The Argosy — page 373: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

352 Paul Smith, A.R.A. Rising, he drew the portiere aside, and looked into the small room. It was empty. Opening the door, he looked beyond into the passage. Noone. He returned and remarked, in a disappointed tone: “‘Tsabel has not come, yet I was sure I heard the door close. I must have been mistaken.” : Somerville felt equally sure, but said nothing. Reluctantly he stuck the photo again in the corner of the glass, after carefully noticing the address scrawled in pencilat the back. He suddenly remembered an important engagement, and hurriedly left the artist. Paul remained plunged in a brown study, which, if put into words, would have been to the effect, that however charming Isabel Gray might be, it behoved him to marry for something more than love. Money or rank: the one would add to his comfort, the other, to his popularity as a fashionable portrait painter, the summit of his ambi- tion. Looking at the luxuries surrounding him; remembering the high rent he paid for the studio and the low state of his finances ; the hand to mouth life he led; a visionary account at his banker’s, exist- ing only in the imagination of his fellow Bohemians ; remembering all this, he knew how little he could afford to indulge in that luxury of the wealthy—a love match! Pshaw! With the thought the image of Isabel arose, and ‘“ the tender grace of a day that is dead”—her devoted care of him in that serious illness. ‘True, he was unconscious of the extent of her sacrifice ; the necessaries she deprived herself of to minister to his comfort, to procure the little luxuries tempting to an invalid’s sickly appetite ; the weary days, the broken nights, passed at his bedside. These were only vaguely known to him, chiefly comprehended in Sir William’s memorable verdict : ‘‘ You owe your life to your nurse.” He could not forget the succeeding days when convalescence had set in; the short country excursions, Isabel’s bright happiness. Holidays that left pleasant memories. Walks under the magnificent chestnuts in Bushey Park, and the stately Limes, shading the clear stream peopled with large speckled trout, in the Palace gardens. Windsor Castle and the Park; and Isabel’s childish delight as a brilliantly plumed cock pheasant majestically crossed their path, or a partridge whirred past them, rising in startled flight from amid the bracken. Sometimes her mother would accompany them in these excursions, but often they were alone. How she revelled in the country, hating her London prison! yet, how bravely she had worked and toiled to keep her widowed mother! And now, as a friendless orphan—her mother had lately died—she was steadily doing her duty, fighting bravely through the many troubles and temptations to which her calling more particularly exposed her. With a trifle of unwonted tenderness, he recalled the silvery tones of her voice, uneducated, but sweet and true as a bird’s song. Poor Isabel! Was it love that taught her those soft modulations ? ECORNIELOOOKS.E@ im