upon the mantelpiece and along the walls, producing the pretty, starry
effect which candles give without very much light. As I had not the
smallest idea what I was about to see, for Morphew’s “speaking likeness”
was very hurriedly said, and only half comprehensible in the bewilderment
of my faculties, my first glance was at this very unusual illumination,
for which I could assign no reason. The next showed me a large
full-length portrait, still in the box in which apparently it had
travelled, placed upright, supported against a table in the centre of the
room. My father walked straight up to it, motioned to me to place a
smaller table close to the picture on the left side, and put his lamp
upon that. Then he waved his hand towards it, and stood aside that I
might see.
It was a full-length portrait of a very young woman--I might say a girl
scarcely twenty--in a white dress, made in a very simple old fashion,
though I was too little accustomed to female costume to be able to fix
the date. It might have been a hundred years old, or twenty, for aught I
knew. The face had an expression of youth, candor, and simplicity more
than any face I had ever seen,--or so, at least in my surprise, I
thought. The eyes were a little wistful, with something which was almost
anxiety which at least was not content--in them; a faint, almost
imperceptible, curve in the lids. The complexion was of a dazzling
fairness, the hair light, but the eyes dark, which gave individuality to
the face. It would have been as lovely had the eyes been blue,--probably
more so,--but their darkness gave a touch of character, a slight discord,
which made the harmony finer. It was not, perhaps, beautiful in the
highest sense of the word. The girl must have been too young, too slight,
too little developed for actual beauty; but a face which so invited love
and confidence I never saw. One smiled at it with instinctive affection.
“What a sweet face!” I said. “What a lovely girl! Who is she? Is this one
of the relations you were speaking of on the other side?”
My father made me no reply. He stood aside, looking at it as if he knew
it too well to require to look,--as if the picture was already in his
eyes. “Yes,” he said, after an interval, with a long-drawn breath, “she
was a lovely girl, as you say.”
“Was?--then she is dead. What a pity!” I said; “what a pity! so young and
so sweet!”
We stood gazing at her thus, in her beautiful stillness and calm,--two
men, the younger of us full-grown and conscious of many experiences, the
other an old man,--before this impersonation of tender youth. At length
he said, with a slight tremulousness in his voice, “Does nothing suggest
to you who she is, Phil?”
I turned round to look at him with profound astonishment, but he turned
away from my look. A sort of quiver passed over his face. “That is your
mother,” he said, and walked suddenly away, leaving me there.
My mother!
I stood for a moment in a kind of consternation before the white-robed
innocent creature, to me no more than a child; then a sudden laugh broke
from me, without any will of mine something ludicrous, as well as
something awful, was in it. When the laugh was over, I found myself with
tears in my eyes, gazing, holding my breath. The soft features seemed to
melt, the lips to move, the anxiety in the eyes to become a personal
inquiry. Ah, no! nothing of the kind; only because of the water in mine.
My mother! oh, fair and gentle creature, scarcely woman, how could any
man’s voice call her by that name! I had little idea enough of what it
meant,--had heard it laughed at, scoffed at, reverenced, but never had
learned to place it even among the ideal powers of life. Yet if it meant
anything at all, what it meant was worth thinking of. What did she ask,
looking at me with those eyes? What would she have said if “those lips
had language”? If I had known her only as Cowper did--with a child’s
recollection--there might have been some thread, some faint but
comprehensible link, between us; but now all that I felt was the curious
incongruity. Poor child! I said to myself; so sweet a creature: poor
little tender soul! as if she had been a little sister, a child of
mine,--but my mother! I cannot tell how long I stood looking at her,
studying the candid, sweet face, which surely had germs in it of
everything that was good and beautiful; and sorry, with a profound
regret, that she had died and never carried these promises to
fulfillment. Poor girl! poor people who had loved her! These were my
thoughts; with a curious vertigo and giddiness of my whole being in the
sense of a mysterious relationship, which it was beyond my power to
understand.
Presently my father came back, possibly because I had been a long time
unconscious of the passage of the minutes, or perhaps because he was
himself restless in the strange disturbance of his habitual calm. He came
in and put his arm within mine, leaning his weight partially upon me,
with an affectionate suggestion which went deeper than words. I pressed
his arm to my side: it was more between us two grave Englishmen than any
embracing.
“I cannot understand it,” I said.
“No. I don’t wonder at that; but if it is strange to you, Phil, think how
much more strange to me! That is the partner of my life. I have never had
another, or thought of another. That--girl! If we are to meet again, as I
have always hoped we should meet again, what am I to say to her,--I, an
old man? Yes; I know what you mean. I am not an old man for my years; but
my years are threescore and ten, and the play is nearly played out. How
am I to meet that young creature? We used to say to each other that it
was forever, that we never could be but one, that it was for life and
death. But what--what am I to say to her, Phil, when I meet her again,
that--that angel? No, it is not her being an angel that troubles me; but
she is so young! She is like my--my granddaughter,” he cried, with a
burst of what was half sobs, half laughter; “and she is my wife,--and I
am an old man--an old man! And so much has happened that she could not
understand.”
I was too much startled by this strange complaint to know what to say.
It was not my own trouble, and I answered it in the conventional way.
“They are not as we are, sir,” I said; “they look upon us with larger,
other eyes than ours.”
“Ah! you don’t know what I mean,” he said quickly; and in the interval he
had subdued his emotion. “At first, after she died, it was my consolation
to think that I should meet her again,--that we never could be really
parted. But, my God, how I have changed since then! I am another man,--I
am a different being. I was not very young even then,--twenty years older
than she was; but her youth renewed mine. I was not an unfit partner; she
asked no better, and knew as much more than I did in some things,--being
so much nearer the source,--as I did in others that were of the world.
But I have gone a long way since then, Phil,--a long way; and there she
stands, just where I left her.”
I pressed his arm again. “Father,” I said, which was a title I seldom
used, “we are not to suppose that in a higher life the mind stands
still.” I did not feel myself qualified to discuss such topics, but
something one must say.
“Worse, worse!” he replied; “then she too will be, like me, a different
being, and we shall meet as what? as strangers, as people who have lost
sight of each other, with a long past between us,--we who parted, my God!
with--with--”
His voice broke and ended for a moment then while, surprised and almost
shocked by what he said, I cast about in my mind what to reply, he
withdrew his arm suddenly from mine, and said in his usual tone, “Where
shall we hang the picture, Phil? It must be here in this room. What do
you think will be the best light?”
This sudden alteration took me still more by surprise, and gave me almost
an additional shock; but it was evident that I must follow the changes of
his mood, or at least the sudden repression of sentiment which he
originated. We went into that simpler question with great seriousness,
consulting which would be the best light. “You know I can scarcely
advise,” I said; “I have never been familiar with this room. I should
like to put off, if you don’t mind, till daylight.”
“I think,” he said, “that this would be the best place.” It was on the
other side of the fireplace, on the wall which faced the windows,--not
the best light, I knew enough to be aware, for an oil-painting. When I
said so, however, he answered me with a little impatience, “It does not
matter very much about the best light; there will be nobody to see it but
you and me. I have my reasons--” There was a small table standing against
the wall at this spot, on which he had his hand as he spoke. Upon it
stood a little basket in very fine lace-like wicker-work. His hand must
have trembled, for the table shook, and the basket fell, its contents
turning out upon the carpet,--little bits of needlework, colored silks, a
small piece of knitting half done. He laughed as they rolled out at his
feet, and tried to stoop to collect them, then tottered to a chair, and
covered for a moment his face with his hands.
No need to ask what they were. No woman’s work had been seen in the house
since I could recollect it. I gathered them up reverently and put them
back. I could see, ignorant as I was, that the bit of knitting was
something for an infant. What could I do less than put it to my lips? It
had been left in the doing--for me.
“Yes, I think this is the best place,” my father said a minute after, in
his usual tone.
We placed it there that evening with our own hands. The picture was
large, and in a heavy frame, but my father would let no one help me but
himself. And then, with a superstition for which I never could give any
reason even to myself, having removed the packings, we closed and locked
the door, leaving the candles about the room, in their soft, strange
illumination, lighting the first night of her return to her old place.
That night no more was said. My father went to his room early, which was
not his habit. He had never, however, accustomed me to sit late with him
in the library. I had a little study or smoking-room of my own, in which
all my special treasures were, the collections of my travels and my
favorite books,--and where I always sat after prayers, a ceremonial which
was regularly kept up in the house. I retired as usual this night to my
room, and, as usual, read,--but to-night somewhat vaguely, often pausing
to think. When it was quite late, I went out by the glass door to the
lawn, and walked round the house, with the intention of looking in at the
drawing-room windows, as I had done when a child. But I had forgotten
that these windows were all shuttered at night; and nothing but a faint
penetration of the light within through the crevices bore witness to the
installment of the new dweller there.
In the morning my father was entirely himself again. He told me without
emotion of the manner in which he had obtained the picture. It had
belonged to my mother’s family, and had fallen eventually into the hands
of a cousin of hers, resident abroad,--“A man whom I did not like, and
who did not like me,” my father said; “there was, or had been, some
rivalry, he thought: a mistake, but he was never aware of that. He
refused all my requests to have a copy made. You may suppose, Phil, that
I wished this very much. Had I succeeded, you would have been acquainted,
at least, with your mother’s appearance, and need not have sustained this
shock. But he would not consent. It gave him, I think, a certain pleasure
to think that he had the only picture. But now he is dead, and out of
remorse, or with some other intention, has left it to me.”
“That looks like kindness,” said I.
“Yes; or something else. He might have thought that by so doing he was
establishing a claim upon me,” my father said; but he did not seem
disposed to add any more. On whose behalf he meant to establish a claim I
did not know, nor who the man was who had laid us under so great an
obligation on his death-bed. He _had_ established a claim on me at least;
though, as he was dead, I could not see on whose behalf it was. And my
father said nothing more; he seemed to dislike the subject. When I
attempted to return to it, he had recourse to his letters or his
newspapers. Evidently he had made up his mind to say no more.
Afterwards I went into the drawing-room, to look at the picture once
more. It seemed to me that the anxiety in her eyes was not so evident as
I had thought it last night. The light possibly was more favorable. She
stood just above the place where, I make no doubt, she had sat in life,
where her little work-basket was,--not very much above it. The picture
was full-length, and we had hung it low, so that she might have been
stepping into the room, and was little above my own level as I stood and
looked at her again. Once more I smiled at the strange thought that this
young creature--so young, almost childish--could be my mother; and once
more my eyes grew wet looking at her. He was a benefactor, indeed, who
had given her back to us. I said to myself, that if I could ever do
anything for him or his, I would certainly do it, for my--for this lovely
young creature’s sake. And with this in my mind, and all the thoughts
that came with it, I am obliged to confess that the other matter, which I
had been so full of on the previous night, went entirely out of my head.
* * * * *
It is rarely, however, that such matters are allowed to slip out of one’s
mind. When I went out in the afternoon for my usual stroll,--or rather
when I returned from that stroll,--I saw once more before me the woman
with her baby, whose story had filled me with dismay on the previous
evening. She was waiting at the gate as before, and, “Oh, gentleman, but
haven’t you got some news to give me?” she said.
“My good woman,--I--have been greatly occupied. I have had--no time to do
anything.”
“Ah!” she said, with a little cry of disappointment, “my man said not to
make too sure, and that the ways of the gentlefolks is hard to know.”
“I cannot explain to you,” I said, as gently as I could, “what it is that
has made me forget you. It was an event that can only do you good in the
end. Go home now, and see the man that took your things from you, and
tell him to come to me. I promise you it shall all be put right.”
The woman looked at me in astonishment, then burst forth, as it seemed,
involuntarily, “What! without asking no questions?” After this there came
a storm of tears and blessings, from which I made haste to escape, but
not without carrying that curious commentary on my rashness away with
me,--“Without asking no questions?” It might be foolish, perhaps; but
after all, how slight a matter. To make the poor creature comfortable at
the cost of what,--a box or two of cigars, perhaps, or some other trifle.
And if it should be her own fault, or her husband’s--what then? Had I
been punished for all my faults, where should I have been now? And if the
advantage should be only temporary, what then? To be relieved and
comforted even for a day or two, was not that something to count in life?
Thus I quenched the fiery dart of criticism which my _protégée_ herself
had thrown into the transaction, not without a certain sense of the humor
of it. Its effect, however, was to make me less anxious to see my father,
to repeat my proposal to him, and to call his attention to the cruelty
performed in his name. This one case I had taken out of the category of
wrongs to be righted, by assuming arbitrarily the position of Providence
in my own person,--for, of course, I had bound myself to pay the poor
creature’s rent as well as redeem her goods,--and, whatever might happen
to her in the future, had taken the past into my own hands. The man came
presently to see me, who, it seems, had acted as my father’s agent in the
matter. “I don’t know, sir, how Mr. Canning will take it,” he said. “He
don’t want none of those irregular, bad-paying ones in his property. He
always says as to look over it and let the rent run on is making things
worse in the end. His rule is, ‘Never more than a month, Stevens;’ that’s
what Mr. Canning says to me, sir. He says, ‘More than that they can’t
pay. It’s no use trying.’ And it’s a good rule; it’s a very good rule. He
won’t hear none of their stories, sir. Bless you, you’d never get a penny
of rent from them small houses if you listened to their tales. But if so
be as you’ll pay Mrs. Jordan’s rent, it’s none of my business how it’s
paid, so long as it’s paid, and I’ll send her back her things. But
they’ll just have to be took next time,” he added composedly. “Over and
over; it’s always the same story with them sort of poor folks,--they’re
too poor for anything, that’s the truth,” the man said.
Morphew came back to my room after my visitor was gone. “Mr. Philip,” he
said, “you’ll excuse me, sir, but if you’re going to pay all the poor
folks’ rent as have distresses put in, you may just go into the court at
once, for it’s without end--”
“I am going to be the agent myself, Morphew, and manage for my father;
and we’ll soon put a stop to that,” I said, more cheerfully than I felt.
“Manage for--master,” he said, with a face of consternation. “You,
Mr. Philip!”
“You seem to have a great contempt for me, Morphew.”
He did not deny the fact. He said with excitement, “Master, sir,--master
don’t let himself be put a stop to by any man. Master’s--not one to be
managed. Don’t you quarrel with master, Mr. Philip, for the love of God.”
The old man was quite pale.
“Quarrel!” I said. “I have never quarrelled with my father, and I don’t
mean to begin now.”
Morphew dispelled his own excitement by making up the fire, which was
dying in the grate. It was a very mild spring evening, and he made up a
great blaze which would have suited December. This is one of many ways in
which an old servant will relieve his mind. He muttered all the time as
he threw on the coals and wood. “He’ll not like it,--we all know as he’ll
not like it. Master won’t stand no meddling, Mr. Philip,”--this last he
discharged at me like a flying arrow as he closed the door.
I soon found there was truth in what he said. My father was not angry, he
was even half amused. “I don’t think that plan of yours will hold water,
Phil. I hear you have been paying rents and redeeming furniture,--that’s
an expensive game, and a very profitless one. Of course, so long as you
are a benevolent gentleman acting for your own pleasure, it makes no
difference to me. I am quite content if I get my money, even out of your
pockets,--so long as it amuses you. But as my collector, you know, which
you are good enough to propose to be--”
“Of course I should act under your orders,” I said; “but at least you
might be sure that I would not commit you to any--to any--” I paused
for a word.
“Act of oppression,” he said, with a smile--“piece of cruelty,
exaction--there are half-a-dozen words--”
“Sir--” I cried.
“Stop, Phil, and let us understand each other. I hope I have always been
a just man. I do my duty on my side, and I expect it from others. It is
your benevolence that is cruel. I have calculated anxiously how much
credit it is safe to allow; but I will allow no man, or woman either, to
go beyond what he or she can make up. My law is fixed. Now you
understand. My agents, as you call them, originate nothing; they execute
only what I decide--”
“But then no circumstances are taken into account,--no bad luck, no evil
chances, no loss unexpected.”
“There are no evil chances,” he said; “there is no bad luck; they reap as
they sow. No, I don’t go among them to be cheated by their stories, and
spend quite unnecessary emotion in sympathizing with them. You will find
it much better for you that I don’t. I deal with them on a general rule,
made, I assure you, not without a great deal of thought.”
“And must it always be so?” I said. “Is there no way of ameliorating or
bringing in a better state of things?”
“It seems not,” he said; “we don’t get ‘no forrarder’ in that
direction so far as I can see.” And then he turned the conversation to
general matters.
I retired to my room greatly discouraged that night. In former ages--or
so one is led to suppose--and in the lower primitive classes who still
linger near the primeval type, action of any kind was, and is, easier
than amid the complication of our higher civilization. A bad man is a
distinct entity, against whom you know more or less what steps to take. A
tyrant, an oppressor, a bad landlord, a man who lets miserable tenements
at a rack-rent (to come down to particulars), and exposes his wretched
tenants to all those abominations of which we have heard so much--well!
he is more or less a satisfactory opponent. There he is, and there is
nothing to be said for him--down with him! and let there be an end of his
wickedness. But when, on the contrary, you have before you a good man, a
just man, who has considered deeply a question which you allow to be full
of difficulty; who regrets, but cannot, being human, avert the miseries
which to some unhappy individuals follow from the very wisdom of his
rule,--what can you do? What is to be done? Individual benevolence at
haphazard may balk him here and there, but what have you to put in the
place of his well-considered scheme? Charity which makes paupers? or what
else? I had not considered the question deeply, but it seemed to me that
I now came to a blank wall, which my vague human sentiment of pity and
scorn could find no way to breach. There must be wrong somewhere, but
where? There must be some change for the better to be made, but how?
I was seated with a book before me on the table, with my head supported
on my hands. My eyes were on the printed page, but I was not reading; my
mind was full of these thoughts, my heart of great discouragement and
despondency,--a sense that I could do nothing, yet that there surely must
and ought, if I but knew it, be something to do. The fire which Morphew
had built up before dinner was dying out, the shaded lamp on my table
left all the corners in a mysterious twilight. The house was perfectly
still, no one moving: my father in the library, where, after the habit of
many solitary years, he liked to be left alone, and I here in my retreat,
preparing for the formation of similar habits. I thought all at once of
the third member of the party, the new-comer, alone too in the room that
had been hers; and there suddenly occurred to me a strong desire to take
up my lamp and go to the drawing-room and visit her, to see whether her
soft, angelic face would give any inspiration. I restrained, however,
this futile impulse,--for what could the picture say?--and instead
wondered what might have been had she lived, had she been there, warmly
enthroned beside the warm domestic centre, the hearth which would have
been a common sanctuary, the true home. In that case what might have
been? Alas! the question was no more simple to answer than the other: she
might have been there alone too, her husband’s business, her son’s
thoughts, as far from her as now, when her silent representative held her
old place in the silence and darkness. I had known it so, often enough.
Love itself does not always give comprehension and sympathy. It might be
that she was more to us there, in the sweet image of her undeveloped
beauty, than she might have been had she lived and grown to maturity and
fading, like the rest.