CHAPTER XVI. CHANGE AND NO CHANGE.
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Eighteen months have passed since Calvin s
discovery of the important papers in the old
desk. What is now the situation of the orphans?
Do you see that plain but elegant structure
of granite in La Grange Place? There is nothing
ambitious either in its dimensions or its
adornments; nothing about it to attract the
eye which seeks for imposing architectural effects.
But the first time I ever gazed upon its
simple proportions, I thought to myself, “That
must be a happy home!”
On a cold and stormy evening in December,
just as the street-lamps had been lighted, a
grave, elderly-looking man-servant came to the
front windows and closed the shutters. Such
obstacles, however, shall not prevent us from
spying out the interior with our privileged
eyes.
It is a room with folding-doors, which are at
present closed. The furniture is rather light
than massive. The carpet resembles as much
as possible an enamelled garden-plat—leaves
and wreaths of a light green colour being interspersed
with tulips and flowers of a lively
hue upon a slatish ground. It is soft and thick
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to the foot, and I should guess that some Turkish
loom had laboured long in its fabrication.
The walls are of a light tinge, but not so light
as to mar the effect of the fine landscape paintings
which are hung around them. The curtains,
which hide the windows, and depend to
the floor, are of muslin, faced with a straw-coloured
figured satin. The cornices of the walls
are gilt. The fireplace is of a pure cream-like
marble, the mantelpiece being supported by pillars
composed of carved figures on pedestals.
One of them is Hope with her anchor, the other
a beautiful emblematic figure of Charity. A
cheerful wood fire is blazing on the marble
hearth.
Around the centre-table, which is wholly of
white marble, and upon which stands a lighted
astral lamp and a vase of hothouse flowers, are
four beings in the prime of youth, two of them
boys and two of the other sex. The eldest, a
girl, apparently about seventeen, sits in an armchair,
reading. The boys appear to be studying
their lessons, and the younger girl is arranging
some music to be bound. A large mirror, extending
from the wall to the floor in the space
between the windows, reflects them all, and
seems to love the reflection.
“The air is overheated. John has built up
too much fire,” said the elder girl, laying down
her book.
Yes, dear reader, it is Ruth! Time has
touched her lightly since we saw her last, or
touched her only to beautify. Her hair, instead
of being closely tied up behind in convenient
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snugness, as of old, gushes in black glossy ringlets
down her white neck. Her cheeks are no
longer wan, and her delicately-moulded limbs
rest unconstrainedly within their tasteful, uncorseted
attire. She wears no jewels save
those which Nature has showered upon her;
and Art may thank her that she does not mortify
him by the contrast of his tinsel gifts. To
this assertion there is, however, a single exception.
A slender gold chain hangs about her
neck, and attached to it is a pencil-case, which
she holds in her hand. A pencil-case is of service
sometimes in reading, when we wish to
mark favourite passages. But why, my dear
Ruth—why, in the name of all that is fashionable,
do you carry one of silver, when you know
that you can afford one curiously wrought of
gold, and set around with diamonds?
Truly there is no accounting for the freaks
which young girls sometimes take into their
heads.
“Do me the favour, Frank, to open the folding-doors,
and let in a little fresh air,” says
Ruth, whose prejudices in behalf of that luxury
seem as strong as ever.
Frank does as he is requested, and, though
the other room is not lighted, I can plainly see,
through the opposite windows, that the broad
piazza before them has been converted into a
conservatory, and is filled with tiers upon tiers
of hothouse plants. And, by-the-way, a gossiping
neighbour tells me that Ruth rather prides
herself upon her taste in arranging bouquets, if
pride be the proper word to signify the gentle
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pleasure which she derives from the employment.
“Now let me hear you play the air from
Norma, May,” says Ruth, carelessly taking up
the newspaper of the evening.
May flings back her yellow curls, and turns
over the leaves of one of the numerous musicbooks
under the piano.
But what has so suddenly startled Ruth? She
has read in the newspaper the following brief
advertisement: “Mr. Franklin Stanford, portrait-painter,
respectfully informs the public
that he has resumed the practice of his art at
his old rooms in Vesey-street.”
Ruth rings the bell, and the grave, elderly-looking
servant already alluded to makes his
appearance.
“John, you will please have the carriage at
the door as soon as possible.”
“The carriage!”
“Yes. You seem surprised.”
“It is a dark, disagreeable night, Miss Ruth;
and it is such an unusual thing for you to go
out in the evening!”
“I know it, John; but it is an unusual inducement
which draws me out now. So be quick
with the carriage. But, before you go, tell
Bridget to make a fire in the closed chamber
that looks towards the south; to air the room,
and put fresh sheets on the bed.”
“Yes, Miss Ruth, it shall be done, and the
carriage at the door in ten minutes.”
John was an Englishman, who had been a
servant from his childhood to his fiftieth year in
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the family of a wealthy English banker. The
banker shot himself one day, in consequence of
some heavy losses, by which he was reduced
to penury; and John expended the little property
he had laid up for himself in providing for
his master's destitute children. The recipients
of his bounty proved ungrateful, and John, in
the hope of finding employment, sailed in one
of the first steam-ships for the United States.
In New-York, by one of those coincidences
which are frequently brought about in this new
and changing country, he met an old female
acquaintance, for whom he had felt a particular
regard some thirty years before. Adverse circumstances
had prevented their union; but
each had always recollected the other with affection,
and each had remained single, perhaps
for the other's sake. At any rate, many months
had not passed after their encounter in America,
before Miss Bridget Wakely became Mrs.
John Murray. They had both been strongly
recommended to Ruth for servants; and I have
been always suspicious that she had some hand
in bringing them together in the bonds of matrimony.
Mrs. Murray was taken into the family
as a sort of sub-housekeeper; and a most
notable one she was! Wo to the chambermaid
who suffered a speck of dust to be seen in any
of the rooms committed to her care! Unless
specially pardoned by Ruth, which, except in
flagrant instances, generally was the case, she
had to “pack up and be off,” as Mrs. John would
express it, “quick as she could say Jack Robinson.”
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With such domestic assistants, Ruth did not
find the management of her little household at
all difficult. Mrs. Murray undertook the supply
of the table, and she discharged the task in a
manner suited to the simple tastes of the children.
John attended to all the out-door affairs
of the establishment, and was, in fact, coachman,
groom, and steward, all in one. As both
he and his wife were scrupulously honest, Ruth
considered herself singularly fortunate in having
them in her employment. Their attachment
to her was unbounded, and was only equalled
by their respect for her discretion and goodness.
While I have been indulging in these details,
the coach has arrived. Ruth requests Arthur
to put on his cloak and accompany her. In two
minutes, under John's steady guidance, they
are skimming along the smooth wooden pavement
with which a patch of the upper part of
Broadway is floored.
We will stride a little before them, and enter
the painter's room. It is the same to which
I introduced the reader in the first chapter of
this work. The alterations are trifling, which
have been made in it since the date of that occasion.
A different painting is on the easel.
An old sofa-bedstead stands behind a screen.
There is no fire in the grate, although the night
is chilly.
Stanford is sitting in much the same posture
that we found him in at our first meeting. Two
years, however, have wrought a sad change in
his appearance. His cheeks are pale and sunken.
His copious, bushy hair is here and there
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streaked with gray. The cheerful smile, which
once played about his lips and beamed from
his eyes, is gone. Care and sickness have left
their marks upon his face.
Upon a table near him lies an unfinished letter,
in his own hand-writing. It is addressed
to his mother. As it may throw some light upon
his recent history, I hope it will not be deemed
impertinent in me to glance over it, and quote
some few passages:
“I had not been in Paris three weeks, when
the gentleman with whom the contract for
copying pictures had been made, died, and I
was left to provide for myself. For months I
lived upon an incredibly small sum, frequenting
the galleries, and studying the choicest works
of the great masters.
“The following summer I travelled on foot
into Italy, and passed some time in Florence
and in Rome. In the latter place I was ill some
months, through exposure to the malaria, and
was obliged to abstain from the practice of my
art.
“Feeble and impoverished, I arrived in Leghorn
about four months since. There I painted
the portraits of some American sea-captains,
and finally took passage for New-York. Our
voyage was long and tedious. A malady, called
the ship-fever, broke out among the poor passengers
in the steerage. I attended rather too
incautiously upon the sick, and contracted the
disease. When we reached the Quarantine
Ground at Staten Island, I was obliged to place
myself under the charge of the resident
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physician of the port. After weeks of severe illness
I was able to be removed to the city, where
I re-engaged my old rooms in Vesey-street,
and told the public I was ready to paint their
portraits.
“Such has been and is the depression in all
branches of business, however, that I have hardly
succeeded in earning my salt. Among those
who have the ability to pay for good paintings,
there is, moreover, an insensibility to the true
and beautiful in art, which leads them to apply
the same rules of calculation to a painting that
they would to a bale of cotton or a load of
wood. Let the canvass be large enough, lay
on any quantity of gaudy colours, and they are
content. Now I can never deal with such people.
I cannot bear to let a crude, unfinished
production go from my easel. Study and labour
must be expended on it, even though I might
earn the scanty remuneration awarded to it
with an expenditure of a twentieth part of that
study and labour.
“After a dispassionate consideration of all
these circumstances, I have resolved, my dear
mother, to abandon my art and return to my
native village, where, in agricultural pursuits, I
may possibly renovate my shattered constitution.
Although, after all my brave hopes, and
all the prognostications of my too sanguine and
partial friends, in whose rustic estimation I was
years ago a Sir Benjamin West, I shall come
back almost as attenuated in person as in purse,
yet I do not fear but that I shall be welcome to
your humble roof.
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“I have been fearing to-night that symptoms
of a relapse in my fever had appeared—so weak
and hot am I, although, for economy's sake, I
am sitting without a fire, with my old cloak
about me. By morning, perhaps—”
Here the manuscript abruptly ends.
“Yes!” says Stanford, “I must bid farewell
to my art—my beautiful art—in which I once
dreamed I should win distinction. Ay! I remember
sitting in this very room one cold,
cheerless evening, some two years since, and
hewing out of hope's inexhaustible quarries
gorgeous fabrics—magnificent palaces for the
future! Where are they now? Faded—faded!
Yes, I well remember that night. It was dark
and wet like this; and, in returning to my lodgings,
I met a little girl in the street asking charity.
Ruth—ay, that was her name—Ruth Loveday!
Poor Ruth! Where art thou now, with
thy little family? I have sought thee in the
abode where I left thee. It was half consumed
by a recent fire. None of the dwellers near
could tell me of thy whereabout. God grant
that the rude world has used thee well!”
As Stanford finishes his soliloquy, he puts
both hands to his forehead as if to subdue a
sudden pain.
“If that fever comes back, I fear my career
in this world will soon be brought to a conclusion!”
says he.
There is a noise of carriage-wheels before
the street-door. It does not excite his attention,
for little dreams he that there are human
beings near, at that time of the day, eager to
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hear of his welfare. Footsteps approach the
door of his room; a knock is heard and answered;
and Ruth and Arthur enter.
“Mr. Stanford!”
“By whom have I the honour of being accosted?”
asks the painter, in surprise.
“By one who owes you more than she can
easily repay.”
“Can it be? Is it Ruth? Is it Arthur?”
“Yes, Mr. Stanford, you have guessed aright.”
The painter, obeying his first impulse, kisses
Ruth, and shakes hands with Arthur. So sudden
are his movements, that our young lady
does not anticipate, and, of course, cannot prevent,
the act. He sinks into his chair with an
appearance of fatigue.
“You have been well, I hope, dear Mr. Stanford?”
“Nay, Ruth; were there more than one candle
in the room, you need not have asked the
question. I have been very ill, and am even
now feverish and weak. But you—you, my
child, if my eyes do not deceive me—you have
been, and are well? And how is little blue-eyed
May? And how is Frank?”
“Well—both of them! You shall see them
this very night.”
“Not to-night, I fear. I am too unwell to
quit my room.”
“Rather say, too unwell to remain in it, chilly
and desolate as it is!”
“Do you propose that I shall not return to it
this evening?”
“Certainly. My carriage is at the door. My
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house is not far distant. The best chamber in
it has been long kept sacred for you.”
“Carriage! House!”
“Yes, my dear friend. You remember the
documents relating to my mother's family, for
which we searched long in vain? They were
found at last. In one word, we have inherited
a large estate, and this is the first moment that
I have felt a thrill of unalloyed joy because of
the inheritance; for I now have the means of
testifying my gratitude, my—regard. So do
not attempt to exhaust yourself by words. It
is my turn now to play the nurse. Alas! you
are quite weak! Arthur, take hold of his other
arm, and, with me, aid him to rise. So! Now
let me lift the cloak around your shoulders.
The dear cloak! It once sheltered me—it did—
when my limbs were half frozen. Cheerily!
We shall soon reach the carriage. Here are
the stairs. Do not fear a fall. We are stronger
than you think for. One step more. We
are at the foot. The street-door is open. A
few paces more, and we are at the carriage.
Slowly and surely! So! The steps are down.
Now—gently, Arthur. Is he seated? Then
make room for me. Now drive carefully home,
John.”
“Yes, Miss Ruth.”
John puts up the steps, closes the door, and,
mounting the coach-box, guides homeward his
well-trained horses.
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Sargent, Epes, 1813-1880 [1842], What's to be done?, or, The will and the way (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf333].
