CHAPTER XIV
THE PICTURE
My father was very weak, and looked dreadfully ill: the doctor hadrecommended repose and absence of all excitement; "especially," said theman of science, "let us abstain from painting. Gentle exercise,generous living, and quiet, absolute quiet, sir, can alone bring usround again." Notwithstanding which professional advice, I found thepatient in his dressing-gown, hard at work as usual with his easel andcolours, but this time the curtain was not hastily drawn over thecanvas, and my father himself invited me to inspect his work.
I came in heated and excited; my father was paler than ever, and seemedmuch exhausted. He looked very grave, and his large dark eyes shonewith an ominous and unearthly light.
"Vere," said he, "sit down by me. I have put off all I had to say toyou, my boy, till I fear it is too late. I want to speak to you now asI have never spoken before. Where have you been this morning, Vere?"
I felt my colour rising at the question, but I looked him straight inthe face, and answered boldly, "At Beverley Manor, father."
"Vere," he continued, "I am afraid you care for Miss Beverley,--nay, itis no use denying it," he proceeded; "I ought to have taken better careof you. I have neglected my duty as a father, and my sins, I fear, areto be visited upon my child. Look on that canvas, boy; the picture isfinished 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'slips. I had often wished to question him about her, but I was alwaysshy, and easily checked; whilst he from whom alone I could obtaininformation, I have already said, was a man that brooked no inquiries ona subject he chose should remain secret, so that hitherto I had beenkept in complete ignorance of the whole history of one parent. As Ilooked on her likeness now, I began for the first time to realise theloss I had sustained.
The picture was of a young and gentle-looking woman, with deep, darkeyes, and jet-black hair; a certain thickness of eyebrows and width offorehead denoted a foreign origin; but whatever intensity of expressionthese peculiarities may have imparted to the upper part of hercountenance, was amply redeemed by the winning sweetness of her mouth,and the delicate chiselling of the other features. She was pale ofcomplexion, and looked somewhat sad and thoughtful; but there was adepth of trust and affection in those fond eyes that spoke volumes forthe womanly earnestness and simplicity of her character. It was one ofthose pictures that, without knowing the original, you feel at once mustbe 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 hascome when I must tell you all. It may be that your father's example mayserve as a beacon to warn you from the rock on which so many of us havemade shipwreck. When I was your age, my boy, I had no one to controlme, no one even to advise. I had unlimited command of money, a highposition in society, good looks--I may say so without vanitynow--health, strength, and spirits, all that makes life enjoyable, and Ienjoyed it. I was in high favour with the Prince. I was sought afterin society; my horses won at Newmarket, my jests were quoted in theClubs, my admiration was coveted by the 'fine ladies,' and I had theball at my foot. Do you think I was happy? No. I lived for myself; Ithought only of pleasure, and of pleasure I took my fill; but pleasureis a far different thing from happiness, or should I have wandered awayat the very height of my popularity and success, to live abroad bymyself with my colours and sketch-book, vainly seeking the peace of mindwhich was not to be found at home? I was bored, Vere, as a man who leadsan aimless life always is bored. Fresh amusements might stave off themental disease for a time, but it came back with renewed virulence; andI cared not at what expense I purchased an hour's immunity with theremedy 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 theeasel. Would I had devoted my lifetime to it. How differently should Ifeel now.
"One winter I was painting in the Belvidere at Vienna. A young girltimidly looked over my shoulder at my work, and her exclamation ofartless wonder and admiration was so gratifying, that I could not resistthe desire of making her acquaintance. This I achieved without greatdifficulty. She was the daughter of a bourgeois merchant, one notmoving in the same society as myself, and, consequently, unknown to anyof my associates. Perhaps this added to the charm of our acquaintance;perhaps it imparted the zest of novelty to our intercourse. Ere Ireturned to London, I was fonder of Elise than I had ever yet been ofany woman in the world. Why did I not make her mine? Oh! pride andselfishness; I thought it would be a _mesalliance_--I thought my Londonfriends 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 ifI had known her faith and truth, I would have given up all for her, eventhen. So I came back to England, and the image of my pale, lovely Elisehaunted me more than I liked. I rushed deeper into extravagance anddissipation; for two years I gambled and speculated, and rioted, till atthe end of that period I found ruin staring me in the face. I saved acompetency out of the wreck of my property; and by Sir Harry'sadvice--our neighbour, Vere; you needn't wince, my boy--I managed tokeep the old house here as a refuge for my old age. Then, and not tillthen, I thought once more of Elise--oh, hard, selfish heart!--not in thewealth and luxury which I ought to have been proud to offer up at herfeet, but in the poverty and misfortune which I felt would make her loveme all the better. I returned to Vienna, determined to seek her out andmake her my own. I soon discovered her relatives; too soon I heard whathad become of her. In defiance of all their wishes, she had resolutelyrefused to make an excellent marriage provided for her according to thecustom of her country. She would give no reasons; she obstinatelydenied having formed any previous attachment; but on being offered thealternative, 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 desireungratified, and now could I lose the one ardent wish of my wholeexistence 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 inyour heart of hearts the one from the other. Never stifle thatinstinctive knowledge, never use sophistry to persuade yourself you maydo that which you feel you ought not. I travelled down at once to theconvent. I heard her at vespers; I knew that sweet, silvery voiceamongst all the rest. As I stood in the old low-roofed chapel, with thesummer sunbeams streaming across the groined arches and the quaintcarved pews, and throwing a flood of light athwart the aisle, while theorgan above pealed forth its solemn tones, and called us all torepentance and prayer, how could I meditate the evil deed? How could Iresolve to sacrifice her peace of mind for ever to my own wildhappiness? Vere, I carried her off from the convent--I eluded allpursuit, all suspicion--I took her with me to the remotest part ofHungary, her own native country. For the first few weeks I believe shewas deliriously happy, and then--it broke her heart. Yes, Vere, shebelieved she had lost her soul for my sake. She never reproached me--shenever even repined in words; but I saw, day after day, the colour fadingon her cheek, the light growing brighter in her sunken eye. She droopedlike a lily with a worm at its core. For one short year I held her inmy 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; andshe died, Vere, when you were born." My father hid his face for a fewseconds, and when he looked up again he was paler than ever.
"My boy," he murmured, in a hoarse, broken voice, "you have beensacrificed. Forgive me, forgive me, my child; _you are illegitimate_."I staggered as if I had been shot--I felt stunned and stupefied--I sawthe 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. Neveragain must I hold my head up amongst my fellows; never again indulge inthose dreams of future distinction, which I only now knew I had socherished; _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, andlooked my father steadily in the face.
"Father," I said, "whatever happens, I am your son; do not think I shallever reproach you. Even now you might cast me off if you chose, andnone could blame you; but I will never forget you,--whatever happens, Iwill always love you the same." He shook in every limb, and for thefirst time in my recollection, he burst into a flood of tears; theyseemed to afford him relief, and he proceeded with more composure--
"I can never repay the injury I have done you, Vere; and now listen tome and forgive me if you can. All I have in the world will be yours; inevery 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 HarryBeverley. Vere, your look of misery assures me that I have told you_too late_. I am indeed punished in your despair. I ought to havewatched over you with more care. I had intended to make you a greatman, Vere. In your childhood I always hoped that my own talent for artwould be reproduced in my boy, and that you would become the firstpainter of the age, and then none would venture to question yourantecedents or your birth. When I found I was to be disappointed inthis respect, I still hoped that with the competency I shall leave you,and your own retired habits, you might live happily enough in ignoranceof the brand which my misconduct has inflicted on you. But I neverdreamed, my child, that you should set your heart on _his_ daughter, whocan alone cast this reproach in your teeth. It is hopeless--it isirretrievable. My boy, my boy! your prospects have been ruined, and nowI fear your heart is breaking, and all through me. My punishment isgreater than I can bear."
My father stopped again. He was getting fearfully haggard, and seemedquite exhausted. He pointed to the picture which he had just completed.
"Day after day, Vere," he murmured, "I have been working at thatlikeness, and day after day her image seems to have come back morevividly into my mind. I have had a presentiment, that when it was quitefinished it would be time for me to go. It is the best picture I everpainted. Stand a little to the left, Vere, and you will get it in abetter 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!"
"'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'sintelligence. I walked up and down, like a man in a dream. I could notyet realise the full extent of my misery. The hours passed by, andstill I paced the gravel walk under the yew-trees, and took no heed oftime or anything else. At length a servant came to warn me that dinnerwas 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 wasapparently asleep, with his head resting on one arm, and the brush,fallen from his other hand, on the floor. As I touched his shoulder towake him, I remarked that hand was clenched and stiff. Wake him! hewould never wake again. How I lived through that fearful evening I knownot. There was a strange confusion in the house,--running up and downstairs, hushed voices, ghostly whisperings. The doctors came. I knownot what passed. They called it aneurism of the heart; I recollect thatmuch; but everything was dim and indistinct till, a week afterwards,when the funeral was over, I seemed to awake from a dream, and to findmyself alone in the world.