LIGHT LOVER.

When a man turns his face definitely in that direction, and sets out on his melancholy road to the dogs, he can get over a good deal of ground in two years.

Two years had pa.s.sed since we last saw him in his Temple chambers, and in that time Tommy Hudson had travelled a long way down the hill. He had considerably degenerated. He had drifted into hard drinking, and his once-refined features indicated the habit too clearly. His practice at the bar had nearly melted away; solicitors could no longer rely on the drunkard.

Feeling his degradation, stricken by remorse, he would make resolutions of reform which his nature, originally weak and unsteady and ever further sinking, was unable to carry out.

His friends shunned him. He had become one in whose company men were ashamed to be seen. He had recently been black-balled when put up for election at a small legal club in the neighbourhood of the Law Courts; and this last disgrace more than anything else hurried on his descent by driving him to despair and recklessness.

However, he was still far from being irreclaimably lost, and it was only occasionally that his condition was demonstratively disgraceful.

His originally strong tendency for adventure with the fair s.e.x was much exaggerated by his chronic alcoholism, and was becoming with him a sort of monomania. A diseased brain made him restless and fearful of solitude, so that the company of some strange woman or other grew to be a constant necessity.

As decent men would not a.s.sociate with him now--as he was still too proud to make friends of the loafers, unprincipled, broken-down gentlemen, and other rats of society who would have gladly welcomed him among them--he was perforce driven into the at any rate far less degrading companionship of the free-living members of the other s.e.x.

But at the end of these two years an event happened that turned the current of his life for a time. A relative died and left him a few thousand pounds.

This brought Hudson to his senses. He made up his mind to live a more cleanly life. He suddenly abandoned his drinking habits, and really struggled hard to retrace his steps to respectability.

He knew that his practice would not return to him at once; so, in order to occupy his time, he determined to take to literature--he had dabbled in it before, and was not unknown to the editors of the magazines. He resumed a novel that he had commenced and put aside years back, and felt a great delight in finding that he had not to any great extent lost his power for steady work.

He had been living this reformed life for a fortnight, when he bethought him to take a holiday one fine afternoon and visit the academy. One who had seen him only two weeks before would scarcely have recognized him, as he walked with a light step along the streets. He was a man once more. He held his head erect, and there was a happy smile about his mouth, that spoke of high hope and ambition. He felt a lightness of heart, an exultation of spirit, he had not known for years. Once more he had an honest pride in himself, once more the future looked bright with glorious dreams.

He had been strolling through the academy--which was rather empty at the time--for about half an hour, when he remembered that an artist who had been his friend in former days, and with whom he had taken several very pleasant walking-tours on the continent, had made himself famous this year by exhibiting two very well-executed landscapes.

He referred to the catalogue and soon found where one of these was hung.

He had been before it for some minutes, when he became conscious that a lady was standing by him looking at the same picture.

He was rather in her way and was obstructing her view, so he stepped aside, and taking off his hat murmured some slight apology.

She bowed and smiled faintly, but it was a particularly pleasing smile.

He looked at her and was immediately struck by her peculiar beauty. Her rich complexion, long voluptuous eyes and full well-moulded form, were indeed well fitted to attract the attention of man. She appeared to be about twenty-four years old. There was nothing fast in her appearance.

She was well, though plainly dressed. He also noticed that she had tiny and well-shaped hands and feet.

He was so fascinated, that without intending it, he was staring very hard at her. At first she was--or pretended to be--unconscious of his earnest gaze; then she looked up and their eyes met, hers calm and wondering, his full of meaning admiration.

She dropped her eyes and blushed prettily, and then commenced to take a great interest in the picture before her.

He stood by her, also pretending to be intent on the painting for about half a minute, when, as she did not move away, he ventured to speak.

"I see our tastes are similar. It is a beautiful picture, is it not?"

She looked at him calmly.

"Indeed, it is; but I don't seem to recognize the artist's name, Is he well known?"

"I don't think he had much reputation till this year; but the two pictures he is exhibiting here now have been much admired. He has now become quite a celebrated man."

"Then he has another picture in the academy!"

"He has, and I believe it is the best of the two. If you will allow me I will find out for you where it is. They say it is quite one of the pictures of the year."

She hesitated a little before she made a reply.

"It is very kind of you--I should very much like to see it. But I must not trouble you."

"Please don't imagine it will be any trouble to me. Besides I am anxious to see the picture myself. I used to know the artist very well."

"Oh! that must be very interesting for you. I have often thought how nice it must be to know the authors and painters of the books and pictures we admire."

"I am afraid you would be very often disappointed in them," he said, laughing. "I see from the catalogue that the picture is in the next room. Would you like to go there now?"

They walked into the room together, and after a few more common-place remarks and interchange of ideas in front of the picture in question, the ice was still further broken between them. The two young people entered into quite a lively talk. He became still more fascinated; for her voice was low and sweet, and there was a frank, trusting, communicativeness in her conversation that was perfectly delicious.

They sat for a considerable time together on the divan in front of the picture, but they paid little attention to that great work of art.

Said she, "You must think me very fast to come here all by myself, and what is worse allow you, an entire stranger to me to enter into conversation with me."

"No! It is all my fault. I forced myself upon you. It was very kind on your part not to snub me for my presumption."

She sighed. "Ah! I am afraid I was wrong; but you see I am alone in London, I have no friends here. It is so very lonely for me. It is so pleasant to talk sometimes with--with--well with people like yourself. I think I have some excuse, don't you?"

"Every excuse!"

"And after all, what great harm is there in it? It is rather unconventional perhaps."

"And therefore the pleasanter. I don't see why we should be always tied down by those silly hard-and-fast rules of society."

"No more do I! though I am not one of those strong-minded women who believe in woman's rights. Besides,"--and she laughed prettily--"what harm are you likely to do me? You don't look like a pickpocket or an ogre. I am quite old enough to look after myself, even if you do prove to be anything but what I take you for--a gentleman."

He bowed and said, "I do not think you need fear me."

"Dear me," she continued, "how curious it is! Here are we two, who had never even seen each other an hour ago, talking as freely as if we had known each other for years."

"That is the advantage of being frank and straightforward. Those stiff, reserved people, who are always suspicious of strangers, miss a lot of pleasure in this world. Now you see we were both dull, moping about here alone, and now how happy we are!--at least I speak for myself."

He persuaded her to have some tea in the refreshment room, when she confided to him a little of her history. The misfortunes of her family had obliged her to seek a livelihood in the metropolis.

"I have been trying to start a small school for little boys," she said, "but my capital was slender, and n.o.body knows me in London. I have spent far more than I can properly afford in advertis.e.m.e.nts, and they seem to produce no effect. I shall have to abandon that project."

The barrister's compa.s.sion was much excited by the simple tale. "And what do you purpose doing then?" he said. "But forgive me; I am so interested that I am afraid I am asking questions I have no right to ask."

"Why not?" she replied simply. "I am thinking of becoming a nurse in a hospital. I had some training of the kind a few years ago."

"It is rather a hard and unpleasant life I should imagine."

"Perhaps so--but you know beggars cannot be choosers; but I must not bore you any longer with my foolish history."