THE PICTURE
My father was very weak, and looked dreadfully ill: the doctor had
recommended repose and absence of all excitement; "especially," said the
man of science, "let us abstain from painting. Gentle exercise,
generous living, and quiet, absolute quiet, sir, can alone bring us
round again." Notwithstanding which professional advice, I found the
patient in his dressing-gown, hard at work as usual with his easel and
colours, but this time the curtain was not hastily drawn over the
canvas, and my father himself invited me to inspect his work.
I came in heated and excited; my father was paler than ever, and seemed
much exhausted. He looked very grave, and his large dark eyes shone
with an ominous and unearthly light.
"Vere," said he, "sit down by me. I have put off all I had to say to
you, my boy, till I fear it is too late. I want to speak to you now as
I have never spoken before. Where have you been this morning, Vere?"
I felt my colour rising at the question, but I looked him straight in
the face, and answered boldly, "At Beverley Manor, father."
"Vere," he continued, "I am afraid you care for Miss Beverley,--nay, it
is no use denying it," he proceeded; "I ought to have taken better care
of you. I have neglected my duty as a father, and my sins, I fear, are
to be visited upon my child. Look on that canvas, boy; the picture is
finished now, and my work is done. Vere, that is your mother."
It was the first time I had ever heard that sacred name from my father's
lips. I had often wished to question him about her, but I was always
shy, and easily checked; whilst he from whom alone I could obtain
information, I have already said, was a man that brooked no inquiries on
a subject he chose should remain secret, so that hitherto I had been
kept in complete ignorance of the whole history of one parent. As I
looked on her likeness now, I began for the first time to realise the
loss I had sustained.
The picture was of a young and gentle-looking woman, with deep, dark
eyes, and jet-black hair; a certain thickness of eyebrows and width of
forehead denoted a foreign origin; but whatever intensity of expression
these peculiarities may have imparted to the upper part of her
countenance, was amply redeemed by the winning sweetness of her mouth,
and the delicate chiselling of the other features. She was pale of
complexion, and looked somewhat sad and thoughtful; but there was a
depth of trust and affection in those fond eyes that spoke volumes for
the womanly earnestness and simplicity of her character. It was one of
those pictures that, without knowing the original, you feel at once must
be a likeness. I could not keep down the tears as I whispered, "Oh,
mother, mother, why did I never know you?"
My father's face grew dark and stern: "Vere," said he, "the time has
come when I must tell you all. It may be that your father's example may
serve as a beacon to warn you from the rock on which so many of us have
made shipwreck. When I was your age, my boy, I had no one to control
me, no one even to advise. I had unlimited command of money, a high
position in society, good looks--I may say so without vanity
now--health, strength, and spirits, all that makes life enjoyable, and I
enjoyed it. I was in high favour with the Prince. I was sought after
in society; my horses won at Newmarket, my jests were quoted in the
Clubs, my admiration was coveted by the 'fine ladies,' and I had the
ball at my foot. Do you think I was happy? No. I lived for myself; I
thought only of pleasure, and of pleasure I took my fill; but pleasure
is a far different thing from happiness, or should I have wandered away
at the very height of my popularity and success, to live abroad by
myself with my colours and sketch-book, vainly seeking the peace of mind
which was not to be found at home? I was bored, Vere, as a man who leads
an aimless life always is bored. Fresh amusements might stave off the
mental disease for a time, but it came back with renewed virulence; and
I cared not at what expense I purchased an hour's immunity with the
remedy of fierce excitement. But I never was faithless to my art.
Through it all I loved to steal away and get an hour or two at the
easel. Would I had devoted my lifetime to it. How differently should I
feel now.
"One winter I was painting in the Belvidere at Vienna. A young girl
timidly looked over my shoulder at my work, and her exclamation of
artless wonder and admiration was so gratifying, that I could not resist
the desire of making her acquaintance. This I achieved without great
difficulty. She was the daughter of a bourgeois merchant, one not
moving in the same society as myself, and, consequently, unknown to any
of my associates. Perhaps this added to the charm of our acquaintance;
perhaps it imparted the zest of novelty to our intercourse. Ere I
returned to London, I was fonder of Elise than I had ever yet been of
any woman in the world. Why did I not make her mine? Oh! pride and
selfishness; I thought it would be a _mesalliance_--I thought my London
friends would laugh at me--I thought I should lose my liberty.--Liberty,
forsooth! when one's will depends on a fool's sneer. And yet I think if
I had known her faith and truth, I would have given up all for her, even
then. So I came back to England, and the image of my pale, lovely Elise
haunted me more than I liked. I rushed deeper into extravagance and
dissipation; for two years I gambled and speculated, and rioted, till at
the end of that period I found ruin staring me in the face. I saved a
competency out of the wreck of my property; and by Sir Harry's
advice--our neighbour, Vere; you needn't wince, my boy--I managed to
keep the old house here as a refuge for my old age. Then, and not till
then, I thought once more of Elise--oh, hard, selfish heart!--not in the
wealth and luxury which I ought to have been proud to offer up at her
feet, but in the poverty and misfortune which I felt would make her love
me all the better. I returned to Vienna, determined to seek her out and
make her my own. I soon discovered her relatives; too soon I heard what
had become of her. In defiance of all their wishes, she had resolutely
refused to make an excellent marriage provided for her according to the
custom of her country. She would give no reasons; she obstinately
denied having formed any previous attachment; but on being offered the
alternative, she preferred 'taking the veil,' and was even then a nun,
immured in a convent within three leagues of Vienna. What could I do?
Alas! I know full well what I ought to have done; but I was headstrong,
violent, and passionate: never in my life had I left a desire
ungratified, and now could I lose the one ardent wish of my whole
existence for the sake of a time-worn superstition and an unmeaning vow?
Thus I argued, and on such fallacious principles I acted.
"Vere, my boy, right is right, and wrong is wrong. You always know in
your heart of hearts the one from the other. Never stifle that
instinctive knowledge, never use sophistry to persuade yourself you may
do that which you feel you ought not. I travelled down at once to the
convent. I heard her at vespers; I knew that sweet, silvery voice
amongst all the rest. As I stood in the old low-roofed chapel, with the
summer sunbeams streaming across the groined arches and the quaint
carved pews, and throwing a flood of light athwart the aisle, while the
organ above pealed forth its solemn tones, and called us all to
repentance and prayer, how could I meditate the evil deed? How could I
resolve to sacrifice her peace of mind for ever to my own wild
happiness? Vere, I carried her off from the convent--I eluded all
pursuit, all suspicion--I took her with me to the remotest part of
Hungary, her own native country. For the first few weeks I believe she
was deliriously happy, and then--it broke her heart. Yes, Vere, she
believed she had lost her soul for my sake. She never reproached me--she
never even repined in words; but I saw, day after day, the colour fading
on her cheek, the light growing brighter in her sunken eye. She drooped
like a lily with a worm at its core. For one short year I held her in
my arms; I did all that man could to cheer and comfort her--in vain.
She smiled upon me with the wan, woful smile that haunts me still; and
she died, Vere, when you were born." My father hid his face for a few
seconds, and when he looked up again he was paler than ever.
"My boy," he murmured, in a hoarse, broken voice, "you have been
sacrificed. Forgive me, forgive me, my child; _you are illegitimate_."
I staggered as if I had been shot--I felt stunned and stupefied--I saw
the whole desolation of the sentence which had just been passed upon me.
Yes, I was a bastard; I had no right even to the name I bore. Never
again must I hold my head up amongst my fellows; never again indulge in
those dreams of future distinction, which I only now knew I had so
cherished; _never, never_ think of Constance more! It was all over now;
there was nothing left on earth for me.
There is a reaction in the nature of despair. I drew myself up, and
looked my father steadily in the face.
"Father," I said, "whatever happens, I am your son; do not think I shall
ever reproach you. Even now you might cast me off if you chose, and
none could blame you; but I will never forget you,--whatever happens, I
will always love you the same." He shook in every limb, and for the
first time in my recollection, he burst into a flood of tears; they
seemed to afford him relief, and he proceeded with more composure--
"I can never repay the injury I have done you, Vere; and now listen to
me and forgive me if you can. All I have in the world will be yours; in
every respect I wish you to be my representative, and to bear my name.
No one knows that I was not legally married to _her_, except Sir Harry
Beverley. Vere, your look of misery assures me that I have told you
_too late_. I am indeed punished in your despair. I ought to have
watched over you with more care. I had intended to make you a great
man, Vere. In your childhood I always hoped that my own talent for art
would be reproduced in my boy, and that you would become the first
painter of the age, and then none would venture to question your
antecedents or your birth. When I found I was to be disappointed in
this respect, I still hoped that with the competency I shall leave you,
and your own retired habits, you might live happily enough in ignorance
of the brand which my misconduct has inflicted on you. But I never
dreamed, my child, that you should set your heart on _his_ daughter, who
can alone cast this reproach in your teeth. It is hopeless--it is
irretrievable. My boy, my boy! your prospects have been ruined, and now
I fear your heart is breaking, and all through me. My punishment is
greater than I can bear."
My father stopped again. He was getting fearfully haggard, and seemed
quite exhausted. He pointed to the picture which he had just completed.
"Day after day, Vere," he murmured, "I have been working at that
likeness, and day after day her image seems to have come back more
vividly into my mind. I have had a presentiment, that when it was quite
finished it would be time for me to go. It is the best picture I ever
painted. Stand a little to the left, Vere, and you will get it in a
better light. I must leave you soon, my boy, but it is to go to her.
Forgive me, Vere, and think kindly of your old father when I am gone.
Leave me now for a little, my boy; I must be alone. God bless you,
Vere!"
[Illustration: "'My father was apparently asleep...!'" _Page 111_]
I left the painting-room, and went into the garden to compose my mind,
and recover, if possible, from the stunning effects of my father's
intelligence. I walked up and down, like a man in a dream. I could not
yet realise the full extent of my misery. The hours passed by, and
still I paced the gravel walk under the yew-trees, and took no heed of
time or anything else. At length a servant came to warn me that dinner
was waiting, and I went back to the painting-room to call my father.
The door was not locked, as it had hitherto been, and my father was
apparently asleep, with his head resting on one arm, and the brush,
fallen from his other hand, on the floor. As I touched his shoulder to
wake him, I remarked that hand was clenched and stiff. Wake him! he
would never wake again. How I lived through that fearful evening I know
not. There was a strange confusion in the house,--running up and down
stairs, hushed voices, ghostly whisperings. The doctors came. I know
not what passed. They called it aneurism of the heart; I recollect that
much; but everything was dim and indistinct till, a week afterwards,
when the funeral was over, I seemed to awake from a dream, and to find
myself alone in the world.