy 
 this sordid niche for an hour, and I won't 
 allow you to do anything for rae except 
 look kind and SAveet. But here, let me do 
 something for you." 
 
 ''What's that?" she asked, wondering 
 what his next flio^ht of ima2:ination was 
 going to lead him to. 
 
 "What is it? Ah, well. I know it's 
 very daring of me, but I should like to plait 
 your hair, if you don't mind." 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Torrington, I don't think 
 there's any need of that. I can do it 
 myself in a moment." 
 
 "That's not the point/' insisted John; 
 " of course you can. The thing is, I want 
 to do it. I have just taken the fit. Besides, 
 can you plait in four ? " 
 
 "No, I can't do that. Can you?" she 
 asked. For if she was going to learn so 
 much of a mystery, there was no harm in
 
 144 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 allowing him a little pleasure, if it really 
 did please him. It evidently did, for he 
 immediately began to descant on the ad- 
 vantages of the four plait, and to boast of 
 the dexterity in such matters which he had 
 acquired on board ship some years ago, and 
 placing a chair for her, she sat down. 
 
 Her hair was A^ery long and abundant, 
 and delighted John above measure. For 
 one thing a woman's hair was one of the most 
 beautiful things in nature, and he almost 
 worshipped it. But these were the tresses 
 of the girl he meant to make his wife, and 
 whom he was now courting in this strange 
 manner. It made him feel almost faint to 
 touch it, and he handled it very reverently. 
 To do him justice, it was not in him to have 
 done otherwise, for though Torrington was 
 not a very good man according to any 
 creed or code of morality, he would have 
 deemed himself shamed for ever if he 
 had dared to take any kind of liberty 
 with a young girl who trusted him. As
 
 HEE PBOMISED VISIT. 145 
 
 well might one wring the neck of some fair 
 white dove which forgot for a moment its 
 terror of man and perched upon one's hand 
 or shoulder. He remembered the sonnet in 
 the Sonnets fr 0771 the Fortuguese, where the 
 woman sat and some one caught her by the 
 locks from behind. She asked who it might 
 be—" Was it not Death ? " " Nay, it is not 
 Death, but Love." This was the woman, 
 and he — he was Love, the strong and gentle 
 and the reverent. Eor he felt blessed with 
 her there, blessed and lifted for once out of 
 the darker realms of the lower passions, 
 divorced from the brutish part of his soul 
 and made spiritual with eyes which could 
 recognise purity when they saw it, and 
 hands which should touch its possessor 
 almost with fear and trembling. So he was 
 silent until he had finished the plait, though 
 he did dare to put it to his lips when it was 
 done. And then as she talked, and the 
 suggestions of Death and Love passed from 
 his mind, he became more his ordinary 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 self, and laughed with her again. Por 
 his moods changed like the patterns of a 
 kaleidoscope. 
 
 " Well, Priscilla, what am I to have for 
 teaching you this new mystery, which, by 
 the way, you will most surely forget, for 
 let me tell you, highly as I reverence women, 
 it is but few that can reach the plait in four, 
 and as to those w^ho can do one in five, there 
 are as many feminine Greek professors. 
 But what is to be my reward ? '' 
 
 She looked a little alarmed, for to tell the 
 truth he spoke with a tenderness which Avas 
 akin to passion. However her answer was 
 good. 
 
 I think beins: allowed to do it was 
 
 enough, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 "Nay," he answered, ''if it had been a 
 plait in three it would, but I want to be 
 rewarded for my teaching. Will you not give 
 me a kiss, Priscilla ? " 
 
 He went towards her, for she had managed 
 to put a yard or two of space in between
 
 HEE PROMISED VISIT. 147 
 
 them, and held out his hand. She laughed 
 a little, but not in a yielding way. 
 
 " I think not, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 " Then I must take it,*' he said gaily, but 
 suddenly altered his tone. " No, I won't, 
 Priscilla, it would be very unkind and rude 
 of me. When you go you must let me kiss 
 your hand. Come, sit down again, there 
 is no hurry now. You and I have no fierce 
 masters or mistresses to bully us as to 
 times and seasons of getting in." 
 
 '' I am not sure I don't have fierce 
 masters,"^ retorted Priscilla. " If you had 
 to sit for a living you would find that 
 out" 
 
 *'Ah," he remarked rather significantly, 
 " Saint Priscilla won't always be at that. 
 It is not fit for you, You ought to be in 
 a window. Then I would go to church, my 
 dear girl, and see you sometimes. But 
 there, I'm always talking nonsense ; you 
 look a great deal nicer here than you would 
 there. If you were here this would l)e my 
 l2
 
 148 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 church, and you should look on while I 
 wrote." 
 
 " I expect it would not he always looking 
 on," said the girl, " there would be the tea- 
 things. I always am at tea-things wherever 
 I go. The artists always say, ' There's a 
 dear, do make tea, you do it so nicely.' 
 i^nd of course I have to. Not that I mind 
 it, for a I hate a man to get tea. He does 
 it so clumsily and looks like a lish out of 
 water." 
 
 " So he is," replied Torrington. " You had 
 better make a point of coming round here 
 at five and making mine." 
 
 " I dare say," said Priscilla, and there was 
 silence again, which Torrington did not 
 break for some minutes, as he gazed into the 
 fire intently, almost oblivious of her being 
 there, although her presence lent his mood 
 its earnestness and gave it its direction. 
 Por he mused for a moment. 
 
 "How strange it is," he thought, ''that 
 this pure and innocent girl, should be here.
 
 HEB, PBOMISED VISIT. 149 
 
 and with me. But is it not stranger still 
 that I should be so pure and innocent my- 
 self now ? It is because she does not 
 yet love me. If she only knew all I know, 
 aye, half I know of myself, she would be 
 horror-stricken. I wonder whether most 
 men are as bad and as good as I am. Half 
 devil, half god, eagle and swine, clay and 
 gold. That's a kind of heraldic bearing. 
 And the motto, ' Between heaven and hell.' 
 I ought to be thankful (though I don't 
 know exactly to whom) that I have such a 
 chance of redemption as I have. If this 
 dear girl will marry me, I will turn over a 
 new leaf and be virtuous. After all, the 
 copy-books we sneer at are not so far wrong. 
 It has taken me nearly thirty years to find 
 that out. There is something in morality 
 after all. I have made a great discovery, 
 quite new to me, though I have read 
 Aristotle and Plato and the others. How 
 strange this simple-hearted girl, who is 
 nothing but pure and fair and affectionate.
 
 150 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 with a warm heart and a tender one, should 
 teach me more than I ever knew. Yet it's 
 not strange after all. Por all the hooks of 
 the wisdom of heaven and hell are within 
 a woman's heart." 
 
 "Why, how silent you are, Mr. Torring- 
 ton," said the subject of his thoughts. 
 
 "Aye,'' he said quietly. '^I was thinking 
 about different things. One day, perhaps, 
 I will tell you what they were. For, though 
 you may think it strange, you were in them." 
 
 ^^ Oh, was I?" she smiled innocently; 
 " then you ought to tell me. You shall 
 have a penny for your thoughts." 
 
 " Ah, Priscilla," said he a little solemnly, 
 " they are either worth nothing or all the 
 treasures of Solomon. But perhaps I will 
 make you a present of them some day. 
 Yes, some day, to Saint Priscilla, who was 
 good and kind to me, for she came to see 
 me when I was alone and solitary and un- 
 happy, and who will take a great deal of 
 the light away when she goes."
 
 HER PROMISED VISIT. 151 
 
 " I think," said she, rising, '' it is more 
 than time I went now, for hark, that must 
 be eleven striking." 
 
 " I believe it is, truly," said John. " I 
 wish I had the courage to be a liar and 
 tell you it was to the best of my knowledge 
 and belief no more than nine, but w^hat 
 with my talking and our fits of silence the 
 eveninsj has s^one like the wind. I will 
 come with you and see you home." 
 
 When they reached the street it was 
 solitary and deserted, although the night 
 was fairly fine overhead. Yet the wind 
 blew keenlv, and Torrinorton shivered as it 
 struck him. His first thought was for her, 
 however. 
 
 " I hope you are warmly dressed, dear,*' 
 he said, with kind solicitude. " What a 
 vile climate this is ! How should you like 
 to see Italy." 
 
 Her arm was within his, and he felt it 
 quiver a little. He knew the reason when 
 she spoke, for she did so in a curiously
 
 152 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 intense voice, full of a suppressed longing 
 which was almost emotion. 
 
 " I have dreamed of it, Mr. Torrington, 
 oh ! I have dreamed of it. And when the 
 different artists have shown me their sketches 
 done there, and talked about the country, 
 it has made me wild to go. Oh ! I would 
 do anything to go there, I really think." 
 
 "Ah!" said John to himself, '^I have 
 certainly struck a more responsive chord 
 than I have touched all the evening. That 
 may be useful. Well, Priscilla," he added 
 aloud, '^ who knows, you may go there. 
 I have been there myself, but, strangely 
 enough, not to Florence and Venice, the 
 places I most desire to see. Who knows ? 
 Why, perhaps we might meet there some 
 day. Then we should be in Italy together." 
 
 He thought that was very clever, but 
 Priscilla did not see the meaning he put 
 into the words, for she was picturing to 
 herself the visible aspect of the country, its 
 great churches and strange people. Besides,
 
 BEB PROMISED VISIT. 153 
 
 there was another thought in her mind, one 
 which was not sweet, which indeed had been 
 very much the reverse, though it seemed 
 now to gradually lose its bitterness, that 
 cast a certain dark shadow even across lier 
 vividly pictured scenes of Italy. Instinc- 
 tively she loosed her hand from Torrington's 
 arm. Yet he did not notice it as they stood 
 before her house, which was utterly dark 
 and silent. Only across the way the ham- 
 mers were yet at work with their unpleasing 
 suggestions. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Priscilla, good-bye, and 
 vou will come asrain ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know about that," she said 
 a little coquettishly. 
 
 '' Then if you don't I shall think you 
 have been very dull all the evening. Say 
 you will come, dear saint ; now don't be 
 cruel." 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then putting 
 out her hand said : 
 
 "Very w^ell, I will then. But not before
 
 154 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 next week. No, not before then. Good 
 night." 
 
 He watched the door close, and then 
 regretted he had not asked her to let him 
 kiss her, and not her hand, this time. But 
 perhaps it was as well. He waited till he 
 saw a light in her room, and then with an 
 inaudible blessing upon her sweet face he 
 went home to his solitude with a srrowinc? 
 joy and certainty in his heart.
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 PAUL AND MART. 
 
 The melanclioly which tinged the whole 
 being of Mary or Priscilla Morris was due 
 not only, perhaps, to some tendencies in- 
 herited from her mother, who had been as 
 beautiful as her daughter and of as rare a 
 type, but to the hard and cruel circum- 
 stances in which her lot had been cast for 
 some years before this part of her story 
 began. Her mother she barely remem- 
 bered ; her stepmother had been, if not 
 actively unkind, at least stern and cold, 
 even while the father lived, and when he 
 disappeared out of their lives, the want of 
 sympathy between two entirely opposite 
 natures became so manifest that Mary left 
 a home which no longer seemed like home
 
 156 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 to her, and sought a temporary refuge 
 with her aunt. Yet here was poverty of a 
 sordid kind, and it was impossible for her to 
 be a burden on those who were assuredly 
 only induced to receive her at all by the 
 desire not to appear selfish or unkind. Por 
 she soon saw that there was no real wish to 
 heartily befriend or to shelter her from the 
 world with which she appeared so danger- 
 ously and delicately unable to cope, and 
 that it was necessary for her to earn her 
 living, even though the struggle to do so 
 was rendered almost impossible by the very 
 urgency of her need. 
 
 For needlework she had some aptitude, 
 but fortunately she did not possess suffi- 
 cient strength to enter on a business the 
 confinement of which would have assuredly 
 ruined her constitution and probably have 
 killed her in the end. When she was fairly 
 worn out and heartbroken with her efforts 
 to obtain anything, however humble, which 
 might satisfy her small needs, she came
 
 PAUL AND 3IAEY. 157 
 
 across an acquaintance whom she bad not 
 met for some years. Amy Smith appeared 
 in flom'ishing circumstances. She was well 
 dressed and well gloved ; the slovenly boots 
 she once wore had disappeared ; she was 
 healthy looking, and showed no signs of 
 toil or weariness. Yet that she was without 
 any business her friend well knew. Mary 
 confided her trouble to this girl, who did 
 not readily impart her own aff'airs in return, 
 and it was only when she saw the distress in 
 which the other was that she revealed the 
 secret of her apparent success in life. She 
 was an artist's model. 
 
 There is among many people a prejudice 
 against such a calling, and, perhaps, seeing 
 the dangers which undoubtedly beset a girl 
 who takes it up, the prejudice is not with- 
 out a basis. Yet she that " will to Cupar 
 maun to Cupar," and the woman who loses 
 her character for modesty in a studio in 
 other circumstances might have equally 
 well spoilt her reputation in the street.
 
 158 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 There are, as any one who is acquainted 
 with the details of the artist's life is well 
 aware, many girls earning their living in 
 this way who are as pure and delicate- 
 minded as those living quietly beyond 
 danger in a secluded home. Mary, how- 
 ever, knew nothing either for or against 
 such a mode of obtaining a livelihood, and 
 made inquiries almost eagerly of Amy, who 
 havino^ once broken the ice of her diffidence 
 was voluble with information. 
 
 " You see, my dear," she said with the 
 superior smile of one who teaches ignorance, 
 '•' that it is a business easy enough to learn. 
 It is hard enough, to be sure, sitting or 
 standing just so, or just so, for hours a day. 
 And then at first one doesn't like to be 
 stared at by a lot of men or girls if one sits 
 to a school. But you. would soon get used 
 to it. You wouldn't like to sit for the 
 figure, I suppose ? But no, I don't suppose 
 you would." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Mary, to
 
 PAUL AND MABY, 159 
 
 whom this was unintelligible jargon. The 
 other gir] laughed. 
 
 '' I mean sit for a picture without auy 
 clothes." 
 
 " Of course not,*' cried the other in in- 
 dignation. '' You don't mean there are girls 
 who do ? " 
 
 '•' Don't I ? Yes, indeed, I do ; and after 
 all, why not ? It would be nothing when 
 you got used to it. Though, to be sure, I 
 never cared about it." 
 
 As a matter of fact Amy had never been 
 asked, or the superior pay might very well 
 have induced her to put aside her scruples. 
 But then her figure was evidently not good, 
 though her face was pretty. 
 
 '' And," went on Amy, '' I can usually 
 make a pound a week. Sometimes it is 
 less and sometimes more. But one can get 
 along on so much." 
 
 *' I should think so," sighed Mary, to 
 whom the sum named seemed in her poverty 
 immense riches.
 
 160 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " They pay me nearly always eighteen- 
 pence for an hour, and for the whole day it 
 is sometimes seven and sixpence. Then if 
 I sit for an artist he gives me lunch. And 
 I tell you it is often great fun. They are 
 very nice fellows, some of them." 
 
 Here she laughed a little coarsely, but 
 without Mary noticing it. Had she not 
 tried so hard, and in vain ? Why should 
 she not try this ? 
 
 " But how does one get such work, 
 Amy?" she inquired. 
 
 " By asking for it, and by keeping on 
 asking. You mast go romid to the studios 
 and ask if they want a model. You must 
 go to the schools and ask there. Then, if 
 any of the artists or masters take a fancy to 
 you, they will give it you. You must leave 
 your address, and perhaps they will write if 
 they remember you. Do you think you 
 would like it ? " 
 
 Mary looked up doubtfully. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, but I must do
 
 PAUL AND MABY. 161 
 
 something. Where do you live ? May I 
 come round and see you, and have another 
 talk ? " 
 
 " Of course you may," said Amy, '' any 
 time you like. I am often in after dark." 
 
 She gave Mary her address, and went off 
 to a sitting at Lamheth School. 
 
 This was the beginning of a new life to 
 the girl, for during the following week she 
 made her debut as a model. It was a most 
 bitter and trying ordeal to her. Many a 
 time during her first sitting she was 
 tempted to rise and implore the artist to 
 allow her to go away, for she felt so shame- 
 faced at being stared at so persistently. 
 Then the demands on her strength were so 
 considerable that she often felt overtaxed, 
 for though it seems easy to sit or stand in 
 the same position for a time, the most 
 natural posture becomes irritating and pain- 
 ful at the end of a few minutes. The body 
 in nature is never quite still ; though its 
 motions be almost impercej)tible, they are 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 yet motions, and as sucli are detected in a 
 moment by the trained eye of the artist, as 
 he says, " No, a little higher," or '' A little 
 to the left again," when the sitter has no 
 notion that the pose has been varied in the 
 slightest degree. Then some who employ 
 these girls are so exigent ; for, wrapped up 
 in the desire for work and their artistic 
 aims, they become forgetful of the humanity 
 of their models, and, treating them like plaster 
 casts, are unkind, not from brutality, but 
 from want of thought. Yet few indeed could 
 be unkind or thoughtless whom Mary Morris 
 sat for, since those whose right and pleasure 
 it is to see and value outward beauty are 
 seldom void of the instinct which makes 
 them recognise the correlated loveliness of 
 the soul. 
 
 Yet — and here is drawn the bitter dividing 
 line between such men and those of the 
 lower order of sightless humanity — it is 
 doubtful whether those who composed her 
 home ever saw, even in rare glimpses, her
 
 PAUL AND MARY. 163 
 
 mere outward loveliness. It was the story 
 of the ugly duckling over again ; this fair 
 vounsr swan moved on the turhid waters 
 of a shallow pond, whose natural destiny 
 should have heen deep calm lakes and the 
 streams which run under the shadow of 
 lofty trees; who should have beem minis- 
 tered to with offerings of sunlight by the 
 nature which she made more lovely, while 
 all things that shocked should have been 
 withdrawn from her and hidden for ever. 
 
 For her life at home, in such a home, 
 grew unendurable. So at last she left it 
 with her sister, and strove to make her way 
 by herself, although, when the step was 
 once taken, she missed even those miserable 
 walls and sordid rooms which had been in 
 some sort a shelter from the cold incle- 
 mency of the outer world. 
 
 For a time things went well with her, 
 
 and she was fairly content. Sittings were 
 
 not unplentif ul, and people were, as far as 
 
 lay in their power, very kind to her. She 
 
 M 2
 
 164 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 got to know Mr. West, and by-andby 
 Wynne and Raeburn, all of whom occa- 
 sionally employed her. During this time 
 she met Armour in Raehurn's studio, and 
 once or twice had tea with him by invita- 
 tion, although he rarely used models Tiim- 
 self. She learnt to like this grave, kind 
 man, who was as strong and steadfast as a 
 protecting rock in the troubled sea of life 
 which beat about her. Sometimes, though 
 she never consciously phrased it so, she felt 
 his studio was a kind of haven. Eor one 
 thing, he would not have asked her there if 
 he had not liked her, and it is so very 
 pleasant to be looked at kindly when one is 
 unhappy. And then hard days came again. 
 It was summer time. After the Academv 
 was opened, the artists were many of them 
 out of town in the pleasant sunlight which 
 was tempered by a wind from the sea, while 
 she w^as obliged to remain in the intolerable 
 London which grows worse and worse daily, 
 until in August it becomes a dusty, dreadful
 
 PAUL AND MARY. 165 
 
 Inferno. Otiier artists whom she relied on 
 were either idle or employing other girls ; 
 her stock, her little stock, of money dwindled 
 as her fears grew^ ; she rose early and went 
 to bed wearied, to drop asleep w^eeping with- 
 out ffbpe. Life presented itself to her in 
 its most pitiless apsect. The world was a 
 machine wdiich had caught her by the hair, 
 and would slowly or quickly crush the life 
 out of her. No one cared for her sufficiently 
 to lift a hand to help her, for every one w^as 
 so dreadfully, so earnestly busy in pleasure, 
 or in a like task of almost impossible sal- 
 vation. And she was so weak, so unable, 
 so lacking in cunning, in ability, in any- 
 thing which could, by giving confidence 
 and self-reliance, lift her to a higher plane. 
 Alas, too, she was proud, and that is a 
 heavy handicap to one who is poor. She 
 should have prayed for a frontlet, a very 
 crown of brass, to push her way among her 
 equals, for the w^eakest goes to the w^all 
 and is crushed, be it soon or be it late.
 
 166 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 Yet she could not die, and she was 
 compelled to return once more to her aunt's 
 house. Oh, the intolerable shame of it, 
 to have to go back beaten, not to kind folks 
 who would have tended her wounded soul 
 with sympathy and kissed her bruised heart 
 with tender lips, but to those who were 
 only too ready to actually pinch themselves 
 in their real poverty that they might have 
 the right of reproach and caustic comment. 
 
 During the summer months she moved 
 like a ghost about the house, doing all that 
 lay in her power, and often enough what 
 would have been beyond it, save for her 
 power of subdued passion. Upon her lips 
 she set a seal and spoke but seldom, never 
 answering any of the taunts which wounded 
 her tender spirit, though she despised those 
 who were so brutal as to make them. Often 
 enough she was so far moved that, but for 
 her sister, she would have shaken the very 
 dust of the dwelling from her feet, and gone 
 forth to meet whatever Pate mis^ht have
 
 PAUL AND MARY. 167 
 
 had in store for her, but for the younger 
 gh'l's sake she held her peace and did not 
 stir. Yet she waned visibly, and grew pale 
 and thin. The food she ate was poor and 
 innutritions, she did not get from ifc what 
 a coarser organisation might have, and 
 the air of a close quarter in Blackfriars 
 was very poison to her lungs. At times 
 she felt it could not last for long, and was 
 glad, in a curious cold way, at the very 
 thought of death, for then she would be alone, 
 and in a quiet which was here denied her. 
 Por she might not even weep at night, 
 seeing that her cousin, who bore her no 
 good- will, slept in the same room with her, 
 and would doubtless have been only too 
 glad to bear to her mother such convincing 
 evidence of the discontent with which she 
 was perpetually charged. It is a fearful 
 sign of the degradation into which the lower 
 classes have fallen that they can thus de- 
 nounce the only thing in the world which 
 may or shall have power to lift them from
 
 168 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 the mire into which they have been trodden. 
 Por to them Discontent should be divine, 
 and daily nourished with offerings as though 
 she were a goddess. It was indeed well for 
 Mary that she was not as they would have 
 had her. 
 
 She would not have lived even so without 
 the hope which a fervent spirit never wholly 
 loses, and suddenly a light bi'oke in upon 
 her. Wynne, w4io was now master in a 
 school of art, wrote offering a long series of 
 sittings, and a few days afterwards came an 
 independent letter from another artist who 
 had a school of his own. What she could 
 earn during the next few weeks would far 
 more than keep both the sisters, and Alice, 
 the younger, could seek employment for 
 herself. The very next day after the arrival 
 of the second letter she left Blackfriars for 
 good, determined in no case ever to return 
 there. Her aunt was perhaps not loth to 
 lose her, though little that was of the out- 
 side world concerned a woman Avho was
 
 PAUL AND MABY. 169 
 
 hysterical and full of vague superstitious 
 fancies. She herself had never been activelv 
 unkind to Mary, it was the bitter depen- 
 dence that seemed so cruel, and what was 
 said on her departure by those who believed 
 she would have to again return fell but 
 dully on Mary's ear, nor did she resent it. 
 "Who would care what a gaoler said of spite 
 when the barred gates unclosed and the 
 sunlight streamed once more on pallid brow 
 and cheek ? Let him rate never so loud, 
 the far song of the lark on high, the very 
 rustle of the wind in the grass, would be as 
 organ music to his vulgar pipe, and drown 
 him squeaking like a rat in a mountain 
 flood. 
 
 From that day on she never knew positive 
 and pinching hunger, or utter despair for 
 the mere means of life. Xow and again the 
 cupboard was almost empty and the purse 
 very low% but henceforward they never ran 
 out together, to leave her entirely stranded. 
 She became better known dav bv dav, her
 
 170 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 sweet face was in request in many parts of 
 artistic London, and she was often a welcome 
 guest in many an artist's studio for her 
 feminine ways of ready and handy service, 
 with which she was always willing. But 
 nowhere she received a kinder greeting than 
 in that little cluster of studios near Haver- 
 stock Hill where we first met her, and in 
 good sooth she was pleased to go there. 
 
 It was no wonder Eaeburn and the others 
 were glad of her presence. If anything was 
 needed in the way of curtains, Mary Morris 
 gave her advice and often her help. If a 
 piece of drapery for a background was 
 suddenly required, no messenger was so sure 
 to be riglit as she. Gradually it came to be 
 looked upon as a matter of course that she 
 should make tea whenever four o'clock 
 came if she were at hand, and though other 
 girls needed to be repressed, no one ever 
 found her forward or flippant in act or 
 speech. Their affection towards her was 
 alw^ays respectful, if a little light-heartedly
 
 PAUL AND MABY. 171 
 
 phrased in the outward evidences of their 
 almost boyish talk, and with them she grew 
 at times very cheerful. She was the gravest 
 with Armour. Perhaps because he was 
 himself so grave. 
 
 The intercourse between those two was that 
 of a brother and sister, for their affection 
 for each other was quite evident. She 
 made his tea and sometimes washed the tea- 
 things for hijn ; at odd times she dusted his 
 studio or mended anything which showed 
 mending was necessary. Armour, for his 
 part, was always ready to defend her, and 
 once or twice spoke very fiercely when her 
 name was mentioned with disrespect, or 
 even in a tone which implied it ; and the 
 offence was never repeated in his presence. 
 Nor could it have been by any but a fool, 
 or one who sousrht a readv means of instant 
 quarrel. He looked upon her as a dear 
 sister, so he would have said, and in that 
 capacity was accustomed at odd times to 
 give her advice. She should not sit for
 
 172 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 such an artist, he had a very bad character 
 indeed. She should do thus, or thus. And 
 certainly she usually took heed of what he 
 said, believing that he spoke for her good. 
 Yet sometimes she was a little petulant 
 with him on such points. What was it to 
 him after all ? 
 
 Por example, she was in his studio two 
 days after her visit to Torrington's place, 
 and they talked while Paul played in 
 snatches. 
 
 '' How short the days get," she mur- 
 mured, looking up at the darkening sky- 
 light dreamily. 
 
 "Ay," returned Paul. ''It's a way they 
 have at this season of the year. You may 
 light the lamp if you like." 
 
 '' No, I would rather not. I must go 
 when once I get out of this chair, and 
 music sounds best in this light." 
 
 He played on, hardly knowing what, but 
 it was pleasant to hear the sounds come so 
 lightly from beneath his big fingers, just
 
 PAUL AND MARY. 173 
 
 like a delicate line in an etching. The 
 girl's head sank back in the chair and the 
 light from the stove just tinged her up- 
 turned chin. But she was not asleep. 
 Rather wide awake she was and her brain 
 was busy. 
 
 " Mr. Torrington seems very fond of 
 music," she said at length, and Paul 
 nodded as he played a little louder. 
 
 " I don't think you like him, do you, 
 Mr. Armour ? " 
 
 "Like him," he answered. ''Oh — ah — 
 why not? " 
 
 " I knew you didn't," said Mary. 
 
 ''Hum," returned Paul quietly. "I 
 don't know that I have any reason to like 
 or dislike him. He's no business of mine 
 that I can see. He's fond of art and seems 
 to know something about it — for an out- 
 sider. And I should say he was intelligent. 
 But " 
 
 And he played on calmly. He was quite 
 right of course. Torrington was nothing
 
 174 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 to him, nothing more than the wind out- 
 side, which moaned a little and was heavy 
 with rain — no, not so much. Mary did not 
 reply for a moment, hnt the smile which 
 he did not see had at least a subtle, a very 
 subtle element of mockery in it. Rather 
 perhaps a certain subacidity. 
 
 ''Well/' she said at length, ''I like 
 him." 
 
 ''Yes," said Paul very calmly still and 
 without ceasing. " And why ? " 
 
 " Because he has something to say," she 
 replied, with a trace of irritation which 
 escaped him. 
 
 " I admit as much," retorted the other ; 
 " he has lots to say, a great deal. In fact, 
 too much, I should think. He's always 
 at it. Eind Torrington, and he's talking, 
 wherever it is. Talks in his sleep, I should 
 think. But " — and here Paul showed a 
 trifle of anger himself — "why so much of 
 Torrington?" 
 
 "Why not? I may just as well talk of
 
 PAUL AND MARY. 175 
 
 liim as of Mr. Eaeburn or Mr. Wynne, 
 mayn't I?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then 
 Paul played solitary notes with one finger, 
 as if tracing the argument out. 
 
 '' Yes, Mary, that's all very well. But 
 why is he in your mind so to-night ? " 
 
 Her heart beat a little faster than it had 
 done, and she paused. 
 
 " Because, Mr. Armour, the day before 
 yesterday I went to see him." 
 
 Paul's hands fell with a tremendous crash 
 on the keys, making a horrible discord. He 
 wheeled round and faced her in the semi- 
 darkness, as she exclaimed : 
 
 " "What a dreadful noise you are making, 
 Mr. Armour." 
 
 '« You did what, Mary ? " he cried. 
 
 " 1 went to see Mr. Torrington." 
 
 '' At his rooms ? " 
 
 ^'Yes." 
 
 '' You did ? "
 
 176 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 "Don't I tell you I did. Of course! 
 Where else ? " 
 
 " But, Mary, why ? " 
 
 " Why not, Mr. Armour ? " 
 
 Paul did not answer, but rose up. His 
 face was very black with anger. If it had 
 not been so dark Mary would have been 
 frightened to see it. 
 
 " Then you are a foolish girl, Mary 
 Morris ! " he cried, " and you ought to 
 have known better." 
 
 She fired up. 
 
 " I am not foolish, Mr. Armour, and, 
 moreover, I don't see any harm in it." 
 
 " Harm — no," said Paul, " of course you 
 don't, you innocent young fool. I tell you 
 he is a man you have no business to know. 
 He's a bad man, and even lets people see it." 
 
 Mary was pleased at the splash she had 
 made, and by no means meant to let it end 
 there. 
 
 '' It's all very well of you to say he's bad;
 
 PAUL AND MARY. 177 
 
 but I really believe I know more of him 
 than you do. And I don't think he's bad 
 at all." 
 
 " You don't think ! " said Paul angrily, 
 "you don't think! What do you know of 
 wickedness in this world ? And do you 
 suppose a man who talks like Torrington 
 couldn't persuade a child like you that he's 
 an angel fresh from heaven if he wanted 
 to ? You take my advice and don't go 
 near him again. He's not a man for you 
 to know." 
 
 Mary pouted, and by no means showed 
 signs of yielding, even though she saw 
 Armour so moved. 
 
 "That's all very well," she said; "but 
 I think you're wrong. He was very kind to 
 me, and spoke very gently, and said nothing 
 I didn't like. He was good to me when 
 you were away, and took me to the theatre." 
 Armour almost groaned to see how far this 
 dangerous intimacy had gone. " And I'm 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 sure he likes me very much too. I'm going- 
 there next Wednesday." 
 
 Paul had heen promenading up and down 
 the studio with his fists clenched, hut he 
 stopped at this. 
 
 ''You will go then after what I have 
 said ? " 
 
 "Why, I promised to, Mr. Armour," 
 the girl answ^ered, as if that naturally 
 settled the question. And, indeed, it did 
 to her. 
 
 '*Well, then," said Paul, coldly "I hope 
 you won't regret it. Take my advice and 
 mind what you do." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Armour," said Mary, 
 with a little dignity, as she rose ; "but I 
 am not a child, and can take care of 
 myself." 
 
 Paul did not answer. He could not com- 
 mand her. He had no right, and no wish 
 to have a right. But to see her running 
 into such danger, with such a man as this
 
 PAUL AXD MABY. 179 
 
 Torrington. He clenched his fists again, 
 and with difficulty restrained an oath. He 
 turned to Mary, who by this time stood 
 ready to go. 
 
 " Then you are going ? " he asked. 
 
 '' Yes, Mr. Armour ? " 
 
 " I mean to Torrinorton's ? " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Armour, next Wednesday." 
 
 '' Then good night, Mary, good night. I 
 shall see you before then." 
 
 With that she left him and went out into 
 the storm alone, for it was blowing hard 
 and raininsr. Armour shut the door after 
 watching her out of the lane, and started 
 walking up and down the studio. He 
 muttered to himself every now and again, 
 and at the end of half an hour spoke aloud. 
 
 "By heaven, if any harm comes to her, 
 I will smash him 1 " and he brought his fist 
 down on the closed piano with a crash that 
 jarred every string and made them moan a 
 volume of discords. Assuredly such a man 
 would keep his word if need were. 
 
 N 2
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 TOWAUDS TWO ENDS, 
 
 During the week following Priscilla's visit 
 to him Torrington spent part of every day 
 in the studios, the only places he might 
 reasonably expect to find her. Yet, natu- 
 rally enough, he was rather pleased than 
 otherwise that he only met her once, and in 
 Raeburn's place, for there was now, almost 
 without his knowing it, an element of 
 jealousy in his feelings concerning these 
 men, who had been her friends so long. 
 Their very reasonable familiarity annoyed 
 him, and once when Wynne jokingly asked 
 her for a kiss, he mentally damned his 
 friend's impudence, and would dearly have 
 liked to expostulate witli him on the sub- 
 ject, if it had not been for fear of making
 
 TOWARDS TWO EAWS. 181 
 
 himself ridiculous. Yet, upon the whole, 
 he was in notably good spirits, and even 
 made fun out of the last rejection of his 
 last great work, which in this instance 
 occurred without any torturing deliberation 
 on the part of the publisher. Wynne 
 chaffed him a little on the subject. 
 
 *' Why the deuce don't you write some- 
 thing that will sell?" said he ouce when 
 they were having tea together. 
 
 But, naturally enough, Torrington re- 
 torted : 
 
 ''Why, in the name of all that's ridiculous, 
 don't you paint something that folks will 
 buy ? " 
 
 " I do occasionally," replied Wynne. 
 
 '' And I do occasionally," said Torrington, 
 " else how should I live ? " 
 
 Wynne looked oddly at him. 
 
 ^' Yes, that puzzles a good many people, I 
 think. Come, now, I will give you a sub- 
 ject. Why don't you write something about 
 AVilliam ? "
 
 182 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 This was the man who attended on 
 them, who cleaned their studios and did 
 their errands, and who certainly -was a 
 character. 
 
 " If you were to write a paper on him you 
 ought to make money. I wonder what he 
 thinks of us ? We must seem a queer lot of 
 fellows to him." 
 
 " You mean you must, I presume," said 
 John, " for you are like all artists — of all 
 kinds — self-conscious." 
 
 " Perhaps I do, but look now, Torrington, 
 it would be interesting. He's a curious 
 individual, and has been a gardener and a 
 waiter and a porter besides. Apparently he 
 takes not a bit of notice of what goes on 
 here, and yet he must. In fact, I know he 
 does. I should like to know what he thinks 
 of us. Why don't you keep the stove 
 alight ? " 
 
 " There's no coke in the scuttle." 
 
 Wynne rose at this, and opened the door to 
 bellow "William, William!" in a voice
 
 TOWAEDS TWO ENDS. 183 
 
 which rang all over the neighbourhood. It 
 seemed at first as if William had gone round 
 the corner to Eaven Road ; but presently 
 the door opened, and in he came. Though 
 Torrington knew him well, he looked at him 
 again, thinking that he might perhaps be 
 worth something as " material " — yes, even 
 a ten-pound note. He was a man of medium 
 heightj aged something under thirty, and of 
 slender build. He wore an overcoat once 
 owned by Monk in the E/aven Eoad studios, 
 and a hat given him by Eaeburn. He 
 stooped a little, and had all the appearance 
 of a man with a s^reat deal on his mind. 
 
 " Coke, William," said Wynne, and 
 accordingly the battered old scuttle was 
 taken into the yard to be filled. When 
 he returned the dust which ran out of a 
 hole in the bottom made it appear as if a 
 train of gunpowder had been laid across the 
 dingy carpet and dingier boards. When 
 he had filled the stove up noisily he looked 
 at Wvnne.
 
 1S4 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 " I got the chop, sh%" said he, " and the 
 bread, sn% and the milk. I told Wilson 
 about the frame, and took them boots to be 
 mended. And that, sir, is the amount of 
 the postal order." 
 
 '' Yes, William," said Wynne in an 
 absent-minded way. 
 
 " Is there anything else, sir ? " 
 
 '' I think not, William." 
 
 And out the man u^ent. When the door 
 was closed Torrington burst into a 
 laugh. 
 
 " I think you're right, old man, he might 
 be made something of," said he. 
 
 ^' You'd think so if you knew what lie 
 said about you." answered the other. 
 
 " Eh, what's that ? What was it ? Does 
 he ever talk then ? " 
 
 '* He did about you, but tlien I suppose 
 he thinks you are an outsider and don't 
 count. I could never get him. to say a 
 word about Eaeburn, or Armour, or Gaskell. 
 But you might if you tried."
 
 TOWARDS TWO EXDS. 185 
 
 " But what was it he said about me ? " 
 persisted Torrington. 
 
 " Ah, I see," returned Wynne slyly. 
 "You're like all artisls and writers, beastly 
 self-conscious. Well, I'll tell you as far as 
 I can remember. For it was only this 
 morning when he was cleaning up that I 
 tried him. You see he told me yoii had 
 called when I was out, and tlien I led 
 him on." 
 
 Torrington listened eagerly to Wynne's 
 report of the conyersation, which \yas scarcely 
 so good as the original. It ran tlius : 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Torrington, sir. Well, yes ; 
 lie's a puzzle to me he is. He don't neyer 
 work, I should say. I' ye heard him talk as 
 if he wrote things. Oh, it's true, is it, sir. 
 But when, sir ? Eor he's walking about 
 Haverstock Hill, and up and down all the 
 time. I meets him in the street all hours, 
 and then he'll be here half the day some- 
 times, sir. Then, to say the truth, he liyes 
 in ayery poor place for a gentleman, and some-
 
 186 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 times he looks that seedy, as to his clothes, 
 one would think he had no more than he 
 stood upright in. But next day perhaps 
 I'll see him walking, quite a swell too, with 
 Miss Maxwell; her that lives in one of 
 the hig houses in the park, and she looks 
 just as pleased as if he was a lord. Then, 
 sir, he says he don't work no more than two 
 or three hours a day. That seems stran2:e to 
 me, sir, for you gentlemen works a deal more 
 than that even when you ain't working 
 hard. Then, sir, the next day perhaps I 
 meets him with Miss Morris. I have once 
 or tw^ice lately, or if he meets me he walks 
 alonsr with me, for he's a very nice free- 
 spoken gent, I must say that. But I can't 
 see how a gentleman as hasn't money of his 
 own can live hy Avorking two hours a day, 
 sir. I wish I could." 
 
 *' So you go walking with Miss Morris, 
 do you?" said Wynne, when he had finished 
 his recital. 
 
 '^Why shouldn't I, if I like?" asked
 
 TOWARDS TWO ENDS. 187 
 
 Torrington a little shortly. " She's a very 
 nice girl, and a good girl too." 
 
 '' I never said she wasn't, did I ? But 
 come, now, see if you can get an opinion of 
 me in return for this. JPor once you see 
 yourself as William sees you. Mind you 
 don't let it out, for I as good as vowed not 
 to say anything about it. If my superior 
 knowledge of the use of language hadn't 
 enabled me to equivocate, I shouhl have 
 been bound to hold my tongue." 
 
 Torrington' s proceedings during the next 
 few days with regard to William would be 
 almost ridiculous but for their interest as a 
 curious example of " copy " hunting. He 
 was ready enough to take a hint, though 
 sometimes slow to see an opportunity, so 
 now he be^ran to look unon the attendant 
 as perhaps worth ten pounds to him, and 
 took notes accordingly. William was hap- 
 pily unconscious of the scrutiny to which he 
 was subjected, and would have been scorn- 
 fully incredulous that Torrington looked to
 
 188 AV LOW RELIEF. 
 
 liim to make the ways of his courtship as 
 easy as a little ready money might do. He 
 saw no reason to alter his opinion that Mr. 
 TorringtoD was a '' nice, free-spoken gent," 
 and would have added that he was free with 
 his money, too, for John thought it as well 
 to give him a shilling or so. The " copy " 
 hunter had laughed often enough at one 
 thing in William, and that was his intense 
 anxiety to guess beforehand to which studio 
 Torrington was bound. Wlien he had first 
 gone to Maiden Lane to renew his acquaint- 
 ance with Raeburn, William had no trouble 
 about the matter, but with each succeeding 
 acquaintance that he made the man grew 
 more and more exercised in mind, and was 
 to all appearance dow^ncast if his announce- 
 ment that '' Mr. Eaeburn is in, sir," met 
 with the answer, '* Thank you, William, but 
 I want to see Mr. Wynne." Finally, he 
 gave it up as a bad job, and was only happy 
 when he was able to smile radiantly and 
 burst out with, "They're all in, sir." This
 
 TOWARDS TWO ENDS. 189 
 
 trick of his was peculiarly annoying to some 
 of the models, for he would sidle up to 
 them and say, "Oh, yes, miss, he's in; 
 and he's all alone, miss," in a confidential 
 way which could hardly he resented hut 
 which no one liked. 
 
 Beyond this new amusement, which served 
 to draw him from continual thought of 
 Priscilla, Torrington did nothing now save 
 the little journalism which practically sup- 
 ported him. That nothing, however, was 
 exclusive of some pages of MS. devoted to 
 a poem which he called '' With Priscilla," 
 and intended to read to her on the occasion 
 of her next coming. And, meanwhile, he 
 paid a visit to his mother and sister, who 
 lived in a verv small house situated na- 
 turally enough in a close and monotonous 
 quarter of Brixton suited to their very 
 limited means, which Torrington had never 
 heen ahle to add to. 
 
 When the elder Torrington died, which 
 he did abruptly and in a characteristically
 
 190 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 impulsive way, his affairs had been found 
 in utter confusion. He had been in the 
 habit of insuring his life for large sums, and 
 after the payment of the first premium he 
 was w^ont to dilate on the very adequate 
 provision made for his wife and semi-invalid 
 daughter, neither of whom he robustly cal- 
 culated would survive him. Some of these 
 policies he allowed to lapse, some of them 
 he borrowed on, to speculate wdth the pro- 
 ceeds w^hen anything new took his fancy to 
 the detriment of his business as an auctioneer, 
 and her.ce on his decease no one w^as sur- 
 prised to find that a hundred and ten pounds 
 a year invested in the funds and less by the 
 annually and wa^ongly deducted incom::!-tax, 
 wdiich there was no sufficient knowledge or 
 perseverance in the family to get refunded, 
 constituted the sole resources left them. 
 Mr. Torrington's income, however, had 
 seldom been less than six hundred a year, 
 and it was only very gradually that his 
 widow learnt to understand that three and
 
 TOWARDS TWO ENDS. 191 
 
 fourpence could not do the duty of a pound, 
 lioAvever skilfully it might be supported in 
 the unequal struggle by good housekeeping. 
 Matters went as they frequently do in such 
 cases, for the retrenchment made in the 
 beginning was wholly inadequate, and it 
 was only on the third shifting of quarters 
 that Mrs. Torrington finally yielded to tlie 
 inevitable, and took a house, for which the 
 remainder of their old furniture was not 
 only too large but absolutely impossible. 
 She parted with the dining-room table with 
 tears, but chiefly lamented the piano on 
 which she, a daughter of the people, had 
 never learned to play, and which Mabel 
 Torrington had neglected entirely since her 
 health had failed. 
 
 Eor a while after his father's death John 
 tried to live at home, but his conduct was 
 at times so scandalous (he had been known 
 to come home drunk once in three years), 
 that it was agreed he had better seek fresh 
 quarters. He did it without lamentation,
 
 ]92 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 though his livelihood was as precarious as 
 sunshine on an April day, for he felt a little 
 choked hy any atmosphere of bourgeois 
 respectability, and was never less at home 
 than when in the small family circle of 
 three. Naturally he agreed better with 
 everybody when he was away, and they 
 were heartily glad to see him on his weekly 
 or bi-weekly visits, whicli he sometimes 
 made more numerous when he was without 
 any immediate prospect of a meal (whicli, as 
 we have seen, was no infrequent thing with 
 him), for he usually talked enough for half 
 a dozen men, and made things lively for a 
 while at least. But now his mother found 
 him very serious. He got upon the topic 
 of living alone, which she rightly understood 
 as a complaint at not being able to marry 
 a girl of anything like his own degree of 
 culture. 
 
 " And I tell you what, mother," he said, 
 as he stared into the fire, '' I'm going to do 
 it no lonj^er.*'
 
 TOWARDS TWO ENDS. 193 
 
 He had said it before, and Mrs. Torrington 
 paid little heed to his talk, wliich, on such 
 occasions, usually degenerated into a mono- 
 tonous growl, ending in a demand for after- 
 noon tea. 
 
 " I mean it, mother," he insisted ; " in 
 fact I'm going to get married, that is, if 
 she'll have me." 
 
 ^' Has she got any money ? " he was asked 
 a little dryly. 
 
 " Not a cent," was his answer ; " and 
 what's more, I'm glad of it. She's as poor 
 as I am, and earns her own living." 
 
 These were rather convincing particulars 
 concerning a definite personality, and Mrs. 
 Torrington grew a little alarm^^d, knowing, 
 as she well did, her son's impulsive tem- 
 perament. 
 
 '' I hope you won't make a fool of your- 
 self,'' she began. 
 
 " Thanks, mother," said he, smiling. 
 
 " Nor," she added significantly, " of any 
 one else. But there, I don't see how 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 you can get married on what you 
 make." 
 
 Torrington shook his head irritably. 
 
 '' It's not being married that keeps me 
 from making money, that's my opinion. 
 What kind of a dog's life do I lead, think 
 you ? I think I shall risk it." 
 
 " She will have to risk it, too." 
 
 " If she's willing to, she can't be much 
 worse off than she is. That's certain." 
 
 ''What does she do for a living now^ ?" 
 asked his mother anxiously. 
 
 " Never mind that," said he, for he rather 
 dreaded her prejudices; ''it's quite honest, 
 don't fret, and she's as good a girl as ever 
 breathed. I'll bring you her photograph, 
 and then you'll see she's beautiful, too." 
 
 " But, John, is she a lady ? " 
 
 Torrington reflected as to his answer, and 
 then spoke deliberately : 
 
 " If you mean does she talk like one, dress 
 like one, act like one, look like one, yes. 
 If you mean has she the indefinable air of a
 
 TOWARDS TWO ENDS. 195 
 
 woman of society, no. She's very shy, and 
 younger than her years ; but if when you 
 see her you don't think she's the sweetest 
 girl you've ever known me to be taken with 
 why — I'll give her up. I'd stake my life, 
 you will. I want to bring her over to lunch." 
 
 '' Well," said Mrs. Torrington feebly, 
 " you'd better tell Mabel. I hope you mean 
 well by her." 
 
 Torrington blazed up. 
 
 " Don't I tell you I mean to marry her ? " 
 
 His mother held. up her hand. 
 
 " Well, dear, you'd better tell Mabel. It 
 would be nice for her to see her, perhaps. 
 If you mean it, the girl would feel happier 
 I dare say to know your sister." 
 
 Torrington nodded and was pleased to see 
 her come round, and even show so much 
 solicitude for the girl. Perhaps her attitude 
 rather justified Paul Armour's fears. He 
 would have thousjht so. 
 
 '' Very well, then," said John clieerfully, 
 *' that's settled. Is Mabel in her room ? " 
 o2
 
 196 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 He went up and saw her there, and 
 Mabel, who was his junior by two years, 
 but of course a great deal wiser in such 
 matters, promised in a judicial way which 
 rather chilled him to receive her kindly, or 
 if need be come over to his place and meet 
 Priscilla there. 
 
 *' I tell you, Mabel," he insisted again ere 
 he left, " she's the sweetest girl you ever 
 saw, and if you don't both like her, I'll 
 give up daring to think I know anything 
 about your sex and just judge women by 
 weight. Then, dear, you will come out low 
 down, for you are as slender as a lily." 
 
 With which he departed.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 
 
 West was as good or as bad as his word 
 with regard to the bas-relief which he was 
 making of Priscilla, for a day or two after 
 Torrington saw it he remorselessly destroyed 
 his own work by cutting the marble back 
 and starting afresh. Although it was Pris- 
 cilia's living to sit, she was somewhat sorry 
 to see this done, not only because it was evi- 
 dently beautiful — a thing she had the taste 
 to recosrnise — but because she would not 
 have been wholly loth to cease her paid visits 
 to West, who sometimes, though without 
 meaning it, made her miserable by the fits 
 of rage he indulged in at his own supposed 
 inability. Moreover, in his merrier moments?
 
 198 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 when hand and chisel obeyed his mind, and 
 the work grew subtly like the vision he saw, 
 he was wont to chaff her a little unmerci- 
 fully about her fondness for Maiden Lane. 
 
 " Who is it ? Now tell me," he said, the 
 second day of her renewed sittings. " I 
 used to believe it was Raeburn ; but I 
 think I was out that time. Whose tea do 
 you take the greatest pleasure in making? 
 If you'll tell me I won't let it out." 
 
 The girl blushed a little, and shook her 
 head. 
 
 '' I'm fond of all of you, Mr. West," she 
 said ; '^ even of you when you're not unkind 
 and doQ't get angry." 
 
 West poised the four-pound hammer as 
 though he would throw it at her. 
 
 " You are a cunning young woman, and 
 would like to confuse the issue. Come now, 
 is it Wynne ? He's very handsome, and all 
 the girls down at the school quarrel about 
 him. Now, is it Wynne ? " 
 
 " I like him very much," she replied.
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 199 
 
 '' Well," said West, hammering softly, and 
 then blowing the dust away which lodged 
 on the top of the ear, '' I believe it is 
 Armour, after all. There, I said so ! " 
 
 Eor she blushed slightly once more. 
 
 " It's no such thing, Mr. West ! " she 
 cried, a little angrily, " and you ought to 
 know better." 
 
 '' Then," persisted the amused sculptor, 
 ''it's Torrington. I saw you walking in 
 Camden Town with him twice. You didn't 
 see me, for I was on a 'bus. Ah ! I know 
 I am right now." • 
 
 She smiled quietly. 
 
 " Very well, Mr. West," she said, " if you 
 are right and know it, there's no use bother- 
 ing me. Perhaps it is Mr. Torrington." 
 
 And then West, who had a different 
 opinion, went on with his work so earnestly 
 that he soon swore, and threw down his 
 hammer in uncontrolled vexation. But the 
 srirl said to herself that she wished he would 
 leave the subject alone. Why should she
 
 200 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 be supposed to come there for any special 
 end when she treated every one alike. It 
 was rather rude of Mr. West. That was 
 her opinion, and she would have liked to 
 tell him so. 
 
 Seeing that Torrington now spent most 
 afternoons loafinEr in one or the other of 
 the five studios, she was not surprised to 
 meet him on leaving West's. He came across 
 the road, and, turning, walked back with her 
 to the Hill. The conversation ran on quite 
 indifferent things, and went easily, for, while 
 she, strangely enough, was only vaguely 
 conscious of the attention he was paying 
 her, he had sufficient self-control to be fairly 
 light in manner when there was no oppor- 
 tunity of making any serious advance. Yet 
 just before parting he changed his tone. 
 
 " Don't fors^et Wednesdav evenins^ at 
 seven," he said, without laying any evident 
 stress on it, but still more seriously. 
 
 " Oh, I'm not sure, Mr. Torrington," she 
 began.
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 201 
 
 " Oh, yes, you are," cried be. " Of course 
 you are sure. By the way, I have been 
 writing some verse for you. We will call 
 it poetry if you like. I shouldn't be sur- 
 prised if it is. And it's all about you 
 and me." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Torrington ? Do you mean 
 it?" 
 
 '' Of course I do. You will come, then ? " 
 
 She shook her head and looked serious, 
 and hesitated ere she spoke. 
 
 " I'm not sure " 
 
 " Why are you not sure," burst out Tor- 
 rington. '' Why, what's the mn.ttcr ? Has 
 anybody been spinning you yarns about 
 me?" 
 
 Eor his uneasy self -consciousness that 
 such ** yarns " might be spun truthfully 
 alarmed him. Priscilla fairly started at his 
 coming so near the truth, but she covered 
 up her confusion by answering instantly 
 and a little falsely too. 
 
 '•' Oh, no, Mr. Torrington, it's not that
 
 202 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 at all. Who should say things about 
 vou ? " 
 
 '' A good many might," thought John 
 ruefully, regretting now liis open talk of 
 only a little while ago. " Then why won't 
 you come ? I believe I know." 
 
 She certainly started then most unmis- 
 takably, and he saw it. 
 
 "Tell me, Mr. Torrington," she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 *' No," he answered ; "if I did, you would 
 not say whether it was true or not." 
 
 " Oh yes I would," she insisted ; "please 
 tell me." 
 
 Torrington reflected a minute. It was 
 rather difficult to say what he had in his 
 mind. He looked at her doubtfully, and 
 saw a little vague uneasiness in her eyes. 
 
 '- If I told you, Priscilla, you might think 
 it very conceited of me," he said a trifle 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " Oh, no," said she, now relieved from 
 the fear that he had somehow penetrated
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 203 
 
 her mind and discovered her talk with 
 Armour. *' I won't, I assure you." 
 
 " Then," said Torrington slowly, " is it 
 not because you think that if you come to 
 see me too often you might end by — by — 
 getting a little too fond of me?" 
 
 She looked up at him and dropped her 
 eyes again. 
 
 "No, that's not it, Mr Torrington; but 
 I'll come on Wednesday. Good-bye." 
 
 And with that she left him to ponder 
 whether this conversation augured ill for 
 him or well. In spite of all his belief in 
 his power to judge speech and character, 
 he ended by coming to the conclusion that 
 time only could tell. A conclusion which 
 most male prophets would do well to adopt 
 in like cases. 
 
 Whether or not Torrington was to be 
 fortunate in his love affair remained to be 
 seen, but certainly his luck with William, 
 the studio attendant, was remarkable and 
 in the end advantageous ; for some months
 
 204 IN LOW BELIEF, 
 
 afterwards he sold a paper containing a 
 sketch of the unsuspecting individual whom 
 he had pumped. Wynne sent William to 
 his place with a note about a drawing 
 Torrington had asked him to do, endmg up 
 with the remark, " Why don't you try to 
 get something out of the bearer ? " 
 
 ^Fortunately William appeared to be in a 
 communicative mood, and was not loth to 
 take a little whiskey wliich John offered 
 him. It acted upon him like magic ; he 
 sat more securely on his chair, and placed 
 his hat upon the floor. Torrington began 
 to write his answer, to all appearance, but 
 as a matter of fact he was taking notes, 
 although the first communication William 
 made nearly made him forget his plan. 
 
 " I saw Miss Morris to-day, sir," said 
 he. 
 
 Torrington looked at him sternly, but the 
 remark was apparently made wdthout any 
 afterthought. 
 
 '•' Yes, I dare say," said his host, in
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 205 
 
 an absent minded way. " Pine weather, 
 William, is it not ? " he added tenta- 
 tively. 
 
 *' Yes, sir ; for the time of year, sir." 
 
 '' But there, William, I suppose it is 
 pretty much the same with you rain or 
 shine. They keep you pretty busy, 
 eh?" 
 
 William took a drink and looked at him 
 solemnly. 
 
 " Eusv ain't the word, sir. There ous^hter 
 be another. I'm on the go from morning to 
 night, what with Mr. Haeburn, and Mr. 
 Armour, and Mr. Gaskell, and Mr Wynne, 
 to say nothing of Mr. Monk and Mr. Ward 
 and the others at the Haven Road place 
 round the corner. Why, sir, I do assure 
 you it's plenty, more especially when they 
 all comes out at once and bellows ' William ! ' 
 ' William ! ' till I don't know whether I'm on 
 my head or my heels." 
 
 '* Yes, I know," said Torrington. " I've 
 heard them at it. But this letter will be
 
 206 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 a long one, William. Have some more 
 whiskey." 
 
 He shook his head, but yielded, after a 
 slight struggle. 
 
 "Well, sir, I don't mind, as Mr, Wynne 
 said I was to wait for an answer." 
 
 ''Ah," said Torrington carelessly, as he 
 wrote on, '' is Mr. Wynne a trying gentle- 
 man ? " 
 
 " Is he, sir ? " replied William confiden- 
 tially. "Well, sir, as long as it don't go 
 any further, and I knows it won't with you, 
 Mr. Torrington, I don't mind saying that 
 he is. And, sir, he's a j^uzzle to me, is Mr. 
 Wynne." 
 
 He nodded sagaciously. 
 
 "How's that, William?'^ 
 
 " Well, sir, I'll tell you. Do you know, 
 I've worked for him for three years, and I 
 ain't certain whether he's rich or whether 
 he's poor. Sometimes I thinks one thing 
 and then another. He never lets on to me 
 if he's hard up, as Mr. Ward will. Wiiy,
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 207 
 
 he, sir, one day says to me, ' William, get 
 me half an ounce of shag ' (not a tobacco a 
 gentleman smokes, sir, either), and when I 
 brings it, he says, kind of careless like, ' I'll 
 pay you to-morrow ; I haven't any change.' 
 Of course he hadn't, sir. And he didn't 
 pay me for nigh on to a fortnight." 
 
 *' Yes, but Mr. Wynne?" insisted Torring- 
 ton, who took more interest in his particular 
 friend, knowing, moreover, how gratified 
 that friend was likely to be by an unbiassed 
 opinion. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Wynne ! As I says, 
 he never lets on if he's hard up. Xow 
 sometimes he togs up and goes out to 
 dinner, and sometimes he tells me to get 
 him a chop. Now, sir, at first I thought 
 that he went out when he was rich to have 
 his grub up town, and when he was hard 
 up he stayed in and cooked his chop hisself. 
 But now, sir, I ain't so sure of all that. I 
 think perhaps he's that artful that when 
 he can't afford a chop he dresses up and
 
 208 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 goes out to take a walk, and that when he's 
 got money he has a chop in the studio. 
 But there, after all I can't say, for I have 
 seen cuttings from newspapers which spoke 
 of him as if he was a swell. But then I 
 know his clothes ain't that fine, though he 
 may have five pairs of hoots. But, then, 
 would he live that way if he was rich ? I 
 says to myself, ' No ; ' hut then I turns 
 and says, ' Yes.' But, sir, do you know, 
 sometimes I thinks he ain't quite in his 
 right mind ? " 
 
 Torrington, who \\ith difficulty restrained 
 his laughter at the ahsurdity of William's 
 comments on an artist's life, turned to look 
 at liim. He was bending forward and 
 nodding violently. 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? " asked 
 Torrington. 
 
 " I'll tell you, sir. Sometimes I goes 
 in to his olace and goes behind to clean 
 up You'd be surprised at the muck there 
 is there sometimes. And while I'm cleaning
 
 HEROES AND VALETS. 209 
 
 up I reckons up to myself how much he 
 owes me. I says, ' there's threepence for 
 the celery, three ; sevenpence for the 
 cheese, ten ; threepence for the brown 
 paper, one and a penny ; threepence 
 farthing for the bread, one and fourpence 
 farthing.' And then I says, ' That'll be 
 one and fourpence farthing, sir,' so that 
 he may know, and then he bursts into a 
 laugh as one might hear at the other 
 studios. And why, sir, no one can tell." 
 
 Torrington could not help smiling at this, 
 for he too knew William's habits, and had 
 often chuckled to hear a mysterious voice 
 issue from a kind of dark oracular cave at 
 the end of a studio, with the disconnected 
 remark of, '' That will be elevenpence 
 three-farthings, sir," or some such sum. But 
 now his smile was fatal. William saw it 
 and drew in his horns, probably regretting 
 that he had been so communicative, and 
 Torrington, who saw there was no more to 
 be extracted from him, really wrote his 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 answer and put it in an envelope. He 
 gave William threepence, which he could ill 
 afford. 
 
 The tipped-one in regaining the street 
 drew the three coppers from his pocket 
 and looked at them again. 
 
 " Well," said he, " it ain't much, but I 
 know he's poor at any rate. But Lord, 
 how does he live at all ? That's what I 
 should like to know." 
 
 He did not know that Torrington had 
 often asked himself the very same question 
 and had left it unanswered. There are 
 many such in the art world.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 
 
 An outsider, and especially a rich outsider 
 of bourgeois tastes and tendencies, would 
 probably baye been amused to see Torring- 
 ton trying, and trying in vain, to make his 
 solitary room look as clean as it was ap- 
 parently cosy on tiie morning preceding 
 Priscilla's promised Wednesday visit. The 
 amount of dust he discovered behind the 
 books on the mantelpiece was so appalling 
 that he almost regretted his inability to 
 allow any meddling with his peculiar pro- 
 perty, and his almost old-maidish ways. 
 Eor everyone who lives alone, and attends 
 mostly on himself, develops as many tricks 
 as any old lady who has no one to keep her 
 p2
 
 212 IN LOW RRLIEF. 
 
 company but a tabby cat and a volume of 
 sermons ; and Torrington was no exception 
 to the rule. He would have perished on the 
 spot sooner than allow any living mortal to 
 touch a book or even dust a picture ; while 
 any general cleaning for which he himself 
 did not make most elaborate preparations, 
 by locking up in a cupboard all his papers 
 and manuscripts, would have reduced him 
 to a state of lunacy. So now he had to 
 handle the broom and duster himself, 
 though he would have let things rest com- 
 fortably for another month had it not been 
 for fear of Priscilla's eye and feminine 
 disgust at what she would most likely, 
 though of course absurdly, have called 
 dirt. 
 
 After much coughing and choking, he put 
 things in some kind of decency and order, 
 although it took three separate dustings 
 before the air grew clear enough to observe 
 distinctly the distances of the room. Ex- 
 hausted with toil, he threw himself in a
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 213 
 
 chair, lighted a very black clay pipe, which 
 he kept for home use, and contemplated his 
 work with a sense of domestic satisfaction 
 and ability no respectable householder can 
 ever hope to experience. No, not even 
 after moving into a new house and in- 
 conveniencing everybody by insisting on 
 tacking the carpets down himself. 
 
 ''Well," said John, as he smoked, looking 
 at his grimy hands, " I really suppose I'm 
 what folks call a Bohemian. Which is a 
 neat way of saying 1 have to be my own 
 servant without board or wages or — 
 character. Hum ! I'm tired of it. It would 
 be better to be a bourgeois after all. There's 
 nothing to compensate for all this but the 
 fact that I can get up when I like. But 
 perhaps Miss Priscilla will alter that. 
 Heigho ! " 
 
 He rose up languidly, and went out to 
 discover that he had indeed risen so late 
 that it was even then getting on towards 
 four o'clock. That he had not known this
 
 214 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 sooner was due to the neighbouring church 
 clock having stopped, for, as Torrington 
 once grimly remarked to Gaskell, the real 
 hall-mark of a true Bohemian consists in 
 having an expensive watch occupying 
 apartments at a pawnbroker's at an annual 
 rent— the interest of the loan; and that 
 any man who kept possession of one for 
 more than a month was ipso facto no 
 longer a member of the impecunious 
 brotherhood. 
 
 When the second nearest clock struck 
 seven, Torrington was climbing his door- 
 step laden with a pot of marmalade, half a 
 pound of "best fresh" butter, and a loaf pro- 
 cured at the neighbouring grocer's with two 
 shillings he had borrowed from Gaskell. 
 The change went for an ounce of tobacco 
 and some cigarette papers. He placed his 
 purchases in the cupboard on the right- 
 hand side of the fireplace, and then put the 
 kettle on the fire. Por now every moment 
 was precious. Priscilla had promised to
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 215 
 
 come at seven, and might thus be expected 
 about half-past ; so he had no time to lose 
 in making everything bright. Certainly, in 
 spite of his undoubted poverty, the room 
 did look pleasant when the red blinds were 
 down, half hidden by chocolate-banded 
 brown curtains, and the fire contended for 
 the mastery with the green-shaded lamp, 
 which stood on the table in a much clearer 
 space than usual. The room looked small 
 it is true, while the table was gigantically 
 obvious, Imt it was so warm in reality and 
 colour that many a richer Bohemian might 
 have envied him its apparent comfort. And 
 John was very bright and happy too— for 
 him at any rate — since nothing seemed co 
 stand in his way to that greater happiness 
 which just showed afar from the ideal land 
 of hope beyond the rainbow. '' Yes, the 
 rainbow of tears — of happy tears ! " he said, 
 and whistled incontinently, ^' In questa 
 tomba oscura," in a quick time which 
 destroyed the melody's deep melancholv.
 
 216 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 And then, actually at half-past seven and 
 no later, he heard Priscilla's knock. 
 
 He stood at the top of the stairs with the 
 lamp in his left hand, leaving the right 
 ready to press hers. His face lighted up 
 and his eyes gleamed when he saw her. 
 
 *• Ah, then, dear girl, you have come," he 
 said. " Do you know, though I trusted 
 your word, I was afraid something might 
 happen to stop my weekly delight." 
 
 Priscilla smiled, and entered the room 
 almost laughing. The half emotion Tor- 
 rington showed was pleasing to her, and yet 
 it was so strange. He talked to her as no 
 other man had ever done. 
 
 " I am not so sure I ought to have come, 
 Mr. Torrington," she said a trifle nervously ; 
 " I only did it to " 
 
 ''Oh yes, I understand — yes," broke in 
 her host, who knew she was thinking of his 
 last talk with her, '' but that was only my 
 nonsense. Or," he added hastily, ''if not 
 exactly nonsense, it was because I begin to
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 217 
 
 think I shall be getting too fond of you 
 myself." 
 
 Priscilla did not sit down, nor attempt 
 to take off her long cloak, which reached 
 almost to the ground. When she did 
 remove it, at his request, he laughed 
 lisrhtlv. 
 
 " Thank you," he said. 
 
 " For what, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 " For coming in your terra-cotta robe, 
 sweet saint. You should always wear it, 
 or one like it." 
 
 '' One like it, then, for this is nearly worn 
 out. I always am wearino^ it. You see 
 Mr. Raeburn likes me in it and so does Mr. 
 Armour." 
 
 " Oh, confound Mr. Armour," muttered 
 Torrington, who would have like to see 
 Armour deputed to sketch in Morocco for 
 a season. 
 
 " What's that you say. Mr. Torrington ? " 
 said Priscilla, turning round as she put her 
 hat and cloak down.
 
 218 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 " Xothing, my dear girl, nothing. I was 
 only thinking. Sometimes I think aloud. 
 It comes from living so much alone. Why, 
 I walk up and down the room for an hour 
 at times, and finally make myself jump by 
 saying something in a loud voice, which 
 echoes all over the place. It is as startling 
 as dreaming a funny dream and waking 
 one's self laughing. That is almost ghastly. 
 Just fancy sitting up in bed suddenly in 
 the black darkness, laughing at a brilliant 
 joke in a bright dream of day." 
 
 " It must be horrid," assented the girl, 
 who was a deal more in the habit of 
 waking up to find her pillow wet with 
 tears. 
 
 '' I should think so," said Torrington. 
 *' Do you know it would be like suddenly 
 waking and finding this was a dream, and 
 that you were not here ? " 
 
 Priscilla looked up smiling, and Torring- 
 ton started. 
 
 " jN'ay, I don't mean you are a joke.
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 219 
 
 Priscilla. You are not. You are a very 
 serious little girl. And I always look on 
 you very seriously." 
 
 '' You said you wrote some poetry about 
 me, Mr. Torrington. Are you going to 
 read it to me ? " 
 
 John looked at her and twisted his head 
 slowly on one side in a half-negative way. 
 Yes, he had written some verse about her, 
 and some serious verse tgo. But then to 
 read it might precipitate matters. He 
 determined not to do it. But alas ! for the 
 resolution of a vain poet. Was there ever 
 a verse writer yet who could resist a sincere 
 invitation to show his latest production ? 
 Surely not ; and Priscilla had enough 
 curiosity to be earnest in her request, 
 which she repeated. 
 
 '' Bless the girl ! " said Torrington in 
 amusement. " Then she shall have her 
 verse. Not now, though. There is plenty of 
 time for me to bore you with that. It 
 is not eight yet. Come, talk to me. Pipe
 
 220 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 to me, Priscilla, and I will dance. The 
 blue devils have been moaning unto me 
 and I have lamented. Cheer up your poet. 
 Chatter and tell me things. Tell me about 
 the artists, and if you do I will write a 
 paper and call it — hum, what shall I call 
 it — ' A Saint's Eevenge,' I think, for you 
 can be spiteful to those you don't like." 
 " I like them all, Mr. Torrington." 
 " What, all of them ? Do you like me 
 too ? " 
 
 '' You're not an artist," she said slyly. 
 '' Oh, yes, I am Pris, and you're sitting 
 to me now. That is the advantage of being 
 ' me.' I ^id\ my models for nothing ; for 
 nothing but a few nice words — and perhaps 
 a little marmalade. See, I got some to-day ! 
 I could write down how you look, and I 
 shall be able to do it a year hence. Do 
 you think I shall forget your brown dress ? 
 Nay, I shall remember every fold in it. Or 
 your hair which I plaited ? or your sweet 
 face? No, Priscilla, you have been sitting,
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 221 
 
 and I have you safe. Come, now, tell me 
 whether you like me as well as the 
 artists ? " 
 
 Priscilla twisted a little in the low canvas 
 chair. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mr. Torrington, of course I 
 like you. Why shouldn't I, when you are 
 nice and kind to me ? " 
 
 "Ah," said John, "I wonder whether 
 you like me half as well as I do you. Once 
 you said you thought I was very fickle." 
 
 She had done so in E^aeburn's studio, 
 a pi^opos of a little mock heroic love he had 
 made to her one day. 
 
 '• I think you are now, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 He looked hurt, and his voice changed 
 instantly. Though it was not always me- 
 lodious and often harsh, yet it was so 
 suddenly sympathetic that these quick 
 changes were a feature in the man, and 
 already Priscilla grew to interpret his moods. 
 
 " I am sorry you think so," he began, 
 when she interrupted.
 
 222 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 " I am sorry I said so, Mr. Torrington. 
 I don't know that I meant it. I know so 
 little of you." 
 
 " Ah, there it is," said he tenderly ; " there 
 it is. You do know so little of me. But 
 perhaps you will know more some day, and 
 then I think you will like me. Perhaps 
 even more." 
 
 He stared into the fire as he spoke, and 
 the girl did not look up, for her own soul 
 was so ready to fly to her eyes, and speak 
 what she would fain keep hidden, that at 
 times she feared to let him look at her. 
 Eor his eyes always appeared so keen that 
 she gave him credit for reading some of her 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Well, Priscilla, you must get to know 
 me hetter," he went on ; " and I mean 
 you shall; to that end I , will read you 
 the verses I made to you the other night. 
 They're not so good as they might he, nor 
 so good as they might be made ; but if you 
 haven't the soul to see they are sincere.
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 223 
 
 why, you are not the Saint Priscilla I 
 thought you." 
 
 He turned with that to a pile of MSS. 
 on the edge of the table, and hunted for 
 the poem, while Priscilla sat in a state which 
 was a curious mixture of pleasure and pain. 
 It was pleasant to have verse written to 
 her, and yet what would it be about ? It 
 certainly seemed as if Torrington was get- 
 ting very fond of her. She was woman 
 enough to be pleased with that, and child 
 sufficient to think of it only as a garland 
 of roses given to her. It certainly did not 
 touch her heart deeply, though she was not 
 of the type of woman who will see a man 
 twist off the only flower his soul will 
 ever grow, and, longing lightly for its pos- 
 session, cast it from her carelessly before 
 the night drops its dew of sleep upon her 
 arid bosom, which love has honoured, and 
 in which he has been betrayed and scorned. 
 No. Priscilla was simple and kindly, 
 and if ever she were cruel it would
 
 224 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 not be her fault, but the inherent vice 
 there is in all things beautiful that they 
 are too few for the hands and eyes that 
 desire them. 
 
 "Well," said Torrington at last, ''here 
 is the great work. Let me tell you what 
 it is first. It needs a kind of short preface, 
 for it deals with your last visit here. Do 
 you remember what we talked about, 
 Priscilla?" 
 
 " Some things, I dare say, Mr. Torring- 
 ton." 
 
 " Well, it doesn't matter if you have 
 forgotten. It is all the better, perhaps, 
 because you won't be able to say I am 
 wrong, although you can tell me when 
 you think I am. I have called it ''With 
 Priscilla," and under that title it shall one 
 day be published to the universe, which, 
 up to the present time, has been blind to 
 the author's surpassing merits. Though 
 in the meantime, Priscilla, if my present 
 audience likes it, I don't care a single
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 225 
 
 solitary hang for the whole universe, from 
 Sirius down to a sack of sawdust. That's 
 a fact." 
 
 And he began to read — ^just glancing at 
 her ere he did so — witli a voice which 
 trembled a little to start with, but soon 
 got firm enough for just emphasis and due 
 division. 
 
 Ah, Priscilla, Saint Priscilla, though jou pure and 
 
 perfect are 
 When I see you from a distance like a beacon or a 
 
 star, 
 Yet I know you are a woman and your promises are 
 
 such 
 As most other women's are, dear, when you trust 
 
 them overmuch ; 
 For you said it should be seven, and behold it grows 
 
 so late, 
 That the old brick church that's yonder soon will 
 
 speak, and after eight 
 I shall turn and get my papers, working with what 
 
 zeal I may. 
 In this solitary chamber where I would that you 
 
 might stay. 
 
 By the time Torrington got so far, his 
 voice had adjusted itself to the rliythm, and 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 he \\as partially unconscious, in the satis- 
 faction of reading, of the effect he was pro- 
 ducing. It is very difficult to analyse the 
 effect of such a poem upon a woman of 
 Priscilla's character. She was vaguely con- 
 scious of pleasure in heing made the subject 
 of verse ; that, indeed, seems inherent in 
 the sex, or lovers would not so invariably 
 fly to it for aid ; but, beyond that pleasure 
 was an uneasy expectancy. She was not 
 ready to meet any direct appeal. Never- 
 theless, Torrington, as he sat reading, was 
 not without an attraction for her : she felt 
 the suppressed emotion of the man. She 
 was moved by the swing and music of the 
 rhythm, and began ere long to be, as it 
 were, under a certain spell. Torrington had 
 made a longish rhetorical pause, but he pro- 
 ceeded — 
 
 Well, I've left the door wide open, so that I may 
 
 hear her knock. 
 Shall I hear her first, I wonder ? dear Priscilla, or 
 
 the clock ?
 
 .1 POETIC PROPOSAL. 227 
 
 There, I heard a faint, faint rapping at the street 
 
 door down below, 
 Yes, 'tis she, I'm sure. I wonder if she would as 
 
 gladly go 
 As I do, if she were waiting in her chamber till I 
 
 came. 
 
 His voice changed so suddenly now, that 
 Pricilla started. 
 
 Yes, come in, dear girl, and boldly, for you know I 
 
 cannot blame 
 Your late coming, though I wished to. I would 
 
 sooner blame the light 
 Of the very sun in heaven at his leaping into 
 
 sight. 
 And besides, if I could do it, sui^ely in the pleasant 
 
 place 
 You will make my room this evening with your 
 
 pure and saintly face, 
 None could have a thought or memory of the 
 
 moment when in fear 
 He believed he would not see you as he does now 
 
 you are here. 
 
 You can only stay some minutes ? Half-an-hour ? 
 
 Three-quarters ? Fudge ! 
 You have come to stay the evening and I will not 
 
 let you budge, 
 
 q2
 
 228 IN LOW BELIEF. 
 
 While tlie fire I've liglited for you glimmers in the 
 
 joyful room, 
 That is glad to catch and hold you with the sweet 
 
 and rare perfume 
 Dropping from your long, loose hair, dear, — loose 
 
 because they wish it so ? — 
 Well, where was I ? I remember, and repeat you 
 
 .must not go 
 Till the ruddy embers flicker wan and wanner in 
 
 the grate. 
 Do not rob me of your presence. Saint Priscilla, you 
 
 were late. 
 
 Come now, put your hat and cloak down. You shall 
 
 have the canvas chair, 
 And I'll take this one with rickets that so sadly 
 
 needs repair. 
 For you've come to see a poet, one that few^ folks 
 
 recognise. 
 Who will deem his work rewarded by the thanks in 
 
 your sweet eyes, 
 (Dark they are, my Saint Priscilla's, whom I worshijD 
 
 in one niche 
 Of the Church of Love and Labour) whose regard 
 
 can make me rich. 
 Rich and careless of the money that rewards the art 
 
 it slays 
 Which a nobler race will reckon sometime in the 
 
 coming days
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 229 
 
 Paid by that which makes it hnman. Heavens, 
 
 how my tongue runs on, 
 Let me listen, dear Priscilla (I must talk, 'tis close 
 
 upon 
 The three-quarters), for you know, sweet, when I 
 
 hear you talk, your speech 
 Makes me think, it is so tuneful, that your very 
 
 accents teach 
 Melody and strange soul rhythms that shall -come 
 
 again in song. 
 When I try to put in verses love that makes me 
 
 weak and strong ! 
 Weak, indeed ; you, you must know it, you who do 
 
 not care so much. 
 Strong, too, dear, for though I suffer, every nerve 
 
 yoiir fingers touch 
 Trembles by the great endurance of the harpstrings 
 
 of my soul. 
 When their blast of stormy passion makes tremendous 
 
 music roll. 
 Like the organic wind's world anthem, pulsing on 
 
 from star to star, 
 Gathering glory as it thunders o'er the dreadful 
 
 deeps they bar. 
 
 His voice rose and fell strangely, and 
 Priscilla, for whom the music overi)Owered 
 the meaning, though that certainly was not
 
 230 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 wholly clear, felt as if a flood of sound, a 
 wave, poured over her. She thrilled just 
 a little, affected sensuously, as when that 
 strange emotion called " sensation " ^oes 
 through a crowd. Then she lifted her head, 
 and, catching Torrington's eye, she was 
 about to speak. But he raised his hand 
 with the palm towards her, bidding her be 
 silent. 
 
 Silence — yes — a little silence coming after such a 
 
 burst 
 That, perhaps, seems incoherent. Were you never 
 
 trebly cursed 
 With the wish for full expression, by its failure in 
 
 the act 
 And the written grave reproaches that remain the 
 
 only fact 
 Set on paper when the moment has for ever passed 
 
 you by 
 And the truth you sought seems empty and to other 
 
 folks a lie ? 
 
 No ! you were not, that's our burden ; you, Priscilla, 
 
 have your own, 
 Would that they would vanish even as this hour 
 
 of talk has flown.
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL, 231 
 
 For if you had none to bear, sweet, I, perhaps, might 
 
 never fight 
 With the devils that will torment me in this empty 
 
 room to-night. 
 For I know you can't be happy if a single soul is 
 
 sad, 
 And when saints rejoice in heaven, oh, be sure the 
 
 world is glad ; 
 For I speak as if believing in a vanished creed, 
 
 although 
 I have none but Love and Labour. Yet, Priscilla, 
 
 do you know 
 Your still face and sweet grave presence can restore 
 
 the withered creed, 
 Like the sun and rain together that uplift both 
 
 flower and weed. 
 And can bring a crop centupled from a mummy's 
 
 dried up seed. 
 
 Yes, you know you make me better. Ah, you're 
 
 smiling, I declare, 
 I suppose I've been declaiming with a somewhat 
 
 serious air. 
 Look now, I'll reform and chatter, tell you verses 
 
 blithe and gay. 
 Sing you songs or get the teacups, an^'thing, that 
 
 you may stay ; 
 Read you part of my last story, that the publishers 
 
 reject ,
 
 232 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 For the scene is laid so near us that with care you 
 
 may detect 
 Half-a-dozen men and women. N^ay, then, I will 
 
 make the tea, 
 And we'll talk and drink together. Sugar ? none, 
 
 my dear, for me." 
 
 This last touch of realism was too much 
 for Priscilla, who got quite excited. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Torrington, how very clever 
 YOU are ! " she burst in. " How very like 
 it is. And to be able to make poetry of it ! 
 It does seem funny." 
 
 John smiled. The praise was not great 
 in quality, but it was sincere, and, coming 
 from the girl he loved, it was sweet. 
 
 " I daresay it is funny, Priscilla," he said; 
 "but it isn't so awfully clever after all. It's 
 Bohemia done into verse, and very common- 
 place after all, except that you are in it. 
 That is the only thing beautiful. If there 
 is any art in the thing it is the contrast 
 between you and the tea cups— between a 
 saint and sugar. But shall I go on, or are 
 vou th^d ? "
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 233 
 
 '•'Oh, no, Mr. Torrington," said the gh^l, 
 eagerly, and, to say the truth, she was not. 
 Moreover, now, she was not afraid. She 
 had forgotten about Armour who, in the 
 earlier part of the evening, had been in her 
 thoughts as angry with her for coming. 
 But then how wrong he was. How could 
 Mr. Torrington, who wrote such nice poetry, 
 and read it in such a nice voice, be a bad 
 man ? " Please go on," she said, and he 
 went on accordingly — 
 
 Don't you think it sad, Priscilla, that we poets 
 
 cannot thrive 
 On that airy diet, dreaming, which still keeps our 
 
 souls alive, 
 Seeing poems are a drug, dear, and that British 
 
 readers hiss 
 When they hear a novel mentioned which has much 
 
 analysis ? 
 For that's just the way things go, dear. Still I 
 
 think I am a fool 
 To be prating in this fashion when the room is 
 
 groA\'ing coo], 
 And you have to go away soon. Let me plait your 
 
 loosened hair !
 
 234 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 Can't you plait in four, Priscilla ? Then I'll teacli 
 
 you. Take tliis chair, 
 And I'll have the one beside it, close beside you. I 
 
 delight 
 In this touch of hair that glimmers underneath the 
 
 lamp, so bright 
 In your eyes that aren't so saintly as they were some 
 
 moments since. 
 (N"ow sit quiet, or I'll pull it, pull it till I make you 
 
 wince). 
 Do you know I just remember, not distinctly, what 
 
 was said 
 In a sonnet by a woman who is famous now, and 
 
 dead. 
 How she dreamed that some one drew her backward 
 
 by her streaming hair 
 Till she wondered, vaguely fearing it was Death 
 
 behind her there, 
 And at last she asked the question, fluttering like a 
 
 netted dove. 
 When the one who held her answered. ' Nay, it is 
 
 not Death, but Love.' 
 
 His voice failed slowly almost to a whisper, 
 and Priscilla looked into the fire. The em- 
 phasis on the situation was marked, and 
 " Love " seemed long drawn out until it 
 lost its dependent significance and stood
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 235 
 
 alone. The next two lines and a half he read 
 as if murmuring to himself, as if pondering 
 over a point in solitude. 
 
 80 I hold you, but I fancy you miglit easily get 
 
 free 
 Tho' I grasp your hair so tightly. It is I who 
 
 cannot see 
 How you hold me. 
 
 There ! I've done it. For I learnt to 
 
 plait in four 
 When I was at sea, Priscilla, and in six or even 
 
 more. 
 Can you do it ? Try it over. 'Tis an easy 
 
 synthesis. 
 And, perhaps, you will reward me ? If you won't 
 
 I'll take a kiss. 
 Nay, I will not ! I will rather beg it on my bended 
 
 knees, 
 Rather court you in a hundred sonnets from the 
 
 Portuguese, 
 Till I woo your heart to hear me and respond again 
 
 in kind ; 
 Then the time will come when going 3'ou will leave 
 
 the joy behind 
 Of your lips upon my own lips, so that I may easier 
 
 write 
 Of two lovers in some story, when I am alone that 
 
 night.
 
 236 IJSr LOW RELIEF. 
 
 He stretched out his ri2:ht hand as he 
 read, aud laid it very teriderly on the girl's 
 bowed head. Priscilla did not move, she 
 seemed almost spellbound, for, aided by an 
 emotion whicli was evident, his voice grew 
 as musical as tlie mood which had inspired 
 his love poem ; and, under the fascination 
 of his words, the subdued glow of the lamp, 
 and the red heat of the silent fire, the girl's 
 fibres so relaxed that she seemed for a while 
 plastic in his hand. He felt that it was so, 
 and went on with a sudden joy which was 
 almost triumph. 
 
 Bless your tender heart, Priscilla, bless you dear. 
 
 It is no quaint 
 Fancy in an idle poet to prefer you to a saint, 
 Whether Botticelli made lier or an artist in cliurch 
 
 glass 
 Sets her in a window vaguely seen by those who 
 
 daily pass, 
 Only to be contemplated by the ghosts of men who 
 
 died. 
 Or the pious hearts of worship who can leave the 
 
 world outside.
 
 A POETIC PllOPOSAL. 237 
 
 I can't do tliat, for my churcli is arched by heaven 
 
 and not by stone, 
 And its organ is responsive nnto Love, and Love 
 
 alone, 
 And the anthem therein chanted rims like snnflame 
 
 fast and free 
 Over all the world of Labour and the passionate 
 
 heaving sea 
 That reflects my soul and heaven's. Does it catch 
 
 yours, too, my sweet, 
 Do the waters circling round me lave your lips and 
 
 tender feet ? 
 Do you hear that anthem pealing from the earth 
 
 and skies above. 
 To the awful organ's answering to the great musician 
 
 Love ? 
 
 Yes, I think you hear it faintly, as you sit and bow 
 
 your head. 
 Looking earnestly before you at the fire's that's 
 
 dying red, 
 "Which to-night has been a furnace wherein I have 
 
 sternly cast 
 All the bitter shame and sorrow that belong to what 
 
 is past 
 So that only gold is left me ; yes, you hear, and as 
 
 for me 
 What you say is sacred scripture and of more 
 
 authority.
 
 238 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 Yes I think so ; I believe it, though you said I 
 
 was not true — 
 No ? Not false ? Well, very fickle, only caught by 
 
 what was new, 
 And perhaps you're right, Priscilla, but remember 
 
 saints are rare. 
 And 1 never saw one sitting till to-night in this old 
 
 chair 
 Which has held more sinners truly (there now — 
 
 don't get up again) 
 So this change that has come o'er me shows that I 
 
 can hold the grain 
 That is golden when the chaff's gone. Mayn't I 
 
 praise you ? Dear, I must, 
 For I never saw the mortal that I felt my heart 
 
 could trust 
 Till I spoke with you, Priscilla. See what power 
 
 you have for good 
 For you really have what fancy can bestow on stone 
 
 and wood 
 By an altar. See, how stands it ? I'm the mortal, 
 
 you the saint 
 Fit for any rarest missal that a cunning monk could 
 
 paint, 
 (Do be quiet, sweet) moreover, you can open heaven 
 
 again 
 Even — really it's too bad, dear, you have snapped 
 
 the pleasant chain 
 Of the thoughts that link together far off things and 
 
 clearly draw
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 239 
 
 All the rebel world of fancy to obey the poet's 
 
 law. 
 Even as I put together in a shining foxirfold 
 
 plait 
 Your wild hair which you extinguish underneath a 
 
 human hat 
 When you ought to wear a nimbus, or a golden 
 
 ribbon's line. 
 N"ay, Priscilla, don't be wrathful with my chatter's 
 
 loose design 
 And we'll talk of art. — You're going ? Just as I 
 
 begin to talk ? 
 Well then, if you must, I'm with you for my usual 
 
 evening walk. 
 Tho' I wish that it were longer (aye, as long as life) ; 
 
 your shawl ? 
 Here it is, and as you go, dear, pray be careful lest 
 
 you fall. 
 For the turnings at the corners of this cursed 
 
 crooked stair 
 Make me wonder I'm alive yet, or at least in good 
 
 repair. 
 Well, we're at the bottom safely : all the other folks 
 
 I see 
 Ai^e in bed, I hope, and happy. They are not like 
 
 you and me 
 For you know we are Bohemians (now I will not 
 
 call you saint 
 In the secular street) and struggle hard with ink, or 
 
 clay, or paint,
 
 240 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 While tlieir great idea is riches. What is yoars, 
 
 Priscilla ? Mine 
 Would be — yes, to go to Florence ! How on earth 
 
 did you divine 
 What my thoughts were and my wishes ? On my 
 
 soul I think I know. 
 Is it not because you wondered whether you would 
 
 ever go 
 To the country of the olive ? Yes. Well, who can 
 
 say what climes 
 May receive us when the public clamours for my 
 
 idle rhymes. 
 
 But my other thoughts, Priscilla ? Can you guess 
 
 them and declare 
 What they are ? Nay, do not hurry (what a 
 
 nuisance, we are there) ; 
 Here's your number ; I shall see you sometimes 
 
 soon, or else I'll write, 
 And meantime you'll not forget me, will you, dearest 
 
 saint ? Good night ! 
 
 So Torrington ceased reading. Por he 
 had come to an end of his two nights' 
 work, and was now struggling wdth a great 
 desire to speak plainly to her, more plainly- 
 even yet than he had done in these verses, 
 wherein his lieart's wish was very plainly to
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 2-41 
 
 be read. But Priscillo. was silent and timid. 
 Slie would have given a great deal to speak 
 in an unconcerned voice, or even to speak 
 at all, but she could not utter a word until 
 he did, for she was moved in a way which 
 she did not understand. It was the time 
 and the season, the lover and his words^ 
 workins: on her soul. She was troubled as 
 a flower might be that was not yet to bud 
 when the first winds and soft rains of 
 S23ring moistened its outward covering. She 
 began to realise how matters stood, and was 
 alarmed at what she had done, or at least 
 suffered to come to pass. 
 
 ^' Do you like it, dear ? " said Torrington, 
 at length ; and she answered softly : 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Torrington ; I think it is verv 
 beautiful." 
 
 John shook his head vaguely. 
 
 " Indeed, Priscilla ! I fear that is, 
 after all, only your want of deep know- 
 ledge. You see, you don't know what 
 poetry is." 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Torrington," she inter- 
 rupted, '' I do know, and I am fond of it. 
 You ask Mr. Armour; he often reads 
 Shelley and Keats to me." 
 
 " Ah, I dare say, dear ; hut I meant you 
 don't know the technical faults of a thing. 
 You can recognise the feeling, the emotion 
 of the writer, but you cannot tell where he 
 fails. I know that only too well. Eut you 
 can see that I felt what I was writing, can't 
 you, Pris?" 
 
 She hesitated, and looked troubled. 
 
 '' Ye-es, Mr. Torrington, I think so." 
 
 He bent towards her, and, as he took her 
 hand, a great surge of passion swept over 
 him, making his brain reel and his body 
 tremble. 
 
 '^"What do you think I felt, my child?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Eut she did not answer. 
 
 '' What, Priscilla ? " he insisted. 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Torrington." 
 
 He lifted her hand slowly, and, in spite
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 243 
 
 of her slight timid reluctance, kissed it 
 softly. 
 
 *' I think you do, dear," he said, as he let 
 it fall gently and leant back in his chair, 
 wondering in silence whether he should 
 speak or not — whether it was wise or foolish 
 — whether he might not lose her by being 
 in too great a hurry or by waiting. He 
 could not tell ; and yet the silence, the soft 
 light and the fire, worked on him, too. Had 
 there been no hot coals in the grate ; had 
 the lamp burnt very brilliantly; had she 
 been able to speak fluently, he would have 
 gone no further then. But now the room 
 looked so like a home, with this '' loving 
 woman, tender, warm, and pure and true " 
 in its solitude, that he began to see he must 
 speak, that he could not refuse his urgent 
 desires voice, as they clamoured dumbly for 
 utterance in the fevered current of his 
 blood. '' Priscilla," he said, and then 
 stopped. She did not look up, but her 
 hands, which clasped each other and 
 
 ii2
 
 244 IX LOW BELIEF. 
 
 lay lightly on her lap, trembled a very 
 little. 
 
 " I think I told you once, Priscilla/' he 
 began again, without now knowing whither 
 speech would lead him, " that I wasn't a 
 very good man. You hardly know what 
 that means ; and yet you, pure and sweet 
 as you are, know better than some girls 
 would. I don't know why I should have 
 told you so much, if it is not that I have a 
 certain honestv in nie after all, which some- 
 how rather surjorises me, seeing how much 
 to one's advantage it usually is to be dis- 
 honest in the sense of not being very open. 
 But that's beside the point. My life begins 
 to pall on me. I am sick of living with my 
 own thoughts. I might as well sit under a 
 poison tree. I am tired of being alone — 
 tired of it." 
 
 He j)^i-^sed and gazed at the fire. He 
 pointed at it, and smiled. 
 
 '' See, Priscilla, how bright the coals are. 
 Did I not say I burnt the sorrow of the
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 245 
 
 past in it ? I ought to have extinguished 
 it for ever with such fuel of tears. To- 
 night I am not thinking so much of the 
 days gone by. I rather look towards the 
 future. Do you ever think of your own, 
 Priscilla ? What is it to be ? " 
 " I don't know, Mr. Torrington." 
 " No one does, my girl. Still one may 
 guess. Yours should be happy— your eyes 
 were never meant to weep salt tears — your 
 lips should speak nothing but sweet words, 
 and when tliev become silent close on a 
 beautiful thought, like a scented flower 
 folding at night. And what is my own 
 future to be ? I wonder if you can pro- 
 phesy, Priscilla ? Let me hear you say. 
 Won't you tell me, child ? " 
 
 She indeed looked like a child that is 
 vaguely alarmed by something which is 
 beautiful afar o:ff, but seems strange as it 
 apj)roaches. The sight of passion to a 
 virgin soul has a quality of terror. It is so 
 vast and embracing. Her life runs like a
 
 246 IX LOW RELIEF. 
 
 fresh stream s'oino^ unwillino; into the s^reat 
 sea. There is a meeting of waters, and a 
 sense of trouble. The maiden meets the 
 unknown, and shrinks back afraid. And in 
 Priscilla were many thoughts conflicting 
 with the desire and pity which passion 
 provokes as inevitably in a woman as the 
 sun the sheltering cloud. She began to fear 
 Torrington, and did not answer, for she did 
 not fathom him or judge him aright. 
 
 " I think you might tell me, Priscilla, if 
 you would," he said, catching her left hand 
 again, and holding it tightly. " I believe 
 vou can." His voice fell, and he almost 
 whispered as he dropped on his knee beside 
 her chair. "■ Dear, don't you know I love 
 you — that I love you." She turned to him, 
 and her beautiful eyes seemed full of fear, 
 which yet did not comprehend. And she 
 trembled violently. " Priscilla, haven't you 
 a word for me — a single word? Did you 
 lot see this coining ? Did you not know 
 I was i>;ettino; to love vou, as evervone
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 247 
 
 must with eyes to see you ? Tell me, 
 dearest, didn't you — didn't you ? My 
 darling, will you marry me ? ' ' 
 
 She did not speak, and placing his right 
 hand half round her waist, he tried gently 
 to draw her towards him. But she did not 
 yield, though she endeavoured to speak. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Torrington, I — I never thought 
 of this. I didn't think of it. Oh, no ! " 
 
 But there was no anger or fear now in 
 her voice. His heart leaped again. What 
 did it matter if she were surprised if she 
 did not mean to reject him ? That she 
 assuredly had no direct intention of doings 
 and let him but have the chance of courtins? 
 
 o 
 
 her, he believed he could gain her. Por he 
 believed so in passion and its power ! 
 
 " I don't care now, dear, even if you 
 didn't. Perhaps I was in a hurry. But," 
 and his voice sighed, '^ don't you love me, 
 Priscilla?" 
 
 Her lips trembled and she hesitated. 
 
 " I like you very much, Mr. Torrington,
 
 248 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 ^ncl I think you're very clever, you knovr ; 
 and yet — no, Mr. Torrington, I don't love 
 you." 
 
 "All, but you will — you shall, dear/' he 
 said, with a sudden change of tone ; ''I will 
 make you. You shall see that you will love 
 me. Por, dearest, you are all the world to 
 me— all — all ! My sweet, you do not know 
 what you are to me, or what you must be." 
 
 He stopped and panted a little ; his 
 iDreath came quickly, his hands shook. 
 
 '^ Will you kiss me, Priscilla ? " 
 
 The words were few and simple, but into 
 such a lover can breath a fire to consume 
 the Avorld. In the voice of true passion, 
 in its blossoming into speech, nothing enters 
 that is not refined and exalted. But into 
 love comes all things. This is the end of 
 life, which is its beginning; it is the re- 
 compense of sorrow, the crown of joy, the 
 consolation of humanity, the right of the 
 gods. It is awful and sweet, terrible and 
 dear; it breaks all bars and dissolves all
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 249 
 
 distances ; it is a religion to itself, a creed 
 and a faith beyond all faiths and creeds. 
 It has sprung ujoon the earth like a flower ; 
 it has descended from heaven in majesty ; 
 it has risen even from hell in awful purity. 
 It is holv, but with a holiness it draws 
 from itself; shame it knows not, nor 
 can know ; its beauty is eternal, its rule 
 universal, its throne in the souls of all its 
 worshippers who for once recognise their 
 own divinity and are humble with the 
 great authority of their own power. They 
 are blessed who have known it, even 
 though sorrow asserts its might once more, 
 Avhen the rose of dawn passes in the gray 
 mists of the morning, and the rain and tears 
 and toil of the later day. 
 
 And yet she did not kiss him. 
 
 "Ah, it will come in time!" he mur- 
 mured softly into her ear, half hidden in 
 the hair he had praised so, ''it will come 
 in time. ' Bless you, dear, it is no quaint 
 fancy in an idle poet to prefer you to a
 
 250 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 saint.' No, clear, you are a woman, and 
 I love yoii. You shall clo with me what 
 you will. And I will take you away from 
 your lahoar. Por you will make me work, 
 not for work's sake, but for your own. 
 Ah, Priscilla ! " he added, tenderly, " you 
 don't know what you have done. You 
 have destroyed my old ideal. Art for art's 
 sake has become a myth ; fame is an 
 eidolon, a mere ghost v/ith a squeaking 
 voice. Love's trumpet, with its gold, out- 
 roars her brass whenever he lifts it to 
 his lips ; the very flutter of his wings is 
 a melody ; and when he sings, as he does 
 now in my heart, there is no music worth 
 making nor another musician in the whole 
 wide earth." 
 
 And still she was very silent. She did 
 not understand him. She did not under- 
 stand herself. She was glad, he liked 
 her ; his thouo:ht of her was a shelter 
 against the world, and yet she was sorry, 
 yet she wavered and was doubtful. Eor an
 
 A POETIC PROPOSAL. 251 
 
 old pain hiddeii even from herself rose 
 np now in her heart and taunted her 
 bitterly. 
 
 Did she indeed think the past was past 
 and that she might forget ? Nay, she did 
 not, hut was weary of conflict, of vain hope, 
 of vain desire. She would have asked 
 God to let her forget and lay her head 
 upon this man's breast if her prayer 
 would have been answered, but, though she 
 esteemed herself one of those who believe, 
 her faith was not so great as to send 
 her on her knees to aslc a boon which 
 would have left her glad, though the 
 asking might indeed be bitter. As she 
 lay in bed that night she cried softly to 
 herself, and the burden of her sad thoughts 
 was for ever, " Oh, what shall I do ? What 
 shall I do ? "
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Paul's view of the situation 
 
 Paul Aemour was a man with a conscience 
 and a religion, which was more than could 
 be said of Torrington, who had an almost 
 unusual knack of making the worse appear 
 the better reason. To what (^xtent the 
 difference in the men was due to natural 
 endowment or merely to education would 
 be a hard question to decide satisfactorily, 
 and yet there is little doubt that Armour 
 owed a moral superiority, which Torrington 
 recognised very frankly, to his early training 
 and surroundings. 
 
 His parents were country people, admir- 
 able in character, strong in body, and both 
 of superb type. The father was of a clever
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATIOX. 253 
 
 mechanical turn which early lifted him out 
 of the bitterer struggle for existence ; his 
 mother possessed an energy and sweetness 
 rarely combined, while the principles and 
 religion of both never made life wearisome 
 or the duty they exacted wdth kindness 
 irksome and irritating. When the elder 
 Armour died he was mourned with a depth 
 of sincerity which spoke better for him than 
 carved marble or inlaid brass, and his son 
 neither needed nor sought a better exemplar 
 of what a man should be. 
 
 The home of the widow and her daughters, 
 for Paul had two sisters, was in itself humble, 
 indeed, it was no more than a cottage, but 
 it exerted its influence upon him in many 
 subtle ways. There are women yet in the 
 country who possess their souls in quietness 
 and do no more than comes to their hand, 
 doing it in peace and order. To preserve 
 a home that should be beautiful with tiiese 
 qualities, that should be a pattern to the 
 admirins^ nei2;hbours whose furniture bv no
 
 254 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 means shone like this, and in whose chests 
 no such lavender-scented linen was laid up, 
 was no high aspiration hut a heneficent and 
 sweetly feminine task. Though her son 
 should go out into the world of lahour to 
 strive as his father had done before him, 
 the mother who adored him meant that one 
 place, at least, should be not only his beacon 
 of consolation but a haven of rest as well. 
 And she attained her end. 
 
 There is a divine beauty in the far and 
 quiet home which surpasses all the more 
 restless joys of life. Those Avho have 
 known one and hold its picture in their 
 hearts, though it be but of some humble 
 place that the loud world might scorn, are 
 blessed even in the struggle whose turmoil 
 only reaches its garden like the murmur of 
 an unquiet sea beyond the harbour gates. 
 It has the quality there is in subdued 
 strength, its hold is never exhausted; its 
 power is such and so subtle that its mere 
 remembrance is more real than the troubled
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATIOX. 255 
 
 streets of present toil; the scent of its garden, 
 though many winters may have blown its 
 blossoms over the sheltering wall since it 
 was last seen, pours yet with the sunlight 
 of past summers about the head of him 
 v/ho paces London or a foreign city in 
 desolation ; the words that were spoken 
 there are voiced again and again in days 
 of doubt and anguish and despair, for over 
 it Time has no power, and even when Death 
 has done its work and destroyed hand and 
 brain and memory, the dead man's deeds 
 were surely wrought out and guided towards 
 a desired end by the influences of the Garden 
 and the Home which never die. 
 
 That men, yes, and women, should trust 
 Paul Armour was very natural, and due not 
 only to the palpable kindliness and honesty 
 which would in any case have been his, but 
 to a certain finer instinct of purity owed to 
 the home from whicli he came, and which, 
 as he held, claimed affectionately, but im- 
 peratively, a right conduct from him. He
 
 256 IX LOW RELIEF. 
 
 had often spoken about bis mother to Mary 
 Morris, and the vision thus presented to 
 a London girl had been one of infinite 
 charm. His visible affection for all his 
 relations insensibly had its effect upon her ; 
 she trusted him wholly. 
 
 " 1 can always believe what you say, Mr. 
 Armour,'' she said one day so earnestly that 
 it pleased him and remained in his memory 
 ever afterwards. 
 
 '' You always can, Mary," he answered. 
 '^ At anv rate I won't tell vou anv lies." 
 
 And then, naturally enough, his conscience 
 smote him, for had he not told her that he 
 was engaged to be married when it was not 
 a fact ? However, he dismissed that from 
 his mind, seeing that he believed he had 
 done his dutv in inventing^ a sweetheart 
 down in the country, in order to prevent 
 possible complications. Eor was it not 
 better that he should be her brother, as it 
 were, and warn her of Torringtons and
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATION. 267 
 
 suchlike dangers ? How easy to deceive 
 one's self it is. 
 
 Mary had a day or two of great discomfort 
 after her last visit to Torrington. She was, 
 for one thing, wholly unable to decide what 
 to do, and for another, she wanted to tell 
 Paul w^hat had happened. In one way she 
 was very pleased to be able to refute, so she 
 thought, his unkind suspicions of Torrington, 
 whom she at least liked very much, even if 
 her liking was not yet love ; and she went 
 to Paul's studio on the third day, with the 
 intention, the very feminine intention, of 
 saying " There now " with a sequence. 
 
 Paul received her very gravely. He had 
 by no means forgotten that she had despised 
 his warnings, and a certain feeling of anger 
 towards Torrington — which he would have 
 denied sprang from jealousy — reacted on his 
 relations with the girl and made him seem 
 almost cold. But he told her he was glad to 
 see her, and what he said was true enough. 
 The conversation for a long time was on 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 indifferent subjects, for he was determined 
 not to bring Torrington's name in, and she 
 hardly knew how to do it, even though she 
 wished to. 
 
 " Have you been playing much, Mr. 
 Armour ?" she asked at length, for a pause 
 grew so formidably long that it seemed 
 significant. Paul shrugged his shoulders 
 a little. 
 
 '^ Why no, not since you were here last, 
 Mary," he answered, " except for half an- 
 hour yesterday, when West came in with 
 his violin." 
 
 Por West was a man of some scope, and 
 delighted in music. 
 
 " Oh, I wish I had been here," said the 
 girl. 
 
 " You might have been, and I rather 
 thought you would have been," returned 
 Paul, perhaps a little shortly. And again 
 silence settled on them. She could not 
 keep the conversation going, but presently 
 made another attempt.
 
 PAUVS VIEW OF THE SITUATION. 259 
 
 ''Have vou been workinsr hard?" she 
 murmured. And then Paul only nodded, 
 which so irritated her in her nervous state 
 that she determined not to speak again 
 until he did ; and, as she was seated in a low 
 bottomed leather chair, she put her hand 
 to her cheek, resting her head on it, much 
 as she had done when Torrington first took 
 great notice of her. And Paul, who was 
 clad in a long, loose, grey overall he some- 
 times . worked in when he was biting in his 
 plates in the acid bath, moved about the 
 studio slowiy, more with a pretence at doing 
 something than with any actual intention 
 of work. 
 
 This Priscilla found very difficult to bear, 
 and she began to feel miserable indeed. It 
 was very hard that he should be so cold to 
 her, w^hen she had always looked to him 
 for advice and assistance. Torrington 
 would not have acted so, although he had 
 only known her such a very short time ; 
 and then, her thoughts having turned in 
 s2
 
 260 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 that direction, she hegan to feel very un- 
 happy, knowing not what she should do. 
 Gradually her strength of mind deserted her. 
 She felt feeble and weak, almost inclined 
 to cry ; her hand and head bent lower ; the 
 desire for speech went away ; she could 
 almost have screamed. Certainly had she 
 been in her own room, she would have 
 thrown herself on the bed and abandoned 
 her soul to grief. 
 
 Armour was, of course, hardly aware of 
 what was passing through her mind, yet he 
 was vaguely conscious that she was troubled, 
 and grew angry that it should be so. His 
 anger was naturally enough directed against 
 Torrington, who had been the cause of the 
 slight estrangement he knew had come about 
 between him and this girl, who had, by her 
 sweet feminine sisterly ways, come to be 
 almost necessary to his comfort. He did 
 not know it was so, certainly he did not so 
 phrase it to himself, but that was the real 
 basis of his wrath. He watched Priscilla
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATION. 261 
 
 out of the corners of his eyes, as he shifted 
 one copper plate after another, cleaned his 
 dabhers, and cleared up his working table, 
 and he besran to see that some crisis was 
 imminent. She had never before been so 
 silent, except when he was playing to her, 
 and then she often met his eyes and met 
 them frankly. He wondered what the 
 matter vras. 
 
 " Damn him," he said to himself savagely; 
 
 '' if that Torrington " and then he 
 
 stopped. There was really no justice in 
 carrvinsr the sentence out. And vet he 
 grew uneasier and uneasier. Presently he 
 thought he saw a tear drop from the girl's 
 eye. He watched, and soon there was no 
 doubt that she was crying very softly to 
 herself. He put down a plate which 
 he had begun that day, and stood in 
 front of her with his back to the 
 piano, which was an old grand, so that 
 his left hand rested on the end of the 
 opened lid.
 
 262 /Y LOW RELIEF. 
 
 "Why, my dear girl," he said, ''what's 
 the matter ? " 
 
 Very naturally the kindliness and sym- 
 pathy in his voice made the tears which 
 she had vainly tried to restrain flow faster 
 than ever, and she could not answer. Paul 
 went over to her, and put his hand on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Don't cry, Mary," he said, " tell me 
 wliat your trouble is?" 
 
 And then she sobbed, so that he felt her 
 slight frame shake. 
 
 '' I don't know, Mr. Armour, but I am 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " You must be unhappy about something. 
 Tell me what. You always said, if you had 
 ^ny trouble you would tell me. You know 
 that I will help you if I can." 
 
 '' I know, Mr. Armour. 
 
 "Well, then, what is it?" 
 
 She shook her head, and taking out lier 
 handkerchief wiped her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing. I daresay it will
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATION. 263 
 
 come all ri2:iit. But I don't know what 
 to do." 
 
 Armour shook his head in his turn, 
 for he did not mean to rest satisfied 
 with this assurance. He was intuitively 
 certain that Torrington was at the bottom 
 of this, and ]io meant finding out. Had 
 he not vowed that he would make him 
 suffer if any trouble or harm came to 
 the girl ? 
 
 ^' You don't know what to do ?" said he 
 after a pause. " Then you had better tell 
 me, and I will advise you."' 
 
 "I don't think I ought." 
 
 '^Why not?" 
 
 "Because it isn't altogether about my- 
 self." 
 
 " Ah ! " thought Armour, as his face grew 
 blacker, " I wonder what the devil he's 
 been up to ? Oh ! " he added aloud, '' then 
 you may tell me wlio it is, at least." 
 
 Agaiu she shook her head, though in 
 rather a feeble and undecided wav.
 
 264 IN LOW RELIEF, 
 
 '^ Very well, Mary, if you won't, I shall 
 have to tell you." 
 
 '' But you don't know, Mr. Armour," 
 she said in surprise, looking up for the first 
 time. 
 
 '' It is enough to guess. Now isn't this 
 all about Torrington ? " 
 
 He felt her quiver under his hand still 
 lightly laid on her shoulder, and then, being 
 certain he was right, he removed it in order 
 to be able to clench his fist, with which he 
 had little doubt of drubbing Torrington in 
 a thorough manner if he had insulted the 
 girl. 
 
 '^ Now isn't it about this Torrington ? " he 
 repeated almost angrily. 
 
 '' Yes, Mr. Armour," she said meekly and 
 timidly, for, though she had desired to tell 
 him, she was rather frightened for reasons 
 of her own. 
 
 " What has he been doing to trouble you? 
 Come now, I insist on knowing.'' 
 
 He looked so big and formidable as he
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATIOX. 265 
 
 stood in front of her that she very much 
 doubted if she could possibly help telling him 
 sooner than she intended. But she did not 
 answer, and \yhen Armour repeated the ques- 
 tion once more in vain he lost his temper. 
 
 " Damn him," he said abruptly. '' I'll 
 break his infernal neck." 
 
 Priscilla started violently, and looked up 
 in surprise. ''Why, Mr. Armour, what for? 
 What has he done ? " 
 
 Armour would have laughed if the thing 
 hadn't been so serious to him. As it was, 
 he looked a little less grim. 
 
 " You foolish girl," he exclaimed, " isn't 
 that what I've been asking you this last 
 hour ? And now you ask me ? " 
 
 " Well," she said, '' I meant what had he 
 done that you knew of." 
 
 '' Confound it," cried Paul. " Why don't 
 you tell me ? I have always said I would 
 be a brother to you. And now you are in 
 trouble and this fellow is in it, and you 
 won t tell me what it's all about. Then —
 
 266 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 look here, just you tell me the truth. Has 
 Torrington in any way insulted you ? " 
 
 She looked up with her pure eyes straight 
 in his face, and almost smiled. 
 
 ''Well Mr. Armour, he— he— well, Mr. 
 Armour, he " 
 
 " Come, out with it ! " 
 
 "Well, then Mr. Armour," and she 
 looked down again, " he asked me to marry 
 him." And thereon Paul Armour fell back 
 against the piano, staring in astonishment, 
 while his fists unclenched of themselves. 
 Decidedly there was no reason to beat a 
 man into a jelly for asking an unengaged 
 girl to be liis wife. It was not generally 
 looked upon as an insult, though in some 
 cases it might be. 
 
 " Ah ! " said he with a long expiration of 
 breath. And for a while, a long while it 
 seemed to the girl, he did not speak, though 
 he walked up to the other end of the studio, 
 while Priscilla watched him. When he 
 turned round, he was quite calm, but a
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATION. 267 
 
 little paler than his wont. He stayed 
 where he was, and spoke out of the growing 
 shadow which fell heaviest at the far end of 
 the studio. 
 
 "And what are you going to do about 
 it, Mary ? " he asked, in a voice which 
 seemed cold to her, simply because it was 
 so restrained. 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Armour," she said 
 a little pettishly. 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 '' You don't know ? Well, but you have 
 to know. You can't go on not knowing. 
 What did you say to him ? " 
 
 '' I said I couldn't tell liim — yet." 
 
 " Hum ! Well, there is one thing. Do 
 you love him ? " 
 
 '' I like him very much. He seems very 
 kind." 
 
 '' Yes, I daresay he is." He made a 
 pause. " And I am sorry I ever said any- 
 thing against him. I don't suppose lie can 
 be so bad as I thought him."
 
 268 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 Strangely enough, Prisciila would have 
 been better pleased not to have heard him 
 retract. Even though she certainly did 
 like Torrington very much, and had herself 
 defended him from what she had believed 
 unjust aspersions. 
 
 " Well, what am I to do, Mr. Armour ? " 
 
 ''My dear girl, you must do as your heart 
 dictates. If you love him you had better 
 marry him. But if you don't, don't be led 
 into it. I am sure and certain there can be 
 nothing more terrible than marriage with- 
 out true aflPection. I can't say any more. 
 It wouldn't be right to you to advise you to 
 say yes, and it wouldn't bo fair to him to 
 advise you to say no. You must yourself 
 make the choice. Do you think lie is very 
 fond of 30U ? " 
 
 She nodded and then murmured, " Yes." 
 She felt there could be no doubt of 
 that. 
 
 "Well, he has plenty of brains," said 
 Armour, '•' at least that's what I think. And
 
 PAUL'S VIEW OF THE SITUATION. 269 
 
 I believe others think the same. I dare say 
 he will get on very well, if he had some- 
 thing to steady him. But I can't advise 
 you. At least, not now." 
 
 And he lapsed into silence, while it grew 
 darker and darker yet. Presently Priscilla 
 rose and was ready to go, for she had not 
 removed her hat. 
 
 ^^ You are going?" said Paul interroga- 
 tively. '' Then I'll walk round with you a 
 little way." 
 
 j^.lthough he did so he was not a lively 
 companion, for he hardly spoke a word. Yet 
 when they reached her door he stayed a 
 moment. 
 
 ^' Come round on Wednesday and see me, 
 and we will talk this over. Good-night, 
 Marv." 
 
 '^ Good-night, Mr. Armour." 
 
 She went in, and going upstairs slie threw 
 herself down and wept for a long while until 
 her sister Alice came in wdth a light and 
 demanded in vain what the matter might
 
 270 IN LOW RELIEF. 
 
 be. But Paul went back to his studio 
 and sat in the darkness thinking how 
 lonely the place seemed after all. He 
 had never thought it quite so desolate 
 before. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 WESTMINSTER : PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS, 25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
 
 ./
 
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