“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