"To-morrow I will be ready for that."
"But why not to-day?" inquired one of the trustees. "We are anxious
to get through with this unpleasant business."
"I said to-morrow," Mr. Morton replied, while a red spot burned upon
his cheek.
The trustees looked at each other, and hesitated.
"Surely," said the debtor, "you cannot hesitate to let me have a
single day in which to prepare my family for so painful a duty as
that which is required of me."
"We should suppose," remarked one of the trustees, in reply, "that
your family were already prepared for that."
The debtor looked the last speaker searchingly in the face for some
moments, and then said, as if satisfied with the examination--
"Then you are afraid that I will make way, in the mean time, with
some of my plate!"
"I did not say so, Mr. Morton. But, you know we are under oath to
protect the interest of the creditors."
An indignant reply trembled on the lips of Morton, but he curbed his
feelings with a strong effort.
"I am ready now," he said, after a few moments of hurried
self-communion. "The sooner it is over the better."
Half an hour after he entered his house with the trustees, and sworn
appraiser. He left them in the parlour below, while he held a brief
but painful interview with his family.
"Do not distress yourself, dear father!" Constance said, laying her
hand upon his shoulder. "We expected this, and have fully nerved
ourselves for the trial."
"May he who watches over, and regards us all, bless you, my
children!" the father said with emotion, and hurriedly left them.
A careful inventory of the costly furniture that adorned the
parlours was first taken. The plate was then displayed, rich and
beautiful, and valued; and then the trustees lifted their eyes to
the wall--they were connoisseurs in the fine arts; at least one of
them was, but a taste for the arts had, in his case, failed to
soften his feelings. He looked at a picture much as a dealer in
precious stones looks at a diamond, to determine its money-value.
"That is from Guido," he said, looking admiringly at a sweet
picture, which had always been a favourite of Mr. Morton's, "and it
is worth a hundred dollars."
"Shall I put it down at that?" asked the appraiser, who had little
experience in valuing pictures.
"Yes; put it down at one hundred. It will bring that under the
hammer, any day," replied the connoisseur. "Ah, what have we here? A
copy from Murillo's 'Good Shepherd.' Isn't that a lovely picture?
Worth a hundred and fifty, every cent. And here is 'Our Saviour,'
from Da Vinci's celebrated picture of the Last Supper; and a
'Magdalen' from Correggio. You are a judge of pictures, I see, Mr.
Morton! But what is this?" he said, eyeing closely a large
engraving, richly framed.
"A proof, as I live! from the only plate worth looking at of
Raphael's Madonna of St. Sixtus. I'll give fifty dollars for that,
myself."
The pictures named were all entered up by the appraiser, and then
the group continued their examination.
"Here is a Sully," remarked the trustee above alluded to, pausing
before Willie's portrait.
"But that is a portrait," Mr. Morton said, advancing, while his
heart leaped with a new and sudden fear.
"If it is, Mr. Morton, it is a valuable picture, worth every cent of
two hundred dollars. We cannot pass that, Sir."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, "take my Willie's portrait? O no, you
cannot do that!"
"It is no doubt a hard case, Mr. Morton," said one of the trustees.
"But we must do our duty, however painful. That picture is a most
beautiful one, and by a favourite artist, and will bring at least
two hundred dollars. It is not a necessary article of household
furniture, and is not covered by the law. We should be censured, and
justly too, if we were to pass it."
For a few moments, Mr. Morton's thoughts were so bewildered and his
feelings so benumbed by the sudden and unexpected shock, that he
could not rally his mind enough to decide what to say or how to act.
To have the unfeeling hands of creditors, under the sanction of the
law, seize upon his lost Willie's portrait, was to him so unexpected
and sacrilegious a thing, that he could scarcely realize it, and he
stood wrapt in painful, dreamy abstraction, until roused by the
direction,
"Put it down at a hundred and fifty," given to the appraiser, by one
of the trustees.
"Are your hearts made of iron?" he asked bitterly, roused at once
into a distinct consciousness of what was transpiring.
"Be composed, Mr. Morton," was the cold, quiet reply.
"And thus might the executioner say to the victim he was
torturing--_Be composed_. But surely, when I tell you that that
picture is the likeness of my youngest child, now no more, you will
not take it from us. To lose that, would break his mother's heart.
Take all the rest, and I will not murmur. But in the name of
humanity spare me the portrait of my angel boy."
There was a brief, cold, silent pause, and the trustees continued
their investigations. Sick at heart, Mr. Morton turned from them and
sought his family. The distressed, almost agonized expression of his
countenance was noticed, as he came into the chamber where they had
retired.
"Is it all over?" asked Mrs. Morton.
"Not yet," was the sad answer.
The mother and daughter knew how much their father prized his choice
collection of pictures, and supposed that giving an inventory of
them had produced the pain that he seemed to feel. Of the truth,
they had not the most distant idea. For a few minutes he sat with
them, and then, recovering in some degree, his self-possession, he
returned and kept with the trustees, until everything in the house
that could be taken, was valued. He closed the door after them, when
they left, and again returned to his family.
"Have they gone?" asked Constance, in a low, almost whispering
voice.
"Yes, my child, they have gone at last."
"And what have they left us?" inquired Mrs. Morton somewhat
anxiously.
"Nothing but the barest necessaries for housekeeping."
"They did not take our carpets and--"
"Yes, Mary," said Mr. Morton interrupting her, "every article in the
parlors has been set down as unnecessary."
"O, father!" exclaimed the eldest daughter, "can it be possible?"
"Yes, my child, it is possible. We are left poor, indeed. But for
all that I would not care, if they had only left us Willie's
portrait!"
Instantly the mother and daughters rose to their feet, with blanched
cheeks, and eyes staring wildly into the father's face.
"O no, not Willie's portrait, surely!" the mother at length said,
mournfully. "We cannot give that up. It is of no comparative value
to others, and is all in all to us."
"I plead with them to spare us that. But it was no use," Mr. Morton
replied. "The tenderest ties in nature were nothing to them in
comparison with a hundred and fifty dollars."
"But surely," urged Constance, "the law will protect us in the
possession of the picture. Who ever heard of a portrait being seized
upon by a creditor?"
"It is a cruel omission; but nevertheless, Constance, there is no
law to protect us in keeping it."
"But they shall _not_ have it!" Mary said indignantly. "I will take
it away this very night, where they can never find it."
"That would be doing wrong my child," Mr. Morton replied. "I owe
these men, and this picture, they say, will bring a hundred and
fifty dollars. If they claim it, then, I cannot honestly withhold
it. Let us, then, my dear children, resolve to keep our consciences
clear of wrong, and endeavor patiently to bear with our afflictions.
They can only result in good to us so far as we humbly acquiesce in
them. Nothing happens by chance. Every event affecting us, I have
often told you, is ordered or permitted by Divine Providence, and is
intended to make us better and wiser. This severest trial of all, if
patiently borne, will, I am sure, result in good."
But, even while he tried to encourage and bear up the drooping
spirits of his family, his own heart sunk within him at the thought
of losing the portrait of his child.
One week sufficed to transfer his property into the hands of the
individuals appointed to receive it. He sought to make no
unnecessary delay, and, therefore, it was quickly done. At the end
of that time, he removed his family into a small house at the
northern extremity of the city, and furnished it with the scanty
furniture that, as an insolvent debtor the law allowed him to claim.
Ere he left his beautiful mansion with his wife and children, they
all assembled in the parlour where still hung Willie's sweet
portrait. The calm, innocent face of the child had for their eyes a
melancholy beauty, such as it had never worn before; and they gazed
upon it until every cheek was wet, and every heart oppressed. A sale
of the furniture had been advertised for that day, and already the
house had been thrown open. Several strangers had come in to make
examinations before the hour of sale, and among them was a young
man, who on observing the family in the parlour, instinctively
withdrew; not, however before he had glanced at the picture they
were all looking at so earnestly. Aware that strangers were
gathering, Mr. Morton and his family soon withdrew, each taking a
last, lingering, tearful glance at the dear face looking so sweet,
so calm, so innocent.
Their new home presented a painful and dreary contrast to the one
from which they had just parted. In the parlours, the floors of
which were all uncarpeted there were a dozen chairs, and a table,
and that was all! Bedding barely enough for the family, with but
scanty furniture, sufficed for the chambers; and the same exacting
hands had narrowed down to a stinted remnant the appendages of the
kitchen.
It was an hour after the closing in of evening, and the family
greatly depressed in spirits, were gathered in one of the chambers,
sad, gloomy, and silent, when the servant which they had retained
came in and said that Mr. Wilkinson was below and wished to see Miss
Constance.
"Indeed, indeed, mother, I cannot see him!" Constance said bursting
into tears. "It is cruel for him to come here so soon," she added,
after she had a little regained her self-possession.
"You can do no less than see him Constance," her mother said. "Do
not lose that consciousness of internal truth of character which
alone can sustain you in your new relations. You are not changed,
even if outward circumstances are no longer as they were. And if Mr.
Wilkinson does not regard these do not you. Meet him my child, as
you have ever met him."
"We have only met as friends," Constance replied, while her voice
trembled in spite of her efforts to be calm.
"Then meet now as friends, and equals. Remember, that, all that is
of real worth in you remains. Adversity cannot rob you of your true
character."
"Your mother has spoken well and wisely," Mr. Morton said. "If Mr.
Wilkinson, whom I know to be a man of most sterling integrity of
character, still wishes your society, or ours, it must not, from any
foolish pride or weakness on our part, be denied."
"Then I will see him, and try to meet him as I should, though I feel
that the task will be a hard one," Constance replied. And her pale
cheek and swimming eye, told but too well, that it would need all
her efforts to maintain her self-possession.
In a few minutes she descended and met Mr. Wilkinson in the parlour.
"Pardon me," he said advancing and taking her hand as she entered,
"for so soon intruding upon you after the sad change in your
condition. But I should have been untrue to the kind feelings I bear
yourself and family, had I, from a principle of false delicacy,
staid away. I trust I shall be none the less welcome now than
before."
"We must all esteem the kindness that prompted your visit,"
Constance replied with a strong effort to subdue the troubled
emotions within, and which were but too plainly indicated, by her
now flushed cheek and trembling lips.
"No other feeling induced me to call, except indeed, one stronger
than that possibly could be--" Mr. Wilkinson said, still holding her
hand, and looking intently in her face--"the feeling of profound
regard, nay, I must call it, affection, which I have long
entertained for you."
A declaration so unexpected, under the circumstances, entirely
destroyed all further efforts on the part of Constance, to control
her feelings. She burst into tears, but did not attempt to withdraw
her hand.
"Can I hope for a return of like sentiment, Constance?" he at length
said, tenderly.
A few moments' silence ensued, when the weeping girl lifted her
head, and looked him in the face with eyes, though filled with
tears, full of love's tenderest expression.
"I still confide in my father, Mr. Wilkinson," was her answer.
"Then I would see your father to-night."
Instantly Constance glided from the room, and in a few minutes her
father came down into the parlour. A long conference ensued; and
then the mother was sent for, and finally Constance again. Mr.
Wilkinson made offers of marriage, which, being accepted, he urged
an immediate consummation. Delay was asked, but he was so earnest,
that all parties agreed that the wedding should take place in three
days.
In three days the rite was said, and Wilkinson, one of the most
prosperous young merchants of Philadelphia, left for New York with
his happy bride. A week soon glided away, at the end of which time
they returned.
"Where are we going?" Constance asked, as they entered a carriage on
landing from the steamboat.
"To our own house, of course!" was her husband's reply.
"You didn't tell me that you had taken a house, and furnished it."
"Didn't I? Well, that is something of an oversight. But you hardly
thought that I was so simple as to catch a bird without having a
cage first provided for it."
"You had but little time to get the cage," thought Constance, but
she did not utter the thought.
In a few minutes the carriage stopped before a noble dwelling, the
first glance of which bewildered the senses of the young bride, and
caused her to lean silent and trembling upon her husband's arm, as
she ascended the broad marble steps leading to the entrance. Thence
she was ushered hurriedly into the parlours.
There stood her father, mother, and sisters, ready to receive her.
There was every article of furniture in its place, as she had left
it but a little over a week before. The pictures, so much admired by
her father, still hung on the wall; and there, in the old spot, was
Willie s dear portrait, as sweet, as innocent, as tranquil as ever!
One glance took in all this. In the next moment she fell weeping
upon her mother's bosom.
A few words will explain all. Mr. Wilkinson, who was comparatively
wealthy, was just on the eve of making proposals for the hand of
Constance Morton, when the sudden reverse overtook her father, and
prostrated the hopes of the whole family. But his regard was a true
one, and not to be marred or effaced by external changes. When he
saw the sale of the house and furniture announced, he determined to
buy all in at any price. And he did so. On the day of the sale, he
bid over every competitor.
On the night of his interview with Constance and her father, he
proposed a partnership with the latter.
"But I have nothing, you know, Mr. Wilkinson," he replied.
"You have established business habits, and extensive knowledge of
the operations of trade, and a large business acquaintance. And
besides these, habits of discrimination obtained by long experience,
which I need. With your co-operation in my business, I can double my
profits. Will you join me?"
"It were folly, Mr. Wilkinson, to say nay," Mr. Morton replied.
"Then I will announce the co-partnership at once," he said.
And it was announced before the day of marriage, but Constance did
not see it.
A happy elevation succeeded of course, the sudden, painful, but
brief depression of their fortunes. Nor was any of that tried family
less happy than before. And one was far happier. Still, neither Mr.
Morton, nor the rest could ever look at Willie's portrait without
remembering how near they had once been to losing it, nor without a
momentary fear, that some change in life's coming mutations might
rob them of the precious treasure, now doubly dear to them.