The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 982, 24 December 1890, Page 25

The Novelist.

an artistic mystery.

H»d Mr Wrex been a rich man the wor id of art would, assuredly, have known him as one of its premier patrons. Hie devotion to artwaa a religion, his love of the beautiful in art partook of worship ; and though his friends, when speaking of biro, shrugged their shoulders and referred to this passion as a fad and a hobby, they ne\ ertheless credited him with a certain oritioal perception io matters pertaining to it. After all, they would argue, it was a small matter to have to defer to the opinion of snoh an inoffensive person on so trivial a enbjeot as piotures!— knowing, as they did, that all the special knowledge he assumed was worthless from a commeroial point of view. For Mr Wrex was an amateur in the true sense of the word, his funds being insufficient to allow him to do muoti elso than admire. Not that he had any inclination to trade on his skill in judgment. He would have scorned to prostitute his connoisseur, ship to such mean ends, He deemed it too ssored a qualification for that. No ! had cironmstances permitted, hia ambition would have been to make a famous collection of the works of the Old Masters, to have devoted his life to that end, and then left the collection to the ‘nation.’ That was his dream. Most men are contented with the prospect of benefitting an individual —often more so with the prospeot than with the deed ; but in ‘ the nation ’ Mr Wrex saw a collective unit which he in fancy made his debtor, and in fancy heard its ‘ still small voice of gratitude.’ But Mr Wrex was nob rich, as any one visiting his little cottage could tell at a glance. Nor would the stranger, judging by the specimens of pictures and cheap statuary that decked Mr Wrex’s parlour, have deemed him the man of taste he really was. Only those intimate with him knew how deeply—and, aB they sometimes thought, unpleasantly—he was versed in artistic lore ; knew of the small, but select library bearing on art whioh he possessed; of the piles of picture catalogues that 1 filled the cottage; of the hours he spent in galleries and In pottering about the, musty shops of small dealers. Some few of them, who occasionally had perforce to I listen when their learned friend grew dis- 1 ooursive on his favourite theme, knew ot } these things, But the stranger would have set Mr Wrex down merely as the owner of a number of stained tawdry prints and grimy, worthless canvases, little knowing that often among these was to be found a rarity—soiled, perhaps, but of soma value none the less.

But so it was. The prints were, some of them, the work of famous hands, some of the oils, original trifles, by pupils of old artists—evincing to Mr Wrex traces of the master hand. The owner had a history of each and a surpassing love for all collectively. Mr Wrex was a quiet little man, neither young nor old, but his hair wa3 gray and his habits those of sober years. Ever since he could remember he had lived on a diminutive legacy inherited from a departed aunt. In his youth he had worked and striven to create, but, whether from want of ability or the proper fnstruotion, the noble thoughts that had filled him never appeared on can. vas. When the truth dawned upon him that he lacked the necessary qualifications to make a great name, he quietly put palette and brushes aside, gave up painting, and turned for consolation to the study and admiration of the genius of other men. Sooner than he expected, his want of success as a painter and the grief It had occasioned him were forgotten in this delightful study. The contemplation of the famous works of the masters made him lose all regret for the non-existence of any small talent in himself.

He haunted the art galleries and the salerooms, and was a prominent fignre wherever painters and connoisseurs gathered. In time he was known and respected by buyers and sellers alike for his clear and just perception of all that is best in art; in short, he became distinguished as the possessor of that rare quality, a valuable and unprejudiced criticism. But if Mr Wrex made a valuation, or passed a judgment, or rendered anybody some similar service, he did so without payment. The pleasure such thinga afforded him was sufficient return. let many an unconsidered trifle, Buch as a smalt pioture of merit but lacking a name to give it value, was forced on him by those who felt under an obligation to him. These helped to swell hia ‘ collection,' though none of them, however choice, were permitted to oust from its plaoe of honor on his parlor wall the one gem he had acquired by his own nice discernment and paid for out of his own pocket. This was a female head painted on wood with extreme delicacy and finish. The moment Mr Wrex had caught sight of it in the dark reoesß in a small dealer's den, he knew he had alighted on a veritable antique, nothing less than one of El Divino Morale’s Saints. At great inconvenience b 6 had, there and then, purchased it for 25s and oarried his treasure home. By dint of perseveranoe and care in the cleaning, he restored Borne of its pristine brilliancy of bue and exeoution to the pioture, in one of whose corners the traces of the artist's signature were now visible.

The pride Mr Wrex took in exhibiting this work to hia friend, now that its authenticity was established, oau with difficulty be expressed, No collection, to his knowledge, even possessed a copy of it. It was. absolutely unique ; one of the few specimens of El Divino’s work out of Spain, But the praise accorded to it by its neighbours Mr Wrex felt to be strained. They lacked the nice appreciation whioh only the educated in art possess, the enthusiasm of the amateur, the homage of tho student to the master, which he himself felt, and which he would have exacted from » spectator. Only Miss Maly on among all hrs friends would, he knew, appreciate the pioture aB it deserved, comprehend its beauties, and linger over them with tender reverence. Miss Malyon waa an artist without a name.

In other words, the letters whioh composed it had never yet been affixed to her canvases. Indeed, the better her productions the more neoesaary for them to go nameless into the market. For Miss MaijK, nM e J ay . ia ma , ki , n 2 accurate copies of the Old Masters, and she was retained by a hrm of dealers to do nothing e'se. Mr VV'rex had first met her in a publio gallery, where she, in common with other students was at work. He had remarked the accu’racy of a reduoed copy of Titian’s. ‘ Flora ’ on which she jwae engaged, complimented her on her talent, and bo drifted into oonversation. Miss Malyon was no longer young ; she had long been'a working mem. ber of the human hive, and accordingly felt no painful shyness in exchanging artistic amenities with a stranger. The freemasonry of her oraft, moreover, permitted such civill. ties, and, for the rest, Mr Wrex was a staid sober-speaking person whom any woman might have acknowledged without hesitation. They met constantly, each regarding the o her with respect, which, as they became better acquainted, ripened into admiration. Between them they represented the theory and practice of art, and a truly platonio friendship ensued. So, in due course, Miss Malyon was taken to see the Morales, and the cup of Mr Wrex’s happiness was filled when, after many minutes spent in silent admiration, Mls3 Malyon expressed her admiration. *lt is truly great!’ she cried. Poor Mr Wrex felt his eyes moistening. At last due reverence was paid to art and artist both. He felt his heart suddenly warm to the i .ight figure whose uplifted, grave, gray eyes rested with rapture on the image of the saint. ‘lt is the lost St. Cecilia,’ he murmured. * Painted by El Divino when he was in Italy with Raphael.’ ‘Yes, surely, it is a Morales,’ said Miss Malyon. ‘Oh, Mr Wrex, it must be priceless.’ ‘I shall not sell it,’said Mr Wrex, with decision. After that they fell to discussing its perfections. For a time Mr Wrex disoonrsed learnedly on the tone and texlure of his gem. But in Bpite of himself his eyes began to wander from the pictured face to that of the living one beside him, and Mr Wrex, for the first time in his life, forgot the technicalities of art in tho contemplation of nature’s handiwork. When at length he parted from Miss Malyon he somehow felt his admiration of the paiDtiDg absorbed in something else whioh he coaid not exaotly define. Only this he knew, no one had ever before listened to him with the charming attention displayed by Miss Malyon; that he had a hundred things still to say to her, and that he must see her again shortly, Very soon he did again see her, nearly every day, in faot, each meeting convincing him more and more of her sweeineßs and her worth, until middleaged Mr Wrex gave up his love of art for the art of love, and regretted not his ohange of sentiment.

Before many months Miss Malyon beoame Mrs Wrex, and the little cottage held a greater treasure than even that of El Divino Morales.

Mr Wrex had always been a contented man; he held the conviction that those who possess what'we oovet are not a jot more happy than onrselves, and he refrained from chasing disappointment by thinking more of wh*t he had and less of what he desired.

But now he had nothing more to desire—his happiness was complete. Marion Wrex was a woman blessed with qualities of the mind and heart each as most men look for in their wives, and suoh as few men find—qualities whioh Mr Wrex himself was not deficient in, and which were accordingly most apparent in one so dear to him as Marion. Moreover, the very nature of hiß wife’s calling was an additional virtue in his eyes, for virtue and art were synonymous terms to Mr Wrex. No pair ever enjoyed truer felicity than these mature lovers, whose passion was no transient blaze to pass away in smoke, bat a steady and enduring devotion likely to laßt their lives.

Of worldly cares they had none. Mr Wrex’ annuity and his wife’s earnings proved ample for their modest wants, and for more than a year they pursued the even tenor of their way, wrapped up in eaoh other and in art. There came a time, however, when a contingency, whioh these simple people bad not forßßen, brought home to them the startling truth that wrinkled care ever keeps his watoh on too much happiness. Marion conld no longer go to her work at the galleries, and, owing to the impossibility of following her occupation at home, was perforoe idle. Yet neither was dismayed by the temporary reduction of their income occasioned thereby, while the approaching advent of a little stranger afforded a touon of joy before which troubles of the hour grew dim. In course of time a baby face cheered the father with the comforting assurance that soon his Marion would be herself again, and he beat away the fears that had beset him when he gazed upon the store of savings whioh of late had diminished day by day. A week or two henoe, he said to himself, Marion would be sitting before her canvas and he beside her.

Bat this was not to be. Week upon week dragged its weary length along, bringing back neither health nor strength to Marlon. Poor Mr Wrex waited and watched by her bedside, praying for the hour when she should shake off the cruel hand of sickness, wondering—with a touoh of unconscious fretfulness—why the child, a little girl, should thrive so well while her mother suffered. And yet the weeks rolled on, and his prayers for Marion remained nnanswered. It seemed sb if she were fated to become a confirmed invalid.

Soon the savings were all gone, and money was wanted badly to defray the many expenses, whioh, in spite of every care, augmented daily. These were anxious moments for Mr Wrex, who foronce ardently longed for riches wherewith to buy baok his beloved Marlon’s fast waning health. Anxious and more terrible they grew, until at last'in debt and at the bitter end of his resources, he wearily strove to look the miserable future in the face.

As long as he was able he oonoealed the host of doubts and fears that beset him from «• wife. But Marion's eyes ere long noted the trouble that oppressed him, and he, poor man, unable to disguise the unhappy truth with dim eyes and trembling lips, told her the said story of his need. His fears were all for her. She knew that, though he abstained from dweiiing on her condition, and, once his mind unburdened, tried in’ deed to make light of it, oheering her with hope for the future, which, though he knew it not, bore the acoent of depression with which he was so deeply tinged. Maiion’s thin white hand sought his. He clasped and kissed it Boftly. ‘Yon mast sell the pioture, dear. When I am better I will paint a copy of it,’ she whispered.

‘ What! —sell the Morales ?’ . She nodded sorrowfully. ‘ There is noth ing else, dear, is there ?’ * No—there is nothing else.’ ‘ You are not angry with me, John ?’ ‘Angry? Ah, no. dear one I But—the Morales ! Yet yon are right, it must be so, I will sell it.’

*lt is an original.’ she oontinued, after a pause. ‘ There is no doubt of that ?’ ‘ Doubt ? No, surely there is no donbt.’ ‘Do you know,’ said Marion slowly, her voice weak and low from continued illness ‘do you know, dear, that since baby was born, a fancy has come to me that somewhere, I do not know where. I have seen a duplicate of it. The thought first came to me as I lay, half-dreaming, one evening. Perhaps it is only fanoy, yet—’ She ceased speaking, and a fresh and horrible dread seized upon Mr Wrex. If there were anything in Marion’s fanoy, if she had really seen a duplicate of the Morales, then might it not be only a copy after all, a paltry imitation which would no more fetoh a sum such as he required than would one of the many counterparts of noted pictures suoh as Marion produced for her employers ? Were this so—and suspicion’s doubting tongue kept repeating that it was—all prospect of relief was gone, the door of hope was closed.

The poor man sought his gem, took It down from the wall, and scanned it narrowly. Had his judgment e red—was it counterfeit, after all? He could not bear to dwell upon the possibility of such a thing. With nervous fingers he detached it from the frame, wrapped it in paper, and, with it under his arm, hurried out. Despite his feverish haste It took him more than an hour to reach hia destination. With beating heart he rang the bell of the keeper’s door at the National Gallery. He knew the official and would submit the picture to his judgment. Then, if hia fears were not continue!, if it were judged authentic, he knew where he should find a ready buyer. Mr Wrex, as he waited, looked up and down at the cold gray walls of the building, the inspection of its gloomy fagade and heavy proportions tending to increase the dismal state of mind that oppressed him. Presently the heavy door swung back. He was admitted and conducted to a room, halfoffice, half-gallery, in which the keeper attended to his duties. Around him were pictures on the walls, the chairs and the floor; framed and unframed ; iu packing cases and ready for packing. Faoing him was a Turner,.' admail sunlit scene that seemed to have caught a glint of light in its transparent middle distanoe, and kept it there to glorify the genius of the painter. He saw nothing; only starod into space while he waited. A footstep at the door made him start. He turned and confronted the keeper. ‘ Well, Mr Wrex,’ said the official, Mr Pomfret by name, ‘it is a long time since we have seen you here. What can we do for you ?’ Without answering, Mr Wrex drew his picture from its cover, placed it against a ohair and stepped back. ‘ Hallo ! what have you there ?’ exclaimed the other advancing. ‘ You tell me,’ said Mr Wrex, hoarsely. Mr Pomfret gave him a qniok and ques tioning look, then walked to a packing ease at the further end of the room, took from it a picture and placed it by the side of the one Mr Wrex had brought. To an ordinary observer they were identical; so like that each might have been a reflection of the other. Both were panels, of the same size, the same colouring, seemingly painted by the same hand. Yet there was a trifling difference, an indefinable something that, to a trained eye, was sufficient to indicate which of the two was the original; a difference so slight, however, that nothing short of oomparisoD would have revealed it. Silently the keeper watched his visitor, who, with haggard face and clinched hands, stood breathing hard and painfully, looking from one to the other.

‘Yours is a very good copy,’ Bald Mr Pomfret, presently. ‘ Copy ! ’ whispered the poor man. ‘ Well, yes, I’m afraid so, Mr Wrex. You see, it cannot well be the original, which has been lying here for a couple of years at least.”

‘ A couple of years—here ! ’ repeated Mr Wrex, weakly. ‘ Yes, it is altogether a remarkable inoident,’ continued Mr Pomfret. ‘ Not long ago I found a case which seems to have lain in an out-of-the-way corner and to have escaped the notice of everybody for the last two years. Among the canvases it contained waß this, which I have satisfied myself is a Morales, an early work painted in Italy and probably meant for St. Coollia. I have not yet notified its discovery to the authorities.’

_Mr Wrex listened, but he heard not. Within him another voice than the keeper’s was speaking. A oruelf despondent voice ; a voice that breathed despair and hopelessness, a voice of sickness and sorrow and want. ‘Go away !’ it oried. ‘Go baok to your unhappy home, to your suffering wife, and tell her the bitter truth that will make her wan oheek whiter still. Tell her the dnli and desolate story that shall rob her of her lingering taste for life. Picture to her the destitute present, the dreary future, full of anxiety and weariness, and the struggle for existence whioh is before yon both. Go and cease to strive against fate—it is a hope! >-•* task,’ * Water—a little water !’ moaned the unhappy man, tottering to a seat,

The keeper, a humane person, and respecting hia humble acquaintance, whoso evident, though secret, trouble he sympathlsed with, hastened out. Returning quiokly, he held a glass to the sufferer’s lips and did his best to cheer him. But Mr Wrex refused to be comforted. With deep dejection imprinted on his face he ro«e, and without heeding the other’s kindly meant attempt to learn and sooth his troubles, prepared to go. Mr Pomfret, far from showing any annoyance at this want of confidence, assisted Mr Wrex, wrapped his pioture in its paper covering and walked with him from the room. As he passed into the street Mr Wrex, who, in spite of his own grief, appreciated the official’s kindness and forbearance, tried to frame some few words of thanks, but an inarticulate 'murmur only oame from his lips; his mind was in a state of chaos, Mr Pomfret, with a pitying look, watched him move listlessly away. He Bhook his head doubtfully as he closed the door, and then went back to his office much exercised in mind concerning his visitor and his strange behaviour. In the meantime Mr Wrex wandered aimlessly on. His mind, a prey to conflicting emotions, on one point only served him. Money he must have—money for his beloved Marion. Unless he returned to her with some, her fate was sealed. And now what ohance had he of finding any ? The pioture, on the sale of which he had centred all his hopes, was worthless ; the one treasure he believed himself possessed of had proved to be a delusion— a copy whioh, if put up at auction, might fetoh a handful of silver, but no more 1 Yet, what was it made him tremble anew, caused his breath to come short and quick and his blood to course violently through his veins ? * Why not ?’ he whispered to himself. ‘Why not? I was mistaken, duped—and otherß ? Is my judgment worse than theirs ? May not another think as I did—and buy? It is no ciime to bo mistaken—man is sob . infallible I Why should I hesitate, then—l, who am in suoh sore need? No ! I dare not will not. Oh ! dear wife, for your sake only must I do it 1’

He hurried on, his sudden resolve to offer the picture for sale as an authentic production of Morales growing stronger as he went; his conscience, by the straits of circumstances, becoming gradually regulated to the action be premeditated. He was in Boud street now. Threading his way swiftly through the crowd, he kept on until he reached a small shop in whose window one or two good piotures were exhibited. At the door he hesitated, turned, his courage failing him; but the next moment, struggling to stifle the wayward beating of bis heart, pushed open the door and walked in.

Half-way down a well-draped and soft oaspeted ante-room, through whose double doors a well-lighted gallery beyond was visible, stood two gentlemen, one the proprietor, a clean-shaven man ; the other, his customer, a nobleman, well known by sight to Mr Wrex as the owner of a 08lebrated collection and a generous patron of the arts. They were engaged in animated conversation before a canvas, and did not perceive the new comer for a few moments.

‘ I dare say yon are right,’ the amateur was saying, ‘ still, I do not care to purchase it solely on my own judgment. If you have no objeceion, Mr Calmar, I will bring a friend to look at it.’

‘By all means, my lord,’returned Mr Calmar, who, though one of the most eminent connoisseurs in Europe, would nevertheless listen to a customer’s doubts with perfect good temper. ‘By all means ; it is worth looking at. Ah, Mr Wrex,’ he continued, as he caught sight of the latter, ' you are come at an opportune moment. His lordship and I will both be glad of your opinion. Step this way a moment. Mr Wrex bowed, and, hat in hand, advanced toward them.

‘lf I am not mistaken,’ he said, humbly, after looking at the picture for a moment, “it is by Cornelius Vroom, and a very fine specimen.

* Quite right,’ said Mr Calmar, smiling. Then, turning to the other, ‘ Mr Wrex is seldom wrong, my lord. He is well and favourably known in artistic circles.’ ‘So I have heard,’ said his lordship, pleasantly. ‘And as regards the picture, his decision satisfies me. I will take it at the price you named, Mr Calmar.’ ‘lt shall be sent off at once, your lordship,’ returned the dealer. ‘Bat I fancy Mr Wrex has something with him which we should like to see. Ia it not so, Mr Wrex ?’ ‘I think so-possibly,’replied Mr Wrex, in tones whioh he strove to keep steady, while his trembling fingers produced the panel and held it toward them. They bent forward to inspect it, Mr Wrex meanwhile anxiously watching their faces. ‘Eh—what is this?’ asked Mr Calmer, with much interest. ‘ Where did you get this ?’ ‘ I bought it—more than a year ago,’ replied Mr Wrex, his voice proclaiming the emotion he felt. *Do you know what it is ?’ asked the other, looking up sharply. ‘lt is a fine work, whatever it may be,’ interrupted his lordship, who seemed to have caught some of the dealer’s excitement. ‘ What is it ?’ ‘ A Morales 1 An El Divino Morales 1 I am oertain—positive: One look proclaims it. You ctnnofc doubt what I say ?’ Mr Wrex ended in a shrill, discordant voice ; his face was haggard and on his brow there stood large beads of moisbnre. But neither of the other noticed the strangeness of his manner ; their attention was riveted on the picture. ‘ No, no; there is no doubt,’ said Mr Calmar, quickly. ‘No doubt. It is a Morales. What else could it be ? And yon wish to sell it, Mr Wrex V ‘Yes—it is o f no use to me,’ was the burried reply, ‘ I cannot kept suoh a pioture, so I brought it to you, knowing you would like the first offer.’

‘ What is the price you ask ?’ demanded His Lordship. *I do not know ; I have not thought of the prioe,’ said Mr Wrex, dropping his eyes. ‘ What is it worth, Mr Calmar,

The latter pondered a few minutes. you six hundred pounds for it, Mr Wrex,’he said eagerly. ‘Come, we will say eight,’ added his lordship, seeing Mr Wrex hesitate. *Mr Calmar shall give yon eight hundred for it, and I will relieve him of it at a reasonable advance. What do you say ?’ ‘ I am satisfied, ’ said Mr Wrex, with a quaver in his voice. ‘Take it.’ He turned away, and was it a prayer of thanksgiving or a low ory for pardon that left his lips ? Not even he himself could Haii an hour later, dazed and agitated, he left the shop on Bond street, his pocket heavy with Mr Cslmar’s gold. ‘Philosophy,’ says Roohefouoald. * triumphs easily over past and over future evils ; bat present evils triumph over philosophy.’ r

Never did phrase more aptly apply than this to the case of Mr Wrex. Daring his journey home he did nothing but frame excusea far the doubtful aotion of whioh ha had been guilty. For a time he had no more difficulty in finding suoh than he had in justifying himself when the temptation to act first presented itself. And though strong as was the plea of a siok and suffering wife, when his conscience set up in self defence, there came a moment when he felt it but an unsatisfactory exculpation for bis u* trul y, this same philosophy, though a -good horse in the stable proved to Mr Wrex but a sorry steed on a journey. He drove away the sting of conscience, however, by the time he rejoined Marion, who, listening to the welcome news her husband brought, was, for the first time for many weeks, roused into animation by its enlivening narration. Whether, indeed, owing to her husband's success and the consequent ease and comfort his money provided, or that she had reached a turningpoint ia her malady, Marion began to mend m health. Her progress towards convalescence was rapid and sustained. At the end of a week she was able to leave her bed. Time did the rest, and Marion speedily was herself again. With health came content, ment once more. Soon the past, with all its sad memories, faded from their minds. Grief had had its day, and was forgotten. When a little later Marion resumed her occupation at the galleries Mr Wrex found a new duty to perform. Instead of accompanying her as hitherto, it often happened that of his own desire he stayed home in company with his little girl. Marion was not averse to this arrangement, for, mother, like, she was glad to know that a watchful eye waß there to control the nurse, if necessary.

As for the child, she throve and grew strong and comely, and was a source of constant happiness to Mr Wrex. With her he found it easy to put away those many troublous ethical doubt- that, in spite of himself, at times would vex his mind. That one questionable act of his only did not cease to give him pain, but even that as he looked back to it, in time lost much of its disquieting keenness. He convinced himself that he had, after all, practiced no deception. The picture must all along have been genuine, and Mr Pomfret mistaken. So, at least, said his conscience, dulled by the placid monotony of his existence. It was with innocent surprise then that one after, noon, being at home, he received a visit from no less a person than Mr Pomfret. There was a stern look in the keeper’s face, and an angry glitter in his eye. But Mr W f ex notioed not these things, only received him with marks of deep pleasure and respect. ‘ This is indeed an honour, sir,’ he said, bowing his visitor to a ohair, « May I ask to what fortunate cause it is owing ? ’ I So yon pretend to be innocent of the reason, Mr Wrex?’ said Mr Pomfret. sourly. ‘lndeed, sir, I can not guess why yon should oome so far to see so humble a person as myself, I am sorry Mrs Wrex is not at home to share my pleasure.’ ‘I have to deal with yon only—and I am glad I find you alone,’ oontinued the other. The cold tone and severe manner of the speaker were such that Mr Wrex, wondering, waited to hear more before responding. ‘I have come to you to speak about the picture yon brought me some mouths ago,* said Mr Pomfret. ‘You have not forgotten the occasion, I suppose ?’ ‘ No,’ faltered Mr Wrex uneasily. * That being the case, be good enough to cast your eye over this paragraph.’ He drew a newspaper from his pocket, and, indicating certain matter, handed it to Mr Wrex. The latter took it, and this is what he read : ‘lt is rumored that Lord intends presenting the whole of his valuable collection ot famous piotures to the nation It oon tains many gems by the Old Masters, beside some of the best-known paintiDgs by modern English and foreign artists. Among the more valuable is a small panel by Morales, of whose works so few are now ex. tant. This picture, though small—represeating bub the head of St Cecilia—only lately came into his lordship’s possession, and is said to be of unusual value. It is a curious fact that the National Gallery already contains what appears to be a duplicate of this panel, though, according to the aut. horities there and others skilled in the niceties of art, theirs is the original and his lordBhip s only a copy. On the other hand, Mr Calmar, the eminent dealer and connoisseur, through whose hands the St Cecilia passed, emphatically declares it to be genuine. Much discussion is, accordingly, likely to ensue, and. much interest to be evinced when the time for comparison arrives, as it surely will when his lordship’s pictures are handed over to the keeper of the National Gallery. Howbeit, the gift is a princely one, and—’

There was no need to read more. Mr Wrex let the paper drop on his knee, and lifted an ashen countenance to Mr Pomfret. His imposture was discovered, then." Nemesis-like, the keeper had oome to warn him of it. Poor Mr Wrex began to ponder on his position. In the first plaoe, his fair name would, in a few days, have left him ; In future he would be known as a cheat and sooroed of honest men. Perhaps Mr

Calmar might not recognise the sale of the pioture, might insist oa its return and demand his money back, and then what would become of him ? Mr Pomfret’s eyes seemed to read him like a book, he could not meet their glance, and his head fell upon his breast. It was a shameful and a miserable moment for Mr Wrex.

‘ You are ashamed of what you have done, said Mr Pomfret, at length. 1 But that does not lessen the meanness of the trick. Now, what excuse have yon to offer ! ’

*My wife was ill—dying, and money was wanted—wanted badly,’ murmured Mr Wrexj without lookiug up. ‘An so,’ returned Mr Pomfret, in cutting tones, 'andso, with your plot fully hatched, you came to me and stole a valuable picture, leaving your own worthless copy in its place 1’ ‘II Indeed no ! lam not so guilty as that!’ cried Mr Wrex, starting up. • What ! you deny having wrung the changes while I was absent from the room ?’ ‘I changed nothing— l— ob, you caDnot mean what you say ?’ ‘I do mean it and I know it, That wsb your scheme, and I, believing your simulated, distress, pitying you—fool that I was ! —let you carry it out. ’ ‘ But—you yourself packed up my picture, gave it to me with your own handß !’ ‘ Well,’ snarled the other, ‘ what then ? Had yon not schemed to that end, knowing well that, ome safely off with the real Morales, I could do nothing ? —that, if I wished to retain my post, my lip 3 would have to be sealed on what had passed—that I had no choice but to blame my own stupidity ? If I admit my carelessness now I must resigD. You know that well enough; you knew it all along, you scoundrel, and so felt safe.’ ‘Believe mo-believe me, it is no 1 ! so,’ cried Mr Wrex. ‘Though if, by accident, it has come to pass as you say. I will make amends, explain the unfortunate mistake, and clear you.’

•Ah, no, you will not,’ was the scowling response. ‘lf you attempt to do anythiog of the sort I will deny every Word you say —deny that you ever came to me at all. Do you think,’ he went on fiercely, ‘ that I wi.l allow you to tell how I was tricked, befooled—l, whose reputation stands so high ? Do you think I will permit you to make a laughing-stock of me, and to cause my dismissal ? No, indeed ; I am here to tell you that if you so much as breathe a word to drag mv name into this wretched matter, I will find means to prosecute you for fraud. As surely as I stand here I will make you rue it! That is what I have come to tell you, and that is all I have to say.’ He rose, took up his hat, and, without another word, walked out of the house. Mr Wrex sat dumfeunded, perplexed beyond measure by this new result his one indiscretion had occasioned. Mr Pomfret’s charge frightened him ; it was so much more serious than any his own conscience had suggested. Yet that charge, he knew, would never be preferred against him so long as he was silent. Still-born it had reached him, and in the breast of him who made it would it silently remain. Verily, his lips were sealed now ; let what discussion might ensue concerning the merits of the rival pictures, he must not, for the sake of another, divulge their histories. What was the tiuth concerning them, however ? Which of the two was really the original ? Mad he erred, had his artistic acumen failed him in estimating the merit of his own picture; or was Sir Pomfret mistaken ? Surely it was unlikely that Mr Calmar would be wrong ! —unless, indeed, he had really left the National Gallery with the other St. Cecilia? Had he really done so ? Was it po33ible such a thiog should have taken place and he not know it ? Who could tell, now? The whole matter seemed shrouded in mystery—a mystery that Mr Wrex, for one, could not solve. ‘ ’Tis a strange and heavy secret,’ he thought. ‘ But I must keep it—even from Marion.’ Mr Wrex saw nothing more of Mr Pomfret, nor did he receive any unpleasant messages from Mr Calmar anent the Morales, so that the future brought no fresh trouble to his door, and the secret accord 1 ingly became less of a harden than it might otherwise have been. When, later, Lord ’s collection found a home in the gallery of the nation, his much-discassed Morales drew less attention than might have been expected. All worthy of admiration as it was, it stood alone, and those who sought to make a comparison between it and that other of which rumour had spoken were disappointed. For no other was ever seen. St. Cecilia’s counterpart disappeared entirely. None knew ought of it, and few Inquired, and those few soon forgot its very existence. Two there were, however, who did not forget; two, each of whom shared in the mystery surrounding it, each knowing something, but not all. And these two did not seek to make their knowledge greater. Marion’s promise to make a copy of the picture which, for her sake, her husband had parted with wa? not forgotten, to it befell one day that, having some little time at her disposal, she sa 1 ; her easel up beside the St. Cecilia and commenced to work. While she was so engaged it happened that Mr Pomfret strolled into the room. Paus. !ng now and again to watch a student, he at last found himself close to Marion, glanced at her canvass, then at her ; end, knowing who she was, frightened her with an angry look before he turned on hia heel. When in course of time she carried her finished copy home, and with a loving look, gave it to her husband, Bhe told him of the keeper’s strange behaviour and asked him the meaning of it. But Mr Wrex shook his head and was silent, only thanked her kindly and turned away, And ever after it griexed Marion to notice that John Wrex showed less interest than formerly in the works of tho Old Masters, that he refused to go wherever they might bo exhibited, and lastly, that the mention of El Divino Morales seemed to give him pain.—Armiger Barozinsky, in the Gentleman’s Magazine.