few days after he went up to London on a little visit, and when he
returned he called Jinty into the study.
"This," he said, opening a case, "will perhaps make up to the friendless
little stranger for your unjust suspicions!" He handed Jinty a
pearl-edged locket with a painting of a Chinese lady's head. "Chinese
faces are so similar that it may serve as a remembrance of her own
mother. And this, Jinty dearling, will keep alive in your memory one of
our Lord's behests!" From another case came a dainty silver bangle
inside of which Jinty read, with misty eyes, the engraved words: _Judge
not!_
But already their meaning was engraved on her heart; and--as time won Ah
Lon's shy affections--she and the little Chinese stranger grew to be as
true sisters under the roof of Old Studley.
[Sidenote: The artistic life sometimes leaves those who follow it
largely dependent upon the stimulus and the aid which the devotion of
others may supply. Rembrandt was a case in point, and the story of his
sister's life is worth recalling.]
Rembrandt's Sister
A Noble Life Recalled
BY
HENRY WILLIAMS
The first glimpse we get of the noble woman who is the subject of this
sketch gives us the key to her whole character. Her brother, the famous
Paul Rembrandt, had come home from school in disgrace, and it is as his
defender that Louise Gerretz first shows herself to the world. Her
tender, sympathetic heart could find excuse for a brother who would not
learn Latin because even as a child his heart was set upon becoming a
painter. We know how he succeeded, but it is not always one's early
desires are fulfilled so completely as they were in Paul's case.
It was in the evening of the very same day on which Louise championed
her brother's cause that we find her almost heart-broken, yet bravely
hiding her own grief and comforting her younger sisters and brothers in
a terrible affliction, the most terrible that can overtake a family of
young children. This was the sudden death of the beloved mother, who had
been an invalid for some time. The father was a drunken sot, who had
fallen into heavy slumber even while his dying wife was uttering her
last request to him on earth; this was that he would make an artist of
the young Paul, instead of a lawyer, as was his intention.
The next day, while preparations were going on for the funeral, the
brutal husband sought refuge from remorse in the bottle, so that for the
most part of the day he was hopelessly drunk. In this emergency Louise
(who was only fifteen) took the direction of affairs into her own hands.
The little ones had been crying all day for their mother, and would not
be even separated from the corpse. They were inconsolable, and at last
the youngest sobbed out, "Who will be our mother now?"
At this question Louise arose, and said, with deep and solemn
earnestness, "I will!"
There was something in her manner which struck the children with wonder.
Their tears ceased immediately. It seemed as if an angel stood beside
Louise, and said, "Behold your mother!"
"Do you not wish me for your mother?" she repeated.
The little ones ran into her embrace. She folded her arms around them,
and all wept together.
She had conquered the children with love, and they were no more trouble
to her. They all gladly gave the promise to look up to and obey her in
everything.
But a harder task was before her. Strangers were present who must soon
find out that her father was intoxicated, on this day of all others, if
she did not get him out of the way. She succeeded at last, after
infinite pains, and that so well that no one knew the state he was in,
and thus he was saved from the open disgrace that would surely have
followed him had it got about.
The sad duties of the funeral over, Louise Gerretz braced herself to the
task of looking after the numerous household affairs. Nor was this all
she had to do, for her father carried on the business of a miller, and
because of his drunken habits his daughter had the workpeople to look
after, and also the shop to attend to. But she was sustained by the
thought that her sainted mother was looking on her from heaven, and this
helped her to bear up during the trying times that followed.
She now determined that, if it were possible, her brother Paul--who,
afterwards following the usual custom amongst painters of the time,
changed his name to Rembrandt--should have every opportunity afforded
him of following his natural bent.
[Sidenote: "I will be a Painter!"]
But no sooner was the subject broached to M. Gerretz than his anger
blazed forth, and though Louise withstood him for some time, she felt
her cherished plans would receive no consideration whatever from a
father who was three-parts of his time crazed with drink. Little Paul,
who was present, seeing that the appeal would probably end in failure,
exclaimed, with determined voice, "I will be a painter!"
A blow aimed at him was his father's reply. The blow missed its mark,
but struck the sister-mother to the earth. Heedless of his own danger,
Paul raised his sister's head, and bathed it tenderly until she came to
herself again. Even the brutish Gerretz was somewhat shocked by what he
had done, yet seizing what he thought an advantage, he cried, "Hark ye,
young rascal! You mind not blows any more than my plain orders; but your
sister helps you out in all your disobedience, and if you offend me I
will punish her."
The brutal threat had its desired effect, and young Paul returned to
those studies which were intended to make a lawyer of him.
Every spare moment, however, he spent in his favourite pursuit. His
materials were of the roughest: a charred stick, a lump of chalk, and a
flour sack. Not very encouraging tools, one would think, and yet the
genius that was within would not be hid. He produced from memory a
portrait of his mother, that had such an effect upon the father that the
latter, affected to tears by the sight of his dead wife's face,
dismissed the boy with his blessing, and promised him he should be a
painter after all.
Great was Louise's joy; and then, like the loving, practical sister she
was, she immediately set about the young artist's outfit. Nor did she
pause until everything was in apple-pie order.
Surely God was strengthening and comforting His own. Just consider; here
was a young girl, now only sixteen years of age, who had the management
of a miller's business, was a mother and sister in one to three young
children, and, one is almost tempted to say, was also a tender, loving
wife to a drunken, incapable father.
The journey to Leyden, whither Paul was bound, was not without incident
of a somewhat romantic kind. As the vehicle in which Louise and the
future great painter sat neared Leyden, they came upon a man who lay
insensible upon the road. The tender heart of the girl was touched, and
she stopped and restored the man to consciousness, and then pressed
further assistance upon him. The grateful recipient of her kindness,
however, soon feeling strong enough, proceeded on his way alone.
The scene had not passed without a witness, though, who proved to be
none other than the eminent master-painter Van Zwanenburg, who joined
himself to the little party. But his brow darkened when he learned the
purport of the young traveller's journey, and he spoke no more for some
time, for he was a misanthrope, and, consequently, took small share in
the hopes and pleasures of others. Soon after, however, as they were
passing a forge, young Paul stopped and clapped his hands with delight
at the sight of the ruddy light cast on the faces of the workmen.
"Canst thou sketch this scene?" asked Van Zwanenburg. Paul took a
pencil, and in a few moments traced a sketch, imperfect, no doubt, but
one in which the principal effects of light and shade especially were
accurately produced.
"Young girl," said the painter, "you need go no further. I am Van
Zwanenburg, and I admit your brother from this minute to my studio."
Further conversation ensued, and Van Zwanenburg soon learned the whole
sorrowful tale, and also the courage and devotedness of this young
foster-mother. He dismissed her with a blessing, misanthrope even as he
was, and then carried Paul to his studio, lighter at heart for having
done a kind action.
Sorrowful, and yet with a glad heart, did Louise part from little Paul,
and then turn homewards. Little did she dream of the great sorrow that
was there awaiting her.
[Sidenote: Lost in the Forest]
Arriving at home in the dark, she was startled to find that no one
answered her repeated knocking. Accompanied by an old servant, who had
been with her in the journey, she was about to seek assistance from the
neighbours, when lights were seen in the adjoining forest. She hastened
towards these, and was dismayed to learn that the two children left at
home had strayed away and got lost in the forest. M. Gerretz was amongst
the searchers, nearly frantic. The men were about to give up the search
when Louise, with a prayer for strength on her lips, appealed to them to
try once more. She managed to regulate the search this time, sending the
men off singly in different directions, so as to cover as much ground as
possible. Then with her father she set out herself.
It was morning when they returned. Gerretz, sober enough now, was
bearing the insensible form of the brave girl in his arms. She
recovered, but only to learn that one of the children had been brought
in dead, while the other was nearly so. This sister thus brought so near
to death's door was to prove a sore trial in the future to poor Louise.
A hard life lay before Louise, and it was only by God's mercy that she
was enabled to keep up under the manifold trials that all too thickly
strewed her path. Her father, sobered for a time by the dreadful death
of his child, through his own negligence, soon fell back into his evil
ways, and became more incapable than ever. The business would have gone
to the dogs had it not been for his heroic daughter, who not only looked
after the household, but managed the mill and shop as well. All this was
done in such a quiet, unostentatious manner that no one of their friends
or customers but thought that the father was the chief manager.
But Louise had other trials in store. Her sister Thérèse was growing up
into young womanhood, and rebelled against her gentle, loving authority.
The father aided Thérèse in the rebellion, as he thought Louise kept too
tight a hold of the purse-strings. Between father and sister, poor
Louise had a hard time of it; she even, at one time, was compelled to
sell some valued trinkets to pay a bill that was due, because money she
had put by for the purpose was squandered in drink and finery.
The father died, and then after many years we see Louise Gerretz
established in the house of Van Zwanenburg the artist, the same who had
taken young Paul as a pupil. Both Louise and Paul were now his adopted
children; nor was he without his reward. Under the beneficent rule of
the gentle Louise things went so smoothly that the artist and his pupils
blessed the day when she came amongst them.
But before the advent of Louise, her brother Paul had imbibed a great
share of his master's dark and gloomy nature, and, what was perhaps even
worse, had already, young as he was, acquired the habit of looking at
everything from a money-making standpoint.
Another great sorrow was in store for Louise, though she came from the
ordeal with flying colours, and once more the grand self-sacrificing
nature of the young woman shone out conspicuous amidst its surroundings
of sordid self-interest. It was in this way. The nephew of Van
Zwanenburg, with the approval of his uncle, wooed and eventually
obtained her consent to their marriage.
On the death of the father, Thérèse had been taken home by an aunt, who
possessed considerable means, to Brussels. The aunt was now dead, and
Thérèse, who inherited some of her wealth, came to reside near her
sister and brother. She was prepossessing and attractive, and very soon
it became evident that the lover of Louise, whose name was Saturnin, had
transferred his affection to the younger sister. Saturnin, to his
credit, did try to overcome his passion for Thérèse, but only found
himself becoming more hopelessly in love with her handsome face and
engaging ways. Van Zwanenburg stormed, and even forbade the young man
his house.
Louise herself seemed to be the only one who did not see how things were
going. She was happy in her love, which, indeed, was only increased by
the thought that her promised husband and her sister seemed to be on the
best of terms.
But one day she received a terrible awakening from her happy dreams. She
heard two voices whispering, and, almost mechanically, stopped to
listen. It was Saturnin and Thérèse. "I will do my duty," Saturnin was
saying; "I will wed Louise. I will try to hide from her that I have
loved another, even though I die through it."
Great was the grief of poor Louise, though, brave girl as she was, she
strove to stifle her feelings, lest she should give pain to those she
loved. A little later she sought Van Zwanenburg, and begged that he
would restore Saturnin to favour, and consent to his marriage with
Thérèse. She was successful in her mission of love, though not at first.
[Sidenote: A Terrible Blow]
Hiding her almost broken heart, Louise now strove to find comfort in the
thought that she had made others happy, though she had to admit it was
at a terrible cost to herself.
Her unselfishness had a great effect upon the old artist, whose
admiration for his adopted daughter now knew no bounds. Through her he
was restored to his faith in human nature, and he asked God to forgive
him for ever doubting the existence of virtue.
We cannot follow Louise Gerretz through the next twenty years. Suffice
it to say that during that time Van Zwanenburg passed peacefully away,
and that Paul Rembrandt, whose reputation was now well established, had
married. The lonely sister tried to get on with Paul's wife, but after a
few years she had sadly to seek a home of her own.
At the end of the twenty years Louise one day received the following
curt letter from her miserly brother:
"SISTER,--My wife is dead, my son is travelling, I
am alone.
"PAUL REMBRANDT."
The devoted sister, still intent on making others happy, started at once
to her brother, and until the day of his death she never left him. A
great change had come over Rembrandt. He had become more morose and
bitter than ever. Success had only seemed to harden his heart, until
nothing but the chinking of gold had any effect upon it. He was
immensely wealthy, but a miser. As the years passed the gloom settled
deeper upon his soul, until finally he shut himself up in his dark
studio, and would see no one but Jews and money-brokers. At times he
would not let a picture go unless it had been covered with gold, as the
price of it. With all this wealth, the house of the famous painter bore
a poverty-stricken look, which was copied in the person of Rembrandt
himself.
Just before the end, when he felt himself seized by his death-sickness,
Paul one day called his sister to his bedside, and, commanding her to
raise a trapdoor in the floor of his bedroom, showed her his hoard of
gold. He then begged, as his last request, that he should be buried
privately, and that neither his son, nor indeed any one, should know
that he died rich. Louise was to have everything, and the graceless son
nothing.
[Sidenote: Louise's Refusal]
Great was his anger when his sister declared she should not keep the
gold, but would take care that it passed into the hands of those who
would know how to use it properly. Louise was firm, and Rembrandt was
powerless to do more than toss about in his distress. But gradually,
under the gentle admonitions of his sister, the artist's vision seemed
to expand, and before his death he was enabled to see where and how he
had made shipwreck of his happiness. Thanks to the ministrations of his
sister, his end was a peaceful one, and he died blessing her for all her
devotion to him.
Louise's own useful and devoted life was now near its close.
After winding up the affairs of her brother, she undertook to pay a
visit to her sister, who had fallen ill. It was too much for the good
old soul; she died on the journey.
[Sidenote: Hepsie's misdeed led, when she understood it, to a bold act
which had very gratifying results.]
Hepsie's Christmas Visit
BY
MAUD MADDICK
"I say, little mother," said Hepsie, as she tucked her hand under Mrs.
Erldon's arm, and hurried her along the snowy path from the old church
door, "I say--I've been thinking what a jolly and dear old world this
is, and if only the people in it were a little bit nicer, why, there
wouldn't be a thing to grumble at, would there?"
Mrs. Erldon turned her rather sad, but sweet face towards her little
daughter, and smiled at her.
Somehow folks often _did_ smile at Hepsie. She was such a breezy brisk
sort of child, and had a way of looking at life in general that was
distinctly interesting.
"Of course, dearie," she went on, in that protecting little manner
Hepsie loved to adopt when talking to her beloved mother, "you can't
imagine I am thinking of people like you. If every one were half--no--a
quarter as delightful as _you_, the world would be charming. Oh dear no,
I am not flattering at all, I am just speaking the truth; but there
aren't many of your kind about, as I find out more and more every day."
"My dearest of little girls," interrupted her mother, as they turned
into Sunnycoombe Lane, where the snow lay crisply shining, and the trees
were flecked with that dainty tracing of frozen white, "you look at me
through glasses of love, and _they_ have a knack of painting a person as
fair as you wish that one to be. Supposing you give the rest of the
world a little of their benefit, Hepsie mine!"
[Sidenote: An Unruly Member]
Hepsie flung back her head, and laughed lightly. "Oh, you artful little
mother! That's your gentle way of telling me, what, of course, I
know--that I am a horrid girl for impatience and temper, when I get
vexed; but you know, mother darling, I shall never be able to manage my
tongue. It was born too long, and though on this very Christmas morning
I have been making ever so many good resolutions to keep the tiresome
thing in order--you mark my words, little mother, if it doesn't run off
in some dreadful way directly it gets the chance--and then you'll be
grieved--and I shall be sorry--and some one or other will be _in a
rage_!"
Mrs. Erldon drew in her lips. It was hard to keep from laughing at the
comical look on the little girl's face, and certainly what she said was
true. Some one was very often in a rage with Hepsie's tongue. It was a
most outspoken and unruly member, and yet belonged to the best-hearted
child in the whole of Sunnycoombe, and the favourite, too, in spite of
her temper, which was so quickly over, and her repentance always so
sincere and sweet.
She was looking up into Mrs. Erldon's face now with great honest blue
eyes in which a faint shadow could be seen.
"I met my grandfather this morning," she said in a quick, rather nervous
voice, "and I told him he was a wicked old man!"
Her mother turned so white that Hepsie thought she was going to faint,
and hung on to her arm in terror and remorse.
"Don't look like that!" she burst forth desperately. "I know I ought to
be shaken, and ought to be ashamed of myself--but it's no use--I'm not
either one or the other, only I wish I hadn't done it now, because I've
vexed you on Christmas morning!"
Mrs. Erldon walked along, looking straight ahead.
[Illustration: "DO FORGIVE ME, MOTHER DARLING!"]
"I'd rather you did shake me," said Hepsie, in a quivering tone, "only
you couldn't do such a thing, I know. You're too kind--and I'm always
saying something I shouldn't. Do forgive me, mother darling! You can't
think what a relief it was to me to speak like that to my grandfather,
who thinks he's all the world, and something more, just because he's the
Lord of the Manor and got a hateful heap of money, and it'll do him good
(when he's got over his rage) to feel that there's his own little
granddaughter who isn't afraid of him and tells him the truth----"
"Hepsie!"
Hepsie paused, and stared. Her gentle mother was gazing so strangely and
sternly at her.
"You are speaking of my father, Hepsie," she said quietly, but in a
voice new to her child, though it was still gentle and low, "and in
treating him with disrespect you have hurt me deeply."
"Oh, but mother--darling, darling mother," cried the child, with tears
springing to her beautiful eyes, "I wouldn't hurt you for a million
wicked old grandfathers! I'd rather let him do anything he liked that
was bad to me, but what I can't stand is his making you sad and unhappy,
and making poor daddy go right away again to that far-away place in
South Africa, which he never need have done if it hadn't been for being
poor, though he must be finding money now, or he couldn't send you those
lovely furs, and----"
"Oh, Hepsie, Hepsie, that little tongue, how it gallops along! Be quiet
at once, and listen to me! There, dear, I can't bear to see tears in
your eyes on Christmas Day, and when you and I are just the two together
on this day--your father so many, many miles distant from us, and
poor grandfather nursing his anger all alone in the big old house."
Her tone was full of a deep sorrow, and for once, young as she was,
Hepsie understood that here was an emotion upon which she must not
remark, though she muttered in her own heart:
"All through his own wicked old temper."
Mrs. Erldon took Hepsie's hand in her own as they walked towards the
little home at the end of the long country lane.
[Sidenote: Mrs. Erldon Explains]
"I will not scold you, my darling," she said; "but in future never
forget that God Himself commands that we shall honour our parents, and
even if they grieve their children, Hepsie, that does not do away with
children's duty, and a parent is a parent as long as life lasts--to be
honoured and--loved! You are twelve years old, dear, and big enough now
to understand how sad I am that my dear old father will not forgive me
for marrying your father, and I think I had better explain things a
little to you, Hepsie. There was some one--a rich cousin--whom my father
had always hoped and wished that I should marry as soon as I was old
enough; but when I was twenty-one, and was travelling with grandfather,
you know, that is my own father--we made the acquaintance of a gentleman
in South Africa--Alfred Erldon--who was of English parentage, but had
lived out there all his life. Well, Hepsie, I need only say that this
gentleman and I decided to marry against grandfather's desire. We were
married in Johannesburg, to his great displeasure, so he refused to have
anything to do with us, and returned to England, declaring he would
never speak to me again.
"I never thought that he really meant such a thing, he had always loved
me so dearly, and I loved him so much. I wrote again and again, but
there was no answer to any of my letters. Then, my darling, you were
born, and soon after, the great South African War broke out, and your
dear father made me leave Johannesburg and bring you to England. Of
course, I came to the old home--Sunnycoombe--but only to find I was
still unforgiven, for the letter I sent to say I was in the village was
not answered either, humbly as I begged my father to see me. All the
same, Hepsie, I have remained here at your father's wish, for he lost
money, and had to 'trek north,' as they say, to a wild part of Rhodesia,
where white women could not go."
Mrs. Erldon's tears were nearly falling as she added: "Things have gone
badly with him, and only once has he been able to come to England to
spend a few months with us, as you remember, five years ago, but soon,
now you are older, I shall go and face the life, however rough it may
be. Now, no more talk, for here we are, darling, and, please God, this
may be the last Christmas that we spend without daddy, in England or
Africa, as it may be."
"And I won't grieve you again to-day, darling little mother," whispered
Hepsie, quite sobered at the thought of mother without either her daddy
or Hepsie's on Christmas Day again, and no letter from Africa by the
usual mail.
[Sidenote: An Afternoon Call]