Newspaper Page Text
242
she looked with the eyes of a mother's love
rather‘than with those of a mother's ambi
tion ; and somehow came to the conclusion
Mrs. Jones wasnot so bad, and that, per
haps, Charles might not do wrong in marry
ing her. It is possible, too, that slie thought
she might not live very long, she looked so
thin and pale, and felt so weak.
At night the widow’s carriage conveyed
them home.
“ What a nice carriage this is !” she ex
claimed. “I wonder, my dear Charles, will
you ever have a carriage of your own V ’
“I am sure, dear mother, I do not care, as
long as 1 can walk ; though, for your sake, l
wish I had one,” was his reply.
“Really, Mrs. Jones is very kind ; I won
der is it quite true that she has fifteen hun
dred a year ? I fear, my dear son, it will be
a long time before ijou make fifteen hundred
a year.”
*1 am sure it will; but what then ?”
“Very true, my dear; we have lived on
much less for a long time.”
Charles Brandon smiled at the simplicity of
his mother's observation ; but latterly he had
hardly been able to smile when he looked in
her clear, placid face: she seemed fading
away like a phantom before him ; her voice
and her kind smile were unchanged, but sbe
was drooping; and he had not the means to
procure her those necessaries, those comforts,
which her declining years and increasing in
firmities required. Os a weak and feeble
frame, she had nevertheless struggled against
more black and stormy sorrow than women
in general encounter; and, though she had
not sunk under it, it had shaken and torn
her constitution. The decay, however, had
been so gradual that she herself was insensi
ble of it; her thoughts and feelings were
wrapped up in her son ; her child was her
world; she knew and wished to know no
other.
It is foolish to say we do not perceive the
change that takes place from day to day du
ring the sickness of a beloved object: those
who say so know not what the watchfulness
of love is. If absent for some time from a
cherished person, we may be shocked at the
change sickness occasions in the appearance ;
but watchful affection observes each little al
teration as if seen through microscopic glass,
that magnifies evil. Charles Brandon loved
his mother too tenderly to be blind to her suf
ferings, and he often gazed on her until obli
ged to turn away to conceal his emotion.
“We have certainly,” she repeated, in the
half-patient, half-grateful tone that is so
touching, “lived long on the diflerence be
tween fifteen hundred pounds and fifteen hun
dred guineas; but what does that matter now,
my dear ? The past is past; it was, is over.
Whatever we may have to encounter to-mor
row, the suffering of yesterday is gone; that
is a great comfort, Charles. God has been
very good to us; given you fine abilities: to
be sure it was a great struggle to get them
forward. Do you remember how often we
walked to the print-shop with those beauti
ful sketches ? and how, one night—oh, dear
boy! do you remember that particular night,
when 1 was obliged to leave you with your
poor sprained ancle in the dark, because we
had neither candles nor credit, and run down
to the same shop, where the man had so of
ten insulted our poverty by his neglect, to ask
if anything of yours had been sold; and how
astonished l was at his new civility; and
then he told me down gold, pure glittering
gold ? A great sculptor had purchased two
pictures, and taken your name down; and af
ter I had been home, and told you of it, do
you remember how you sent me out to buy
myself anew cap, in case the great man
should call—never thinking how many things
you wanted? And then, when he did call,
and turned over the sketches and designs
which were in the great brown paper-case, I
could only listen to his praise and his advice,
and w r eep.”
“I hope,” said the young painter, “I hope,
dear mother—to use a common phrase—that
the corner is turned.”
” “ Well, I hope it is; but corners are hard
to turn, Charles—hard to turn in all things—
even in the hemming of a pocket-handker
chief.”
And having so said, they descended at
their own door; the artist having bestowed
his last half-crown on the footman, while the
footman thought it should have been five
shillings. But Mrs. Brandon had not said
half she intended to say, and was only re
strained from saying more by seeing her son
gazing on a portrait he had lavished all his
skill upon—of a gentle blue-eyed girl, which
he intended for one of the exhibitions; and
well she knew he loved the very shadow of
that girl, though, perhaps, he knew it not
himself. And she could not help contrasting
the rich brown hair, the intelligent yet win
_ ning smile, the hope, and life, and loveliness
%
a IT SI SIE S3 Db a T&1 AS&TTIS*
of that beautiful being, with what they had
just left. Perhaps his thoughts ran in the
same channel, for he turned away and sigh
ed; but then fifteen hundred a year!—how
very long before Charles could make fifteen
hundred a year!
It so happened that poor Mrs. Brandon
caught cold that night—how, no one could
tell; yet, catching cold is a universal topic
of small conversation ; and Mrs. Jones flew
to her relief with jelly, and marmalade, and
honey, and all the hundred and one things
that are prescribed for colds. Young Bran
don’s heart was more touched by Mrs. Jones’s
kindness to his mother than ever it had been
with her wealth; though, indeed, it is need
less to say that, for what lofty heart was ev
er touched by gold ? Mrs. Brandon’s health
was rapidly declining; and, to the excitement
produced by the dismissal of old and the arri
val of new lovers, was added that of anxiety
about “ poor dear Mrs. Brandon ; such a
mother! such a son! such a prodigy! such
sentiment! such devotion! exquisite beauti
ful being !"—until the hints and observations,
the remarks and plain speaking, of all who
knew the young painter, compelled him to
ask himself what he meant to do.
Unfortunately, at this particular crisis, Dr.
Darling said that the warm air and bright sun
of Italy might revive the drooping woman;
might, in fact, (for Dr. Darling loved to make
people happy,) make her better than evershe
had been ; and visions of Rome, and Venice,
and Naples, mingled with his mother’s im
age, restored to health, as his first memory of
her was, (for painters have fervent minds ;)
and he read over in Byron all that has thrill
ed so many hearts, descriptive of the coun
try and its magic. He read it by the light of
a single candle, as he sat by his mother's bed
side; and when he raised his eyes from the
inspired page, her mild blue orbs were fixed
upon him : they looked to him at that mo
ment as if pressed back by the fingers of
death into their sockets. And he could save
her by a sacrifice.
He smiled in bitter mockery, when he
thought how many would deem him fortunate
in securing the widow and the widow's gold.
The next day she came, and said how much,
how very much she, too, should like to visit
Rome; she had a pretty mosaic that was
bought in Rome; and Genoa—she would
like, above all things, to go with dear Mrs.
Brandon to Genoa, to tend her as a daughter,
and to buy crimson velvet on the spot; but,
, if she did, people would talk—nay, she was
sure they would, the world was so unkind;
and then she should be injured by her feel
ings. And while she so spoke she looked
down, and seemed modest, asif anxious to re
call her words.
The youth’s feelings were sadly harrowed,
for he assured himself, for the first time, that
there was someone he loved even as dearly
as his mother, and he fancied she loved him.
To be sure it was a hopeless affection; but
who ever believed in the hopelessness of a
passion, when both loved and both were
young ? There was another and a higher
principle tugging at his heart and flushing his
pale check: he despised himself for truckling
with a feeling so high, so holy as love. It
had hitherto been to him a thing above the
world; exalted as the stars of heaven; pure
as the mountain air of a free unfettered coun
try; glorious as the mid-day sun; beautiful
as that fairest of all painter’s dreams, a
young and lovely woman ; and yet he had
been calculating on the advantages likely to
arise from the semblance of it—summing up
the pounds, shillings, and pence, that were
to outweigh Mrs. Jones’s age and Mrs.
Jones’s folly. He shuddered at this new
sensation, and turned from it in disgust; but
then his eyes fell upon his listless mother—
listless for the first time; and though she re
turned his glance, yet it was in such a fash
ion that his heart heaved with agony. And
then came Dr. Darling and talked to him
again, saying that his mother’s only chance
of life was in removal; and, when he clench
ed his hand and shook his head, the doctor
laughed, and replied that the fault was all
his owm, for that a certain fair lady had said
so and so. And well, indeed, did the doctor
fulfil the mission which doubtless had been
entrusted to him by the widow; and at last
the painter resolved that, for her sake, who
had done so much for him. for her sake, he
would do what would save his mother.
That night he sat by her bed-side a chang
ed man. He seemed determined not to think;
he talked wildly and recklessly of the future,
but would permit no allusion to the past.
He had wound up all the energies of his
strong young spirit to a determined point, and
flung himself upon the troubled waters, reck
less of the consequences. He told his moth
er he should be very happy; they all would
be happy-; and she would recover—he knew
it—felt it. He would not suffer her to speak
of Mrs. Jones; this was the last time, the
last evening, he should be unfettered; for he
had written to request the lady to fix an hour
when he might see her on a subject involv
ing (alas! how truly!) the happiness of his
future life, and she had replied, on rose-tinted
paper, that she would see him at nine, “ too
happy if she could contribute to that happi
ness.”
He tore the billet into a thousand atoms,
and ground it into the thread-bare carpet with
the heel of his boot, even while he held his
mother’s clammy hand in his, and while he
talked to her of happiness. She did not un
derstand the feelings that sent the hectic
burning to his cheek : but she thought of the
blue Italian sky, the property, the kindness
, of Mrs. Jones—little knowing that the kind
ness of fools is as evanescent, as uncertain,
as the northern light, that shoots athwart the
sky, and then is seen no more. He arranged
her pillow, steeped her temples in eau-de-
Cologne, the gift of her new friend, read her
a few verses of one of her favorite chapters,
lit her thinly-burning lamp, and having kissed
her as he never kissed her before, left her for
the night. He then went into his painting
room, and steadily gazed upon the picture he
had once joyed to paint with a determination
of purpose that seemed immoveable. He
drew his pen-knife, and attempted to destroy
the work he so loved. It was in vain; his
hand trembled; the instrument of destruction
fell from his fingers; and he turned from it
in all the bitterness of self-reproach, feeling
he had not strength to perform what lie con
sidered his duty.
“It is for the last time—the first and last
time,” he murmured. And, falling on his
| knees before the copy of her he loved, he
i kissed the lips that were all but warm with
i life. He then took it from the wall, packed
it carefully up, and directed it to the original,
to w r hom he had once promised it. He threw
himself upon the sofa, in the same room
where he always slept: but sleep will not
bid the wearied and fevered spirit rest; he
could not even close his eyes. At last tears
relieved his heated brow, and he clasped his
hands upon his throbbing temples. Sudden
ly, he might, perhaps, have slumbered, but, if
he had, he awoke with an indistinct idea that
he heard a noise in his mother’s room, the
little chamber he had quitted. He listened,
with his heart upon his lips, but it was not
repeated. Again he tried to sleep; no, he
could not. He crept noiselessly to her bed
room door; all was silent—silent, he fancied,
as the grave, where the writhing of the red
worm is noiseless as the progress of that time
which gives it food.
The silence w r as oppressive; he knew his
mother’s slumbers were light as childhood’s
sighs, and he feared to disturb her. Still, if
he could but hear her speak: he thought the
least sound of her sweet, gentle voice, would
relieve the weight his heart trembled under.
He listened till the intensity of his attention
deprived him almost of the power of breath
ing. For the second time that night his hand
trembled; still it was on the lock of the door,
and he opened it. The light that streamed
from within told him the lamp was burning;
though he did not perceive it immediately, as
the grey morning was already in his painting
room. There was no sound; but, as he had
entered, he thought he would just peep at his
mother; it had always calmed him to do so ;
he was sure she would look happy in her
sleep; she had seemed so tranquil, so cheer
ful, so full of hope both for here and hereaf
ter, when he left her last. He approached
the bed, and withdrew the thin curtain; ago
nized at once by what he saw, he pushed
back the hair from his brow. Could it be
real, or a disordered vision of his imagina
tion ? There she lay—her long thin fingers,
having grasped the clothes, were clenched in
the convulsions of death; her head had fallen
on her shoulder, and blood was filtering from
her lips. It was evident she had burst a
blood-vessel, and that the slight noise which
had at first roused him proceeded from her ef
forts to call for assistance, He saw he was
recognized; one hand moved towards him;
frantic as he almost instantly became with
grief, still lie felt that she wanted to bless
him. He sank by her side : with the strong
effort of purpose urged by the deep affection
which only a mother feels, she raised herself
for a moment, and, suffocating as she was,
she placed her hand upon his brow, and the
words, “Bless—good son!” came forth, with
the last bubble of her life-blood.
Assistance was useless: Darling came—
kind as ever; kinder, indeed, where 6uch
feelings as Charles Brandon’s for a time took
away all power to think or act. It was to
such persons, and at such times, that the doc
tor’s sympathies, fairly awake, showed their
benevolence and humanity: he was then
truly, as children frequently and expressively
say, “ his own self.” True to all noble feel
ings, which the conventional forms of socie
ty so frequently paralyze, he felt deeply for
the high soul that was prostrated bv the bn
liest grief which stirs within us: 'he Wer ’ t
with him—real unaffected tears, he would not
have shown to the mob for worlds How
blessed are such springs! How clear should
they be kept from the rubbish of earth !
A few words convinced Dr. Darlino- that
the young man would have sacrificed” him
self for his mother; and, with ready tact, he
undertook to arrange a matter which he knew
Charles Brandon could not even think of
then. When all was over, and the g ree n
turf pressed upon his mother’s grave in the
most beautiful churchyard the immediate
neighborhood of London can boast— Old
Brompton—then, indeed, Dr. Darling conver
sed with him as a friend, almost as a father,
about what it was right to do. The conse
quence was, that Mrs. Cavendish Jones had
a fit of passion, a fit of hysterics, and a deter
mined aversion to painters. The incipient
attorney almost fancied he had a chance: and
several military men returned, as they ought,
to the charge. But the lady seemed resolved
to do something that was remarkable—some
thing quite out of the way—something won
derful; that is, after declaring for a week
and two days that she would never marry—
once or twice she thought of becoming a nun
and endowing a convent; but she was easily
dissuaded from that; then she talked of go',
ing abroad, but that would not do; for sever
al intelligent and communicative persons in
the loquacious neighborhood where she resi
ded assured her that Dr. Darling had been
seen to drive with Charles Brandon early one
morning to the Boulogne steamer, and that
his trunk was directed to Rome, via Paris—
and that, except his trunk and a folio, he had
no other luggage, except, indeed, a square,
flat deal case, neither large nor small, that
looked very like a picture. Some even as
serted that it was the portrait of a lady—a
young, handsome lady—and others declared
that an officer in the neighborhood, who had
a very lovely blue-eyed daughter, had a pic
ture of Charles Brandon in the little back par
lour. To be sure, though the officer’s daugh
ter was very pretty, it was a satisfaction to
the gossips of Sloane-strcet to know that she
was a fool—which, they repeated, she cer
tainly was, as she had refused two such good
offers! Positively two! The daughter of a
half-pay major to refuse two good offers—of
course she must be a fool! Now’, it was
hinted to the widow by many whose interest
it was she should remain at home, that, if she
went abroad, everybody would say she went
after the artist —and Mrs. Jones’s delicacy
and pride of course assumed a befitting digni
ty at the idea of entertaining a predilection for
“such fellows!”
Sclcctci) Poctrn.
I LOVE YOU.
J lore you—’tis the simplest way
The thing I feel to tell;
Yet if I told it all the day,
You'd never guess how well.
You are my comfort and my light—
My very life you seem ;
I think of you nil day ; all night
’Tis but of you 1 dream.
There’s pleasure in the lightest word
That you can speak to me ;
My soul is like the Aolian chord,
And vibrates Still to thee.
I never read the love-song yet,
So thrilling, fond, or true,
But in my own heart I have met
Somo kinder thought for you.
I bless the shadows on your face,
The light upon j-our hair —
1 like for hours to sit and trace
1 he passing changes there.
I love to hear 3 T our voice’s tone,
Although you should not say
A single word to dream upon,
When that has died away.
Oh ! you are kindly as the beam
That warms where’er it plays ;
And you are gentle as a dream
Os happy, future days.
And you are strong to do the right,
And swift the wrong to flee ;
And if you were not half so bright,
You’re all the world to mel
i i
RECIPE FOR A MODERN DUEL-
Two fools, with each an empty head,
Or, like their pistols, lined with lead!
T wo minor fools to measure distance,
A surgeon, to afford assistance;
A paragraph to catch the fair,
And tell tho world how brave the]/ ere !