It was a small attic chamber in an obscure part of London. The light that entered at the open window revealed two figures,—Arthur Elliott and his young wife.

“Dear Arthur,” said the latter, as she brushed back the heavy chestnut locks from his pale brow, “you must not—indeed you must not—labor so incessantly. You will injure your health,—perhaps ruin it entirely,—and then what will be left to me?”

“Mary,” said the young painter, caressingly, “you are alarming yourself to no purpose. I am not weary. Besides, what were a little weariness in comparison with the great purpose I have in view? You know the exhibition will open in a fortnight; and my picture is still unfinished. Oh!” continued he, with enthusiasm, while a faint flush overspread his pale cheek, “if it could be my fortune to gain the great prize of five hundred pounds which has been offered for the best painting on exhibition, I believe I could die content!”

“Arthur!” said his wife, reproachfully.

“But better still,” said the young painter, caressingly, “to live and enjoy it with you, my sweet wife! With such a start, what might I not hope for? Fame, fortune, friends, all would be mine. But it is growing late; and I have still much to do before I retire. But do not wait for me, dear Mary: I shall work the faster, if I know that you are reposing.”

Arthur Elliott was the son of a clergyman in one of the midland counties of England. At the age of seventeen, he had entered the office of his uncle, an attorney in London,—a hard, worldly man, wholly engrossed in business. Young Arthur, who was a boy of a sensitive and highly imaginative temperament, found little sympathy with his peculiar tastes in the musty folios over which he was expected to pore day after day, or in the deeds and legal instruments which he was called upon to engross. He devoted his leisure time to obtaining some knowledge of painting from a teacher of that art. He made so great proficiency in this department as to surprise his teacher, who exclaimed, with enthusiasm, that he was born to be an artist.

“And why should I not be?” thought Arthur to himself. “With law I am completely disgusted: I shall never make a figure at it. Why, then, should I not abandon what I so utterly detest, and pursue that which offers so much stronger attraction?”

Full of this resolution, he went to his uncle, and requested his permission to adopt it. But the scheme appeared absurd and chimerical to the man of business; and he utterly forbade Arthur’s cherishing any such plans in future. This, to one of his nephew’s high spirit, was more than he could bear. His place in his uncle’s office was vacant the next day, and remained so. Arthur had collected his little articles of personal property, and fled to the house of his instructor, where, undetected, he pursued his studies with the utmost assiduity. His master had a daughter, a beautiful girl, whose disposition and manners were as amiable as her features were faultless. What wonder that Arthur fell in love, and that the two, with her father’s consent, exchanged vows of fidelity, though both were as yet too young to think of marriage?

This, however, was hastened by an event which plunged them both in affliction. Mary’s father died. She was left alone in the world, with no one but Arthur to depend upon. Arthur was just on the verge of twenty; Mary, but sixteen. Under the circumstances, however, it was thought best that they should marry. Mary’s fortune was but small, her father having left nothing behind him but the materials of his art.

At first, Arthur resolved to follow in the steps of his father-in-law, but, as is too often the case, found that genius unknown is unappreciated. His income became very scanty,—hardly sufficient to supply himself and Mary with the bare necessaries of life.

It was at this stage in their fortunes that it was announced, that, at the annual exhibition of paintings, the prize already alluded to would be awarded to the most meritorious production of art. This offer fired Arthur’s ambition. Why should not he, filled as he was with the inspiration of genius,—why should not he gain it? It was not impossible. He would at least try.

He selected as his subject “The Transfiguration of the Saviour.” Without entering into the details of the painting, which could only be done properly by an artist, it is sufficient to say that the conception was a grand one, and the execution of a high character.

But, in the mean time, how were they to live? The painting on which Arthur was now engaged was a work of time; and it was a considerable period before he could hope to derive any pecuniary profit from it. Thus far, Mary had assisted her husband, as far as she was able, by obtaining work from the slop-shops, which amounted to a mere pittance. But they had learned to live frugally under that sternest of teachers,—Necessity.

II.

It was early in the morning of the day after that on which our story commences. Arthur, worn out by his midnight vigils, had not yet risen. Mary was astir: she had already prepared and eaten a frugal meal; and the small table—the only one in the apartment—was covered with a white cloth, on which was spread, with as tempting an array as the nature of the food would admit, the breakfast intended for her husband.

Suddenly, there was a violent knock at the door. Mary glanced towards her husband,—who was still buried in deep sleep,—apprehensive that he might be awakened, and then went to the door and opened it.

A coarse-featured man entered.

“Good morning, Mrs. Elliott,” was his salutation. “You see I have come for my week’s rent. I am not likely to forget that.”

“The rent!” said Mary, apprehensively. “I am sorry, Mr. Mudge; but I haven’t quite got it ready. I didn’t succeed in finishing the work I had on hand as soon as I anticipated; and I must ask your indulgence for a day or two.”

“Oh, yes! the old story!” said the man, with a sneer. “And if I should come again in a day or two, you wouldn’t have finished the work you have on hand, and would ask for a day or two more. Oh, yes! I am used to such games.”

“But, Mr. Mudge, have I failed you before? and should I be likely to begin now? If you will come on Tuesday, you shall have the money, if I have to pawn some of my furniture to raise it.”

Mr. Mudge was half persuaded, but still sullen. “There’s your husband,—why doesn’t he work? He is able to. You wouldn’t find any difficulty in raising the rent, if he would do something.”

“Arthur works already beyond his strength,” was the wife’s slightly indignant rejoinder (for she could not bear to have any imputation cast upon him); “and some day we shall see what will come of it.”

Just then, her husband stirred in his sleep; and Mary, hastily repeating, “Call again on Tuesday, and you shall have it,” closed the door, and went to his bedside.

“They are a proud set,” said Mudge to himself, as he descended the rickety staircase, which nearly caused him to stumble,—“they are a proud set; and they say pride and poverty always go together. But, if the rent isn’t ready on Tuesday, their pride will be likely to meet with a fall, or my name isn’t Mudge.”

Perceiving that her husband still slept, the artist’s wife took up her work, and began to ply her needle busily. The work she had received from the slop-shop consisted of shirts, for which she received ninepence apiece. She had taken a bundle of six, which, when completed, would amount to a little less than a crown. By great diligence, she could make three of these in two days; which would give them an income of not quite seven shillings per week. Of this sum, one half was obliged to go for the rent of the miserable room in which they lodged.

By and by, Arthur awoke from the deep sleep in which he had been plunged, and looked around him.

“It is late,” said he: “the sun is already high; and I must to work.”

He dressed himself hastily, and partook of the food which his wife had prepared for him.

The next day passed; and Monday afternoon brought to Mrs. Elliott the sad conviction that she had miscalculated as to the rapidity with which she could perform her work, and that she would not, after all, be prepared to meet Mr. Mudge with the rent on the day following. Knowing his unfeeling nature, she could not doubt that he would insist on their instantly vacating the apartment. This was to be avoided at all hazards. She knew her husband’s high spirit; and she feared for the consequences, if Mr. Mudge should be insolent.

Full of this thought, she took a light gold chain, which in happier days her husband had presented to her, and proceeded, with reluctant step, to the pawnbroker’s. It was drawing towards evening; and she hurried through the streets, scarcely daring to look to the right hand or to the left, lest she might meet with some interruption.

Solomon Fagin, a Jew, who fully sustained the reputation of his race, as an avaricious man wholly devoted to the love of gain, stood, with a cringing expression on his drawn-up features, behind the counter of his shop in David’s Alley. He was trafficking, or rather seemed to have just closed a sale, with a young gentleman well dressed and of prepossessing appearance. The latter made way politely for Mary, who was too much pre-occupied to acknowledge his courtesy.

“How much will you advance me on this?” asked she, hurriedly, extending the chain, which had originally been purchased for two guineas.

Solomon looked in her face cunningly, as if to estimate, by the degree of anxiety she displayed, how little he might venture to offer.

Mary was very nervous, and exceedingly anxious to get home before it grew much darker. This probably gave her an appearance of solicitude, which the Jew attributed to destitution.

“These things ish very sheap,” he at length said,—“dog-sheap: people don’t want ’em. I can’t offer you more than ten shillings, and shall lose on that.”

The young gentleman had been an attentive spectator of this scene. He fathomed the cunning of the Jew, and, advancing to the counter, took the chain in his hands.

“Come, Solomon, this is too bad! You should offer three times as much, and you would make a good bargain then. You know, as well as I do, that that chain never cost less than two guineas. Come, come! be honest for once.”

“It ish all very well,” said Solomon, who did not relish the interruption, “vor young shentleman to talk; but if young shentleman should keep a pawnbroker’s shop, he would change his mind.”

“Perhaps so; but I will wait till I am a pawnbroker first. But, Solomon, if you don’t offer more, I’ll take it myself.”

The Jew, who was afraid of losing a good bargain, and internally cursing the interference of the young gentleman, began to mumble that it was very hard to press a poor man so,—that he should certainly lose on it. However, he closed by offering fifteen shillings.

Mrs. Elliott was about to close with this offer; but the other stepped forward, and said,—

“No, no! this will never do. That chain cost two guineas at least. I am sure of it; for I bought one precisely similar the other day. Give it to me, madam,” said he, respectfully, to Mrs. Elliott, “and I will advance you that sum.”

The artist’s wife accepted his proffer with grateful astonishment, and hastened to leave the shop. She had gone but a few steps, when she was overtaken by the chance companion whom she had met at the pawnbroker’s.

“Do not think me bold,” said he, “if I suggest that it is hardly safe to carry money open in your hand; and, indeed, it is so dark, that it is hardly safe at all for a lady to pass through the streets unattended. If you will accept my escort, I shall be most happy to conduct you to your lodgings.”

Mrs. Elliott hesitated. She knew it was scarcely safe to trust to an entire stranger; but the young man’s conduct thus far had so prepossessed her in his favor, that she did not refuse.

“Sir,” she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, “I know not whether I am in the right; but I cannot help trusting you. I do not think you intend to impose upon me. I will trust to you.”

“You shall not regret your confidence,” said her companion. “May I ask where you reside?”

“At 16, S? Street,” was the reply of Mrs. Elliott. “I am much indebted to you, sir, no less for the trouble you are now taking than for the generosity with which you saved me from being imposed upon by the Jew.”

“Oh!” said the other, laughing, “Solomon is a cunning old fellow, who will cheat where he gets a chance. No worse Jew for that, or pawnbroker either. It is their business to cheat; and I fancy Fagin is as much of an adept at it as any one.

“I hope,” he continued, after a pause, “that you were not driven by distress to the sale of an article which you must value highly?”

“It was presented to me by my husband,” was the reply. “I would not have parted with it, but that this was probably the only means of saving ourselves from being turned out of doors.”

“I am sorry for that,” was the sympathizing reply. “Does your husband know that you have come out on such an errand?”

“No, or he would have offered to pawn some of his own clothing first. Of this I was afraid; and it was for this reason that I stole secretly out.”

They had now reached the outer door of the dwelling in the upper part of which Mr. Elliott lodged. It was necessary for them to part.

In parting, the stranger pressed Mrs. Elliott’s hand, and then walked rapidly away. She found, to her astonishment, that he had placed the chain in her hand. But he was now so far distant that she could not call him back. Thanking him in her heart for this unlooked-for generosity, Mrs. Elliott went up stairs with a light heart; for she foresaw, that, with the sum of money of which she had so providentially come into possession, they would be able to live comfortably for some weeks; in addition to which, she would have it in her power to procure some delicacies for her husband’s palate.

After a little consideration, she decided not to mention this adventure to her husband; as the idea of her selling his gift would be painful to him, and would do him no good. There was no danger of his inquiring, so much was he absorbed in his painting. Besides, if he thought at all upon the subject, he would think she had been out on business connected with her work.

She hastily passed up stairs, and set about preparing supper for herself and husband.

III.

The sun was not more punctual to his hour of rising than was the visit of Mr. Mudge, the landlord, to the lodging of the artist.

“Well,” said he, abruptly, “have you got the rent ready? I can’t wait a day longer.”

“Nor will it be necessary,” said Mrs. Elliott, calmly. “Here is the money.”

Mr. Mudge, notwithstanding his love of money, looked a little disappointed at this ready payment. His mind was essentially a vulgar one; and he felt an instinctive aversion to Mrs. Elliott, whose superiority to himself he could not help admitting. He had hoped to have the pleasure of turning them out.

“Well, they won’t always have ready money,” was his internal reflection; “and, the first good excuse I have, they shall go, bag and baggage.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Elliott was making progress on his painting.

“You deserve the prize, Arthur,” said his wife, after gazing admiringly upon her husband’s work,—“you deserve it; and I hope that you will be successful in obtaining it.”

“It has cost me many hours of hard labor,” said the artist, wearily, as he laid aside his pallet for a moment, and passed his hand across his brow. “I never felt so great an interest in a picture before; and now two days’ labor, I think, will complete it. It needs but a few touches.”

As he spoke, Mary saw an unnatural flush upon his cheek, and that his eye glowed with an unusual brilliancy. She was alarmed.

“Do, Arthur, for my sake, lie down and rest a while. You do not look well, and sleep will refresh you. You say two days will finish it, and you have a week before you.”

“I believe I will lie down for a few minutes,” said Arthur; “for my head aches strangely, and I feel weary.”

He laid down; but it did not refresh him. In a little while, he became feverish, so that he could not leave his bed. His wife went out to summon a physician. All her hopes centred in Arthur; and the thought that he was sick, that he was in danger, quickened her step. She saw nothing that was going on around her, so intent was she on her object, till suddenly some one touched her familiarly on the shoulder. She looked around, and saw by her side the companion whom she had encountered at the pawnbroker’s.

“I am happy to meet you once more,” said he; “but you seem in haste.”

“Yes,” said she, hurriedly; “my husband has been suddenly taken sick, and I am in pursuit of a physician.”

“Let me relieve you of that duty. If you will return to your husband, who doubtless needs your presence, I will summon a physician. I know your lodgings, and will return with medical assistance immediately.”

Mrs. Elliott gratefully accepted this proffer of service, for she had felt much solicitude. When she returned, she found her husband seized with a fit of delirium, in which he uttered incoherent sentences, all of which had some connection with his picture and the approaching exhibition.

In a few minutes, the stranger returned with a physician. To the anxious inquiries of Mrs. Elliott, the doctor replied,—

“Your husband is suffering from the excitement and fatigue consequent upon too severe mental exertion. This has thrown him into a fever, from which it will take time to recover.”

After leaving directions, he withdrew, promising to repeat his visit the next day.

“How much my poor husband will be disappointed!” Mrs. Elliott could not help exclaiming. “He must now abandon the hope of presenting his picture at the exhibition.”

“What!” said her visitor, with interest, “is your husband an artist?”

In reply, Mrs. Elliott led him to a corner of the room, and withdrew the screen that concealed the painting.

He gazed upon it with deep admiration for some minutes, and then said, with enthusiasm,—

“Ah! this is indeed beautiful!”

“It is nearly completed,” said the artist’s wife; “but that will be of no service to us now.” And she let fall the screen, and sighed heavily.

A sudden idea struck the visitor.

“Will you trust the painting to me for a few days?” he asked. “You shall not regret it.”

Mrs. Elliott, convinced that her husband would not recover in time to finish it, assented without difficulty. She never thought of distrusting one who had been of such essential service.

“Thank you,” said the visitor. “As you have reposed this confidence in me, I must acquaint you with my name and address, that you may know whom you have trusted.”

He handed her a card containing the following direction: “F. Sedley, 7, Covent Place.”

“I will send for it this afternoon,” said he, as he withdrew, “and will call in upon you again to-day or to-morrow. I shall be anxious to learn how your husband gets on.”

The delirium which attended the early stages of Mr. Elliott’s indisposition continued for some days. At length, consciousness returned.

“How long have I been sick?” he inquired.

He was told.

“And what day is it now?”

“Wednesday, the fourteenth.”

“And to-morrow the exhibition will take place. Oh that I could have held out but two days longer! I would have asked for no more. In that time I should have completed my painting, and it would have been entered in competition. Fate seems to be against me.”

He groaned, and covered his face with his hands.

“But,” said his wife, soothingly, “remember, dear Arthur, that, if Fate seems against us, God is always with us. He orders every thing in infinite wisdom.”

“But,” was the hardly reconciled answer, “his ways are very difficult of comprehension. The wisdom is hidden. I cannot see it.”

“Yet,” said his wife, full of hopeful confidence, “if we trust in him, we shall not be deceived.”

“But,” said Arthur, after a pause, “how shall we live in the mean time? I can do nothing now for our support; and much of your time is taken up in attendance upon me.”

“I am richer than you think,” said Mary, opening her purse, and displaying the sum she had received from her visitor, much of which was still untouched.

To his inquiries how she obtained it, she replied by unfolding the whole story, and indulged in the warmest encomiums on the generosity and kindness of Mr. Sedley, whose providential interposition had saved her from being imposed upon by the avaricious pawnbroker. Arthur was interested in the recital, and expressed a wish to become acquainted with him. After a pause, he inquired for the painting. “Let me look upon it once more,” said he. “Perhaps I shall be better able to judge of its merits after a lapse of time.”

Mary looked embarrassed. “Excuse me,” said she to her husband; “but Mr. Sedley expressed a wish to carry it home with him for a few days, and I could not refuse. Doubtless he wished to exhibit it to some of his friends; and in that way it may find a purchaser.”

Arthur acquiesced in this conclusion, and approved of the course which Mary had adopted.

IV.

It was the morning of the exhibition,—a clear, bright morning in September, which seemed to combine all the balmy softness of summer with a freedom from its excessive heat. The sun shone down upon the numberless roofs of the great city, and found its way into the lanes and alleys, lighting them up, for the hour, with a brightness not their own. Through the little window—the only one—by which light was admitted into the room where the Elliotts lodged, the golden rays streamed in, and lent their glory to the face of the sleeping artist, who had not yet awakened from the night’s slumber.

There was a knock at the door. Mary opened it; and Mr. Sedley made his appearance.

“To-day,” said he, “is the day of the exhibition. Will you accompany me? I have a free pass.”

“But my husband?” said she, doubtfully. “I cannot leave him.”

“I have provided for that. I have brought a nurse with me, who will take your place, and remain here with your husband. She is skilful and experienced, and you can safely trust him in her hands.”

Here the sleeper awoke, and Mary introduced Mr. Sedley to her husband. The latter thanked him warmly for the interest he had manifested in their welfare, and insisted on Mary’s accompanying him to the exhibition.

“Though I shall have no part in it,” he said, “I still wish to hear all about it.”

Mary could no longer refuse, but, dressing herself as neatly as her limited wardrobe would admit, prepared to accompany Mr. Sedley. To her surprise, she found a private carriage waiting, with the usual accompaniments of a coachman and a footman; the latter of whom very deferentially opened the door of the carriage, and waited for her to enter.

She began to entertain new ideas of her companion’s consequence. The carriage dashed boldly through the narrow streets, until it emerged from them into the more fashionable and crowded thoroughfares.

Mary found sufficient to amuse her in the splendid carriages, many of them surmounted with a coronet, all hastening in the same direction with themselves. There was an unusual number in the streets,—a circumstance which was easily explained by the interest and curiosity which had been awakened by the exhibition.

At length, they reached the magnificent hall in which it was to be held. The porter bowed deferentially to Mr. Sedley as he made way for him to pass.

And now they are in the room. What a magnificent collection! It represented the combined genius of the British artists, nearly all of whom had contributed to it. Mary, who, though no artist, had caught something of the spirit from her husband, looked about her in speechless admiration.

“This is indeed grand!” said she, at last. “It surpasses my highest expectations.”

“It is indeed,” said Mr. Sedley. “England has good cause to be proud of her artists. But see! do you not recognize an old acquaintance?”

Mary looked, and, to her unbounded surprise, beheld “The Transfiguration of Christ”—her husband’s painting—suspended against the wall. Mr. Sedley hastened to explain.

“I thought it a pity,” he said, “that so fine a picture should be lost to the exhibition. I accordingly hired an artist to give it the last touches, and had it brought here.”

Mary thanked him with a glance full of gratitude. She looked again, and beheld her husband’s picture surrounded by eager admirers. Among them were the titled and noble; and it was with an emotion of pride that she heard the expressions of admiration which it elicited, and the eager questionings as to the author’s name.

“I do not know,” she heard one say: “I believe it is some protÉgÉ of Sir Francis Sedley. At all events, he presented it.”

“Sir Francis Sedley?” she inquired, pausing, and looking in her companion’s face.

“I cannot deny it,” said he, smiling. “But come: let us draw nearer to the head of the hall: the prizes are to be announced.”

They pressed forward; and the chairman of the committee arose, and after a few preliminary remarks, in which he commented on the difficulty they had experienced in making the award, and congratulated himself on the splendid collection which had that day been brought together, announced that the first prize, of five hundred pounds, was awarded to Arthur Elliott for his painting entitled “The Transfiguration.”

Loud shouts rang through the hall.

Mary was oppressed by the fulness of her joy.

“Let me go out into the air,—I shall feel relieved,” she said.

Sir Francis kindly accompanied her.

“Oh, sir!” said she, “it is to you that we are indebted for this great joy. Poor Arthur! how he will be delighted!”

“Will you not return to him and communicate it?” asked Sir Francis.

A hackney coach was called, and Mrs. Elliott soon arrived at her lodgings.

“Oh, Arthur!” said she. “The prize! the prize!” It was all that she could utter.

“Who has got it?” asked the sick man, eagerly, as he rose in his bed.

“It is yours! They have awarded it to you!”

A proud flush passed over the faint cheek of the artist. “I am satisfied,—I am happy,” said he.

The joy occasioned by his success operated most beneficially on the sunken energies of the artist. Before many weeks, he recovered fully, so as to resume his art. His prize painting was sold for a great sum to an English nobleman, who was bent on adding it to his collection.

At present, there is a beautiful cottage situated a few miles out of London, in the suburbs. There is a pleasant garden connected with it, and it seems the abode of peace and happiness. This is the residence of the eminent artist, Arthur Elliott, and his happy wife. There are few households to whom it has fallen to enjoy such unalloyed happiness as theirs. They have not forgotten the author of their prosperity. In the library of Sir Francis Sedley there hangs a beautiful picture,—a perfect gem of art,—on the back of which is traced, in delicate characters,—

“Arthur Elliott to his Benefactor.”