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Sir — In answer to your letter of the 12th instant, I am instructed by Miss Wilson to inform you that Mr. Jack was engaged here for ten months as professor of music and elocution. At the end of that period he refused to impart any further musical instruction, to three young ladies who desired a set of finishing lessons. He therefore considered himself bound to vacate his post, though Miss Wilson desires me to state expressly that she did not insist on that course. She has much pleasure in testifying to the satisfactory manner in which Mr. Jack maintained his authority in the school. He is an exacting teacher, but a patient and thoroughly capable one. During his stay at Alton College, his general conduct was irreproachable, and his marked personal influence gained for him the respect and good wishes of his pupils. —

I am, sir, your obedient servant,

Phillis Ward, F.C.P., etc.

14 West Precinct, Lipport Cathedral, South Wales.

Sir — Mr. Owen Jack is a native of this town, and was, in his boyhood, a member of the Cathedral Choir. He is respectably connected, and is personally known to me as a strictly honorable young man. He has musical talent of a certain kind, and is undoubtedly qualified to teach the rudiments of music, though he never, whilst under our guidance, gave any serious consideration to the higher forms of composition — more, I should add, from natural ineptitude than from want of energy and perseverance. I should be glad to hear of his obtaining a good position. —

Yours truly,

John Burton, Mus. Doc,

(These were the replies to the inquiries about Mr Jack.)

On Thursday afternoon Herbert stood before his easel, watching the light changing on his picture as the clouds shifted in the wind. At moments when the effect on the color pleased him, he wished that Mary would enter and see it so at her first glance. But as the afternoon wore it became duller; and when she at last arrived, he felt sorry he had not appointed one o’clock instead of three. She was accompanied by a tall lad of sixteen, with light blue eyes, fair hair, and an expression of irreverent good humor.

“How do you do” said Herbert. “Take care of those sketches, Charlie, old fellow. They are wet.”

“Papa felt very tired: he thought it best to lie down for a little,” said Mary, throwing off her cloak and appearing in a handsome dress of marmalade-colored silk. “He left the arrangements with Mr Jack to you. I suspect the dread of having to confront that mysterious stranger again had something to do with his fatigue. Is the Lady of Shalott ready to be seen?”

“The light is bad, I am sorry to say,” said Herbert, lingering whilst Mary made a movement towards the easel.

“Don’t push into the room like that, Mary,” said Charlie. “Artists always have models in their studios. Give the young lady time to dress herself.”

“There is a gleam of sunshine now,” said Herbert, gravely, ignoring the lad. “Better have your first look at it while it lasts.”

Mary placed herself before the easel, and gazed earnestly at it, finding that expression the easiest mask for a pang of disappointment which followed her first glance at the canvas. Herbert did not interrupt her for some moments. Then he said in a low voice: “You understand her action, do you not?”

“Yes. She has just seen the reflexion of Lancelot’s figure in the mirror; and she is turning round to look at the reality.”

“She has a deuce of a scraggy collar-bone,” said Charlie.

“Oh, hush, Charlie,” cried Mary, dreading that her brother might roughly express her own thoughts. “It seems quite right to me.”

“The action of turning to look over her shoulder brings out the clavicle,” said Herbert, smiling. “It is less prominent in the picture than it would be in nature: I had to soften it a little.”

“Why didn’t you paint her in some other attitude?” said Charlie.

“Because I happened to be aiming at the seizure of a poetic moment, and not at the representation of a pretty bust, my critical young friend,” said Herbert quietly. “I think you are a little too close to the canvas, Miss Sutherland. Remember: the picture is not quite finished.”

“She can’t see anything unless she is close to it,” said Charlie. “In fact, she never can get close enough, because her nose is longer than her sight. I don’t understand that window up there above the woman’s head. In reality there would be nothing to see through it except the sky. But there is a river, and flowers, and a man from the Lord Mayor’s show. Are they up on a mountain?”

“Charlie, please stop. How can you be so rude?”

“Oh, I am accustomed to criticism,” said Herbert. “You are a born critic, Charlie, since you cannot distinguish a mirror from a window. Have you never read your Tennyson?”

“Read Tennyson! I should think not. What sensible man would wade through the adventures of King Arthur and his knights? I one would think that Don Quixote had put a stop to that style of nonsense. Who was the Lady of Shalott? One of Sir Lancelot’s, or Sir Galahad’s, or Sir Somebody else’s young women, I suppose.”

“Do not mind him, Mr Herbert. It is pure affectation, He knows perfectly well.”

“I don’t,” said Charlie; “and what’s more, I don’t believe you know either.”

“The Lady of Shalott,” said Herbert, “had a task to perform; and whilst she was at work upon it, she was, on pain of a curse, only to see the outer world as it was reflected by a mirror which hung above her head. One day, Sir Lancelot rode by; and when she saw his image she forgot the curse and turned to look at him.”

“Very interesting and sensible,” said Charlie.

“Why mightn’t she as well have looked at the world Straight off out of the window, as seen it left handed in a mirror? The notion of a woman spending her life making a Turkey carpet is considered poetic, I suppose. What happened when she looked round?”

“Ah, I see you are interested. Nothing happened, except that the mirror broke and the lady died.”

“Yes, and then got into a boat; rowed herself down to Hampton Court into the middle of a water party; and arranged her corpse in an attitude for the benefit of Lancelot. I’ve seen a picture of that.

“I see you do know something about Tennyson. Now, Miss Sutherland, what is your honest opinion?”

“I think it is beautiful. The coloring seemed rather dull to me at first, because I had been thinking of the river bank, the golden grain, the dazzling sun, the gorgeous loom, the armor of Sir Lancelot, instead of the Lady herself. But now that I have grasped your idea, there is a certain sadness and weakness about her that is very pathetic.”

“Do you think the figure is weak?” said Herbert dubiously.

“Not really weak,” replied Mary hastily. “I mean that the weakness proper to her story is very touchingly expressed.”

“She means that it is too sober and respectable for her,” said Charlie. “She likes screaming colors. If you had dressed the lady in red and gold; painted the Turkey carpet in full bloom; and made Lancelot like a sugar stick, she would have liked it better. That armor, by the bye, would be the better for a rub of emery paper.”

“Armor is hard to manage, particularly in distance,” said Herbert. “Here I had to contend with the additional difficulty of not making the reflexion in the mirror seem too real.”

“You seem to have got over that pretty successfully,” said Charlie.

“Yes,” said Mary. “There is a certain unreality about the landscape and the figure in armor that I hardly understood at first. The more I strive to exercise my judgment upon art, the more I feel my ignorance. I wish you would always tell me when make foolish comments. There is someone knocking, I think.”

“It is only the housekeeper,” said Herbert, opening the door.

“Mr Jack, sir,” said the housekeeper.

“Dear me! we must have been very late,” said Mary. “It is four o’clock. Now Charlie, pray behave like a gentleman.”

“I suppose he had better come in here,” said Herbert. “Or would you rather not meet him?”

“Oh, I must meet him. Papa told me particularly to speak to him myself.”

Mr Jack was accordingly shewn in by the housekeeper. this time, he displayed linen — a clean collar; and he carried a new hat. He made a formal bow, and looked at the artist and his guests, who became a little nervous.

“Good evening, Mr Jack,” said Herbert. “I see you got my letter.”

“You are Mr Herbert?” said Jack, in his resonant voice which, in the lofty studio, had a bright, close quality like the middle notes of a trumpet. Herbert nodded. “You are not the gentleman to whom I spoke on Saturday?”

“No. Mr Sutherland is not well; and I am acting for him. This is the young gentleman whom I mentioned to you.”

Charlie blushed, and grinned. Then, seeing a humorous wrinkling in the stranger’s face, he stepped forward and offered him his hand. Jack shook it heartily. “I shall get on very well with you,” he said, “if you think you will like me as a tutor.”

“Charlie never works,” said Mary: “that is his great failing, Mr Jack.”

“You have no right to say that,” said Charlie, reddening. “How do you know whether I work or not? I can make a start with Mr Jack without being handicapped by your amiable recommendations.”

“This is Miss Sutherland,” said Herbert, interposing quickly. “She is the mistress of Mr Sutherland’s household; and she will explain to you how you will be circumstanced as regards your residence with the family.”

Jack bowed again. “I should like to know, first, at what studies this young gentleman requires my assistance.”

“I want to learn something about music — about the theory of music, you know,” said Charlie; “and I can grind at anything else you like.”

“His general education must not be sacrificed to the music,” said Mary anxiously.

“Oh! don’t you be afraid of my getting off too easily,” said Charlie. “I dare say Mr Jack knows his business without being told it by you.”

“Pray don’t interrupt me, Charlie. I wish you would go into the next room and look at the sketches. I shall have to arrange matters with Mr Jack which do not concern you.”

“Very well,” said Charlie, sulkily. “I don’t want to interfere with your arrangements; but don’t you interfere with mine. Let Mr Jack form his own opinion of me; and keep yours to yourself.” Then he left the studio.

“If there is to be any serious study of music — I understood from Mr. Herbert that your young brother desires to make it his profession — other matters must give place to it,” said Jack bluntly. “A little experience will shew us the best course to take with him.”

“Yes,” said Mary. After hesitating a moment she added timidly, “Then you are willing to undertake his instruction?”

“I am willing, so far,” said Jack.

Mary looked nervously at Herbert, who smiled, and said, “Since we are satisfied on that point, the only remaining question, I presume, is one of terms.”

“Sir,” said Jack abruptly, “I hate business and know nothing about it. Therefore excuse me if I put my terms in my own way. If I am to live with Mr Sutherland at Windsor, I shall want, besides food and lodging, a reasonable time to myself every day, with permission to use Miss Sutherland’s piano when I can do so without disturbing anybody, and money enough to keep me decently clothed, and not absolutely penniless. I will say thirty-five pounds a year.”

“Thirty-five pounds a year” repeated Herbert. “To confess the truth, I am not a man of business myself; but that seems quite reasonable.”

“Oh, quite,” said Mary. “I think papa would not mind giving more.”

“It is enough for me,” said Jack, with something like a suppressed chuckle at Mary’s simplicity. “Or, I will take a church organ in the neighborhood, if you can procure it for me, in lieu of salary.”

“I think we had better adhere to the usual arrangement,” said Herbert. Jack nodded, and said, “I have no further conditions to make.”

“Do you wish to say anything?” said Herbert, looking inquiringly at Mary.

“No, I — I think not. I thought Mr. Jack would like to know something of our domestic arrangements.”

“Thank you,” said Jack curtly, “I need not trouble you. If your house does not suit me, I can complain, or leave it.” He paused, and then added more courteously, “You may reassure yourself as to my personal comfort, Miss Sutherland. I am well used to greater privation than I am likely to suffer with you.”

Mary had nothing more to say. Herbert coughed and turned his ring round a few times upon his finger. Jack stood motionless, and looked very ugly.

“Although Mr. Sutherland has left this matter altogether in my hands,” said Herbert at last, “I hardly like to conclude it myself. He is staying close by, in Onslow Gardens. Would you mind calling on him now? If you will allow me, I will give you a note to the effect that our interview has been a satisfactory one.” Jack bowed. “Excuse me for one moment. My writing materials are in the next room. I will say a word or two to Charlie, and send him in to you.”

There was a mirror in the room, which Herbert had used as a model. It was so placed that Mary could see the image of the new tutor’s face, as, being now alone with her, he looked for the first time at the picture. A sudden setting of his mouth and derisive twinkle in his eye shewed that he found something half ludicrous, half contemptible, in the work; and she, observing this, felt hurt, and began to repent having engaged him. Then the expression softened to one of compassion; he sighed as he turned away from the easel. Before she could speak Charlie entered, saying:

“I am to go back with you to Onslow Gardens, Mr Jack, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no, Charlie: you must stay with me,” said Mary.

“Don’t be alarmed: Adrian is going on to the Museum with you directly; and the housekeeper is here to do propriety. I have no particular fancy for lounging about that South Kensington crockery shop with you; and, besides, Mr Jack does not know his way to Jermyn’s. Here is Adrian.”

Herbert came in, and handed a note to the tutor, who took it; nodded briefly to them; and went out with Charlie.

“That is certainly the ugliest man I ever saw,” said Herbert. “I think he has got the better of us, too. We are a pretty pair to transact business.”

“Yes,” said Mary, laughing. “He said he was not a man of business; but I wonder what he thinks of us.”

“As of two young children whom fate has delivered into his hand, doubtless, shall we start now for South Kensington?”

“Yes. But I don’t want to disturb my impression of the Lady of Shalott by any more art to-day. It is so fine this afternoon that I think it would be more sensible for us to take a walk in the Park than to shut ourselves up in the Museum.”

Herbert agreeing, they walked together to Hyde Park. “Now that we are here,” said he, “where shall we go to? The Row?”

“Certainly not. It is the most vulgar place in London. If we could find a pleasant seat, I should like to rest.”

“We had better try Kensington Gardens, then.”

“No,” said Mary, remembering Mr Jack. “I do not like Kensington Gardens.”

“I have just thought of the very thing,” exclaimed Herbert. “Let us take a boat. The Serpentine is not so pretty as the Thames at Windsor; but it will have the charm of novelty for you. Will you come?”

“I should like it of all things. But I rely upon you as to the propriety of my going with you.”

Herbert hesitated. “I do not think there can be any harm.”

“There: I was only joking. Do you think I allow myself to be influenced by such nonsense as that? Let us go.”

So they went to the boat-house and embarked. Herbert sculled aimlessly about, enjoying the spring sunshine, until they found themselves in an unfrequented corner of the Serpentine, when he half shipped his sculls, and said, “Let us talk for a while now. I have worked enough, I think.”

“By all means,” said Mary. “May I begin?”

Herbert looked quickly at her, and seemed a little disconcerted. “Of course.” said he.

“I want to make a confession,” she said. “it concerns the Lady of Shalott, of which I have been busily thinking since we started.”

“Have you reconsidered your good opinion of it?”

“No. Better and yet worse than that. I have reconsidered my bad impression of it — at least, I do not mean that — I never had a bad impression of it, but my vacant, stupid first idea. My confession is that I was disappointed at the first sight of it. Wait: let me finish. It was different from what I imagined, as it ought to have been; for I am not an artist, and therefore do not imagine things properly. But it has grown upon me since; and now I like it better than if it had dazzled my ignorant eyes at first. I have been thinking that if it had the gaudy qualities I missed in it, I should not have respected you so much for painting it, nor should I have been forced to dwell on the poetry of the conception as I have been. I remember being secretly disappointed the first time we went to the National Gallery; and, as to my first opera, I suffered agonies of disenchantment. It is a comfort to me — a mean one, I fear — to know that Sir Joshua Reynolds was disappointed at his first glimpse of Raphael’s frescoes in the Vatican, and that some of the great composers thought Beethoven’s music hideous before they became familiar with it.”

“You find that my picture improves on acquaintance?”

“Oh. yes! Very much. Or rather I improve.”

“But are you sure youre not coaxing yourself into a false admiration of it for my — to avoid hurting me?”

“No, indeed,” said Mary vehemently, trying by force of assertion to stifle this suspicion, which had come into her own mind before Herbert mentioned it.

“And do you still feel able to sympathize with my aims, and willing to encourage me, and to keep the highest aspects of my art before me, as you have done hitherto?”

“I feel willing, but not able. How often must I remind you that I owe all my feeling for art to you, and that I am only the faint reflexion of you in all matters concerning it?”

“Nevertheless without your help I should long ago have despaired. Are you quite sure — I beg you to answer me faithfully — that you do not despise me?”

“Mr. Herbert! How can you think such a thing of me? How can you think it of yourself?”

“I am afraid my constant self-mistrust is only too convincing a proof of my weakness. I sometimes despise myself.”

“It is a proof of your artistic sensibility. You do not need to learn from me that all the great artists have left passages behind them proving that they have felt sometimes as you feel now. Take the oars again; and let us spin down to the bridge. The exercise will cure your fancies.”

“Not yet. I have something else to say. Has it occurred to you that if by any accident — by the forming of a new tie, for instance — your sympathies came to be diverted from me, I should lose the only person whose belief in me has helped me to believe in myself? How utterly desolate I should be!”

“Desolate! Nonsense. Some day you will exhaust the variety of the sympathy you compliment me so highly upon. You will find it growing shallow and monotonous; and then you will not be sorry to be rid of it.”

“I am quite serious. Mary: I have felt for some time past that it is neither honest nor wise in me to trifle any longer with my only chance of happiness. Will you become engaged to me? You may meet many better and stronger men than I, but none who will value you more highly — perhaps none to whose life you can be so indispensable.”

There was a pause, Mary being too full of the responsibility she felt placed upon her to reply at once. Of the ordinary maidenly embarrassment she shewed not a trace.

“Why cannot we go on as we have been doing so happily?” she said, thoughtfully.

“Of course, if you wish it, we can. That is, if you do not know your own mind on the subject. But such happiness as there may be in our present indefinite relations will be all on your side.”

“It seems so ungrateful to hesitate. It is doubt of myself that makes me do so. You have always immensely overrated me; and I should not like you to feel at some future day that you had made a mistake. When you are famous, you will be able to choose whom you please, and where you please.”

“If that is the only consideration that hinders you, I claim your consent. Do you not think that I, too, do not feel how little worthy of your acceptance my offer is? But if we can love one another, what does all that matter? It is not as though we were strangers: we have proved one another. It is absurd that we two should say ‘Mr Herbert’ and ‘Miss Sutherland, as if our friendship were an acquaintance of ceremony.”

“I have often wished that you would call me Mary. At home we always speak of you as Adrian. But I could hardly have asked you to, could I?”

“I am sorry you did not. And now, will you give me a definite answer? Perhaps I have hardly made you a definite offer; but you know my position. I am too poor with my wretched £300 a year to give you a proper home at present. For that I must depend on my brush. You can fancy how I shall work when every exertion will bring my wedding day nearer; though, even at the most hopeful estimate, I fear I am condemning you to a long engagement. Are you afraid to venture on it?”

“Yes, I am afraid; but only lest you should find out the true worth of what you are waiting for. If you will risk that, I consent.”