AT HIS GATES.
A Novel.
BY MRS OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF 'CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,' ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1872.
[All rights reserved]
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
AT HIS GATES.
CHAPTER I.
Mr and Mrs Robert Drummond lived in a pretty house in the Kensingtondistrict; a house, the very external aspect of which informed thepasser-by who they were, or at least what the husband was. The house wasembowered in its little garden; and in spring, with its lilacs andlaburnums, looked like a great bouquet of bloom—as such houses oftendo. But built out from the house, and occupying a large slice of thegarden at the side, was a long room, lighted with sky windows, and notby any means charming to look at outside, though the creepers, which hadnot long been planted, were beginning to climb upon the walls. It wasconnected with the house by a passage which acted as a conservatory,and was full of flowers; and everything had been done that could bedone to render the new studio as beautiful in aspect as it was inmeaning. But it was new, and had scarcely yet begun, as its proprietorsaid, to 'compose' with its surroundings. Robert Drummond, accordingly,was a painter, a painter producing, in the mean time, pictures of theclass called genre; but intending to be historical, and to take to thehighest school of art as soon as life and fame would permit. He was avery good painter; his subjects were truly 'felt' and exquisitelymanipulated; but there was no energy of emotion, no originality ofgenius about them. A great many people admired them very much; otherpainters lingered over them lovingly, with that true professionaladmiration of 'good work' which counteracts the jealousy of trade inevery honest mind. They were very saleable articles, indeed, and hadprocured a considerable amount of prosperity for the young painter. Itwas almost certain that he would be made an Associate at the nextvacancy, and an Academician in time. But with all this, he was wellaware that he was no genius, and so was his wife.
The knowledge of this fact acted upon them in very different ways; butthat its effect may be fully understood, the difference in theircharacters and training requires to be known. Robert Drummond had neverbeen anything but a painter; attempts had been made in his youth to fixhim to business, his father having been the senior clerk, much respectedand utterly respectable, of a great City house; and the attempt mighthave been successful but that accident had thrown him among artists, akind of society very captivating to a young man, especially when he hasa certain command of a pencil. He threw himself into art, accordingly,with all his soul. He was the sort of man who would have thrown himselfinto anything with all his soul; not for success or reward, but out ofan infinite satisfaction in doing good work, and seeing beautiful thingsgrow under his hand. He was of a very sanguine mind, a mind which seldomaccepted defeat, but which, with instinctive unconscious wisdom,hesitated to dare the highest flights, and to put itself in conflictwith those final powers which either vanquish a man or assure histriumph. Perhaps it was because there was some hidden possibility ofwild despair and downfall in the man's mind, of which only himself wasaware, that he was thus cautious of putting his final fortune to thetouch. But the fact was that he painted his pictures contentedly,consc