Books: Heart Histories and Life Pictures
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T. S. Arthur >> Heart Histories and Life Pictures
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It may readily be understood, now, why Nina ceased to render
accurate accounts of her charitable expenditures to her father. The
baron entertained not the slightest suspicion of the real state of
affairs, until about a year afterward, when a fine looking youth
presented himself one day, and boldly preferred a claim to his
daughter's hand. The old man was astounded.
"Who, pray, are you," he said, "that presume to make such a demand?"
"I am the son of a peasant," replied Pierre, bowing, and casting his
eyes to the ground, "and you may think it presumption, indeed, for
me to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter. But a peasant's
love is as pure as the love of a prince; and a peasant's heart may
beat with as high emotions."
"Young man," returned the baron, angrily, "your assurance deserves
punishment. But go--never dare cross my threshold again! You ask an
impossibility. When my daughter weds, she will not think of stooping
to a presumptuous peasant. Go, sir!"
Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion. He had been weak enough
to hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, and
give him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter's
hand. But this repulse dashed every hope the earth.
As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servant
for Nina. She was not in her chamber--nor in the house. It was
nearly two hours before she came home. When she entered the presence
of her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not right
with her.
"Who was the youth that came here some hours ago?" he asked,
abruptly.
Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer.
"Did you know that he was coming?" said the father.
The maiden's eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remained
sealed.
"A base-born peasant! to dare--"
"Oh, father! he is not base! His heart is noble," replied Nina,
speaking from a sudden impulse.
"He confessed himself the son of a peasant! Who is he?"
"He is the son of Blanche Delebarre," returned Nina, timidly. "He
has just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit. There is
nothing base about him, father!"
"The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach me and claim
the hand of my child! And worse, that child to so far forget her
birth and position as to favor the suit! Madness! And this is your
good Blanche!--your guide in all works of benevolence! She shall be
punished for this base betrayal of the confidence I have reposed in
her."
Nina fell upon her knees before her father, and with tears and
earnest entreaties pleaded for the mother of Pierre; but the old man
was wild and mad with anger. He uttered passionate maledictions on
the head of Blanche and her presumptuous son, and positively forbade
Nina again leaving the castle on any pretext whatever, under the
penalty of never being permitted to return.
Had so broad an interdiction not been made, there would have been
some glimmer of light in Nina's dark horizon; she would have hoped
for some change--would have, at least, been blessed with short, even
if stolen, interviews with Pierre. But not to leave the castle on
any pretext--not to see Pierre again! This was robbing life of every
charm. For more than a year she had loved the young man with an
affection to which every day added tenderness and fervor. Could this
be blotted out in an instant by a word of command? No! That love
must burn on the same.
The Baron Holbein loved his daughter; she was the bright spot in
life. To make her happy, he would sacrifice almost anything. A
residence of many years in the world had shown him its pretensions,
its heartlessness, the worth of all its titles and distinctions. He
did not value them too highly. But, when a peasant approached and
asked the hand of his daughter, the old man's pride, that was
smouldering in the ashes, burned up with a sudden blaze. He could
hardly find words to express his indignation. It took but a few days
for this indignation to burn low. Not that he felt more favorable to
the peasant--but, less angry with his daughter. It is not certain
that time would not have done something favorable for the lovers in
the baron's mind. But they could not wait for time. Nina, from the
violence and decision displayed by her father, felt hopeless of any
change, and sought an early opportunity to steal away from the
castle and meet Pierre, notwithstanding the positive commands that
had been issued on the subject. The young man, in the thoughtless
enthusiasm of youth, urged their flight.
"I am master of my art," he said, with a proud air. "We can live in
Florence, where I have many friends."
The youth did not find it hard to bring the confiding, artless girl
into his wishes. In less than a month the baron missed his child. A
letter explained all. She had been wedded to the young peasant, and
they had left for Florence. The letter contained this clause, signed
by both Pierre and Nina:--
"When our father will forgive us, and permit our return, we shall be
truly happy--but not till then."
The indignant old man saw nothing but impertinent assurance in this.
He tore up the letter, and trampled it under his feet, in a rage. He
swore to renounce his child forever!
For the Baron Holbein, the next twelve months were the saddest of
his life. Too deeply was the image of his child impressed upon his
heart, for passion to efface it. As the first ebullitions subsided,
and the atmosphere of his mind grew clear again, the sweet face of
his child was before him, and her tender eyes looking into his own.
As the months passed away, he grew more and more restless and
unhappy. There was an aching void in bosom. Night after night he
would dream of his child, and awake in the morning and sigh that the
dream was not reality. But pride was strong--he would not
countenance her disobedience.
More than a year had passed away, and not one word had come from his
absent one, who grew dearer to his heart every day. Once or twice he
had seen the name of Pierre Delebarre in the journals, as a young
artist residing Florence, who was destined, to become eminent. The
pleasure these announcements gave him was greater than he would
confess, even to himself.
One day he was sitting in his library endeavoring to banish the
images that haunted him too continually, when two of his servants
entered, bearing a large square box in their arms, marked for the
Baron Holbein. When the box was opened, it was found to contain a
large picture, enveloped in a cloth. This was removed and placed
against the wall, and the servants retired with the box. The baron,
with unsteady hands, and a heart beating rapidly, commenced removing
the cloth that still held the picture from view. In a few moments a
family group was before him. There sat Nina, his lovely, loving and
beloved child, as perfect, almost, as if the blood were glowing in
her veins. Her eyes were bent fondly upon a sleeping cherub that lay
in her arms. By her side sat Pierre, gazing upon her face in silent
joy. For only a single instant did the old man gaze upon this scene,
before the tears were gushing over his cheeks and falling to the
floor like rain. This wild storm of feeling soon subsided, and, in
the sweet calm that followed, the father gazed with unspeakable
tenderness for a long time upon the face of his lovely child, and
with a new and sweeter feeling upon the babe that lay, the
impersonation of innocence, in her arms. While in this state of
mind, he saw, for the first time, written on the bottom of the
picture--"NOT GREAT, BUT HAPPY."
A week from the day on which the picture was received, the Baron
Holbein entered Florence. On inquiring for Pierre Delebarre, he
found that every one knew the young artist.
"Come," said one, "let me go with you to the exhibition, and show
you his picture that has taken the prize. It is a noble production.
All Florence is alive with its praise."
The baron went to the exhibition. The first picture that met his
eyes on entering the door was a counterpart of the one he had
received, but larger, and, in the admirable lights in which it was
arranged, looked even more like life.
"Isn't it a grand production?" said the baron's conductor.
"My sweet, sweet child!" murmured the old man, in a low thrilling
voice. Then turning, he said, abruptly--
"Show me where I can find this Pierre Delebarre."
"With pleasure. His house is near at hand," said his companion.
A few minutes walk brought them to the artist's dwelling.
"That is an humble roof," said the man, pointing to where Pierre
lived, "but it contains a noble man." He turned away, and the baron
entered alone. He did not pause to summon any one, but walked in
through the open door. All was silent. Through a neat vestibule, in
which were rare flowers, and pictures upon the wall, he passed into
a small apartment, and through that to the door of an inner chamber
It was half open. He looked in. Was it another picture? No, it was
in very truth his child; and her babe lay in her arms, as he had
just seen it, and Pierre sat before her looking tenderly in her
face. He could restrain himself no longer. Opening the door, he
stepped hurriedly forward, and, throwing his arms around the group,
said in broken voice--"God bless you, my children!"
The tears that were shed; the smiles that beamed from glad faces;
the tender words that were spoken, and repeated again and again; why
need we tell of all these? Or why relate how happy the old man was
when the dove that had flown from her nest came back with her mate
by her side The dark year had passed, and there was sunshine again
in his dwelling, brighter sunshine than before. Pierre never painted
so good a picture again as the one that took the prize--that was his
masterpiece.
The Young Baron Holbein has an immense picture gallery, and is a
munificient patron of the arts. There is one composition on his
walls he prizes above all the rest. The wealth of India could not
purchase it. It is the same that took the prize when he was but a
babe and lay in his mother's arms. The mother who held him so
tenderly, and the father who gazed so lovingly upon her pure young
brow have passed away, but they live before him daily, and he feels
their gentle presence ever about him for good.
THE MARRIED SISTERS.
"COME, William, a single day, out of three hundred and sixty-five,
is not much,"
"True, Henry Thorne. Nor is the single drop of water, that first
finds its way through the dyke, much; and yet, the first drop but
makes room for a small stream to follow, and then comes a flood. No,
no, Henry, I cannot go with you, to-day; and if you will be governed
by a friend's advice, you will not neglect your work for the fancied
pleasures of a sporting party."
"All work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy, We were not made to be
delving forever with tools in close rooms. The fresh air is good for
us. Come, William, you will feel better for a little recreation. You
look pale from confinement. Come; I cannot go without you."
"Henry Thorne," said his friend, William Moreland, with an air more
serious than that at first assumed, "let me in turn urge you to
stay."
"It is in vain, William," his friend said, interrupting him.
"I trust not, Henry. Surely, my early friend and companion is not
deaf to reason."
"No, not to right reason."
"Well, listen to me. As I said at first, it is not the loss of a
simple day, though even this is a serious waste of time, that I now
take into consideration. It is the danger of forming a habit of
idleness. It is a mistake, that a day of idle pleasure recreates the
mind and body, and makes us return and necessary employments with
renewed delight. My own experience is, that a day thus spent, causes
us to resume our labors with reluctance, and makes irksome what
before was pleasant. Is it not your own?"
"Well, I don't know; I can't altogether say that it is; indeed, I
never thought about it."
"Henry, the worst of all kinds of deception is self-deception.
Don't, let me, beg of you, attempt to deceive yourself in a matter
so important. I am sure you have experienced this reluctance to
resuming work after a day of pleasure. It is a universal experience.
And now that we are on this subject, I will add, that I have
observed in you an increasing desire to get away from work. You make
many excuses and they seem to you to be good ones. Can you tell me
how many days you have been out of the shop in the last three
months?"
"No, I cannot," was the reply, made in a tone indicating a slight
degree of irritation.
"Well, I can, Henry."
"How many is it, then?"
"Ten days."
"Never!"
"It is true, for I kept the count."
"Indeed, then, you are mistaken. I was only out a gunning three
times, and a fishing twice."
"And that makes five times. But don't you remember the day you were
made sick by fatigue?"
"Yes, true, but that is only six."
"And the day you went up the mountain with the party?"
"Yes."
"And the twice you staid away because it stormed?"
"But, William, that has nothing to do with the matter. If it stormed
so violently that I couldn't come to the shop, that surely is not to
be set down to the account of pleasure-taking."
"And yet, Henry, I was here, and so were all the workmen but
yourself. If there had not been in your mind a reluctance to coming
to the shop, I am sure the storm would not have kept you away. I am
plain with you, because I am your friend, and you know it. Now, it
is this increasing reluctance on your part, that alarms me. Do not,
then, add fuel to a flame, that, if thus nourished, will consume
you."
"But, William----"
"Don't make excuses, Henry. Think of the aggregate of ten lost days.
You can earn a dollar and a half a day, easily, and do earn it
whenever you work steadily. Ten days in three months is fifteen
dollars. All last winter, Ellen went without a cloak, because you
could not afford to buy one for her; now the money that you could
have earned in the time wasted in the last three months, would have
bought her a very comfortable one--and you know that it is already
October, and winter will soon be again upon us. Sixty dollars a year
buys a great many comforts for a poor man."
Henry Thorne remained silent for some moments. He felt the force of
William Moreland's reasoning; but his own inclinations were stronger
than his friend's arguments. He wanted to go with two or three
companions a gunning, and even the vision of his young wife
shrinking in the keen winter wind, was not sufficient to conquer
this desire.
"I will go this once, William," said he, at length, with a long
inspiration; "and then I will quit it. I see and acknowledge the
force of what you say; I never viewed the matter so seriously
before."
"This once may confirm a habit now too strongly fixed," urged his
companion. "Stop now, while your mind is rationally convinced that
it is wrong to waste your time, when it is so much needed for the
sake of making comfortable and happy one who loves you, and has cast
her lot in life with yours. Think of Ellen, and be a man."
"Come, Harry!" said a loud, cheerful voice at the shop door; "we are
waiting for you!"
"Ay, ay," responded Henry Thorne. "Good morning, William! I am
pledged for to-day. But after this, I will swear off!" And so
saying, he hurried away.
Henry Thorne and William Moreland were workmen in a large
manufacturing establishment in one of our thriving inland towns.
They had married sisters, and thus a friendship that had long
existed, was confirmed by closer ties of interest.
They had been married about two years, at the time of their
introduction to the reader, and, already, Moreland could perceive
that his earnings brought many more comforts for his little family
than did Henry's. The difference was not to be accounted for in the
days the other spent in pleasure taking, although their aggregate
loss was no mean item to be taken from a poor man's purse. It was to
be found, mainly, in a disposition to spend, rather than to save; to
pay away for trifles that were not really needed, very small sums,
whose united amounts in a few weeks would rise to dollars. But, when
there was added to this constant check upon his prosperity the
frequent recurrence of a lost day, no wonder that Ellen had less of
good and comfortable clothing than her sister Jane, and that her
house was far less neatly furnished.
All this had been observed, with pain, by William Moreland and his
wife, but, until the conversation recorded in the opening of this
story, no word or remonstrance or warning had been ventured upon by
the former. The spirit in which Moreland's words were received,
encouraged him to hope that he might exercise a salutary control
over Henry, if he persevered, and he resolved that he would extend
thus far towards him the offices of a true friend.
After dinner on the day during which her husband was absent, Ellen
called in to see Jane, and sit the afternoon with her. They were
only sisters, and had always loved each other much. During their
conversation, Jane said, in allusion to the season:
"It begins to feel a little chilly to-day, as if winter were coming.
And, by the way, you are going to get a cloak this fall, Ellen, are
you not?"
"Indeed, I can hardly tell, Jane," Ellen replied, in a serious tone;
"Henry's earnings, somehow or other, don't seem to go far with us;
and yet I try to be as prudent as I can. We have but a few dollars
laid by, and both of us want warm underclothing. Henry must have a
coat and pair of pantaloons to look decent this winter; so I must
try and do without the cloak, I suppose."
"I am sorry for that. But keep a good heart about it, sister. Next
fall, you will surely be able to get a comfortable one; and you
shall have mine as often as you want it, this winter. I can't go out
much, you know; our dear little Ellen, your namesake, is too young
to leave often."
"You are very kind, Jane," said Ellen, and her voice slightly
trembled.
A silence of some moments ensued, and then the subject of
conversation was changed to one more cheerful.
That evening, just about nightfall, Henry Thorne came home, much
fatigued, bringing with him half a dozen squirrels and a single wild
pigeon.
"There, Ellen, is something to make a nice pie for us to-morrow,"
said he, tossing his game bag upon the table.
"You look tired, Henry," said his wife, tenderly; "I wouldn't go out
any more this fall, if I were you."
"I don't intend going out any more, Ellen," was replied, "I'm sick
of it."
"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say so! Somehow, I always
feel troubled and uneasy when you are out gunning or fishing, as if
you were not doing right."
"You shall not feel so any more, Ellen," said Thorne: "I've been
thinking all the afternoon about your cloak. Cold weather is coming,
and we haven't a dollar laid by for anything. How I am to get the
cloak, I do not see, and yet I cannot bear the thought of your going
all this winter again without one."
"O, never mind that, dear," said Ellen, in a cheerful tone, her face
brightening up. "We can't afford it this fall, and so that's
settled. But I can have Jane's whenever I want it, she says; and you
know she is so kind and willing to lend me anything that she has. I
don't like to wear her things; but then I shall not want the cloak
often."
Henry Thorne sighed at the thoughts his wife's words stirred in his
mind.
"I don't know how it is," he at length said, despondingly; "William
can't work any faster than I can, nor earn more a week, and yet he
and Jane have every thing comfortable, and are saving money into the
bargain, while we want many things that they have, and are not a
dollar ahead."
One of the reasons for this, to her husband so unaccountable,
trembled on Ellen's tongue, but she could not make up her mind to
reprove him; and so bore in silence, and with some pain, what she
felt as a reflection upon her want of frugality in managing
household affairs.
Let us advance the characters we have introduced, a year in their
life's pilgrimage, and see if there are any fruits of these good
resolutions.
"Where is Thorne, this morning?" asked the owner of the shop,
speaking to Moreland, one morning, an hour after all the workmen had
come in.
"I do not know, really," replied Moreland. "I saw him yesterday,
when he was well."
"He's off gunning, I suppose, again. If so, it is the tenth day he
has lost in idleness during the last two months. I am afraid I shall
have to get a hand in his place, upon whom I can place more
dependence. I shall be sorry to do this for your sake, and for the
sake of his wife. But I do not like such an example to the workmen
and apprentices; and besides being away from the shop often
disappoints a job."
"I could not blame you, sir," Moreland said; "and yet, I do hope you
will bear with him for the sake of Ellen. I think if you would talk
with him it would do him good."
"But, why don't you talk to him, William?"
"I have talked to him frequently, but he has got so that he won't
bear it any longer from me."
"Nor would he bear it from me, either, I fear, William."
Just at that moment the subject of the conversation came in.
"You are late this morning, Henry," said the owner of the shop to
him, in the presence of the other workmen.
"It's only a few minutes past the time," was replied, moodily.
"It's more than an hour past."
"Well, if it is, I can make it up."
"That is not the right way, Henry. Lost time is never made up."
Thorne did not understand the general truth intended to be
expressed, but supposed, at once, that the master of the shop meant
to intimate that he would wrong him out of the lost hour,
notwithstanding he had promised to make it up. He therefore turned
an angry look upon him, and said--
"Do you mean to say that I would cheat you, sir?"
The employer was a hasty man, and tenacious of his dignity as a
master. He invariably discharged a journeyman who was in the least
degree disrespectful in his language or manner towards him before
the other workmen. Acting under the impulse that at once prompted
him, he said:
"You are discharged;" and instantly turned away.
As quickly did Henry Thorne turn and leave the shop. He took his way
homeward, but he paused and lingered as he drew nearer and nearer
his little cottage, for troubled thoughts had now taken the place of
angry feelings. At length he was at the door, and lifting slowly the
latch, he entered.
"Henry!" said Ellen, with a look and tone of surprise. Her face was
paler and more care-worn than it was a year before; and its calm
expression had changed into a troubled one. She had a babe upon her
lap, her first and only one. The room in which she sat, so far from
indicating circumstances improved by the passage of a year, was far
less tidy and comfortable; and her own attire, though neat, was
faded and unseasonable. Her husband replied not to her inquiring
look, and surprised ejaculation, but seated himself in a chair, and
burying his face in his hands, remained silent, until, unable to
endure the suspense, Ellen went to him, and taking his hand, asked,
so earnestly, and so tenderly, what it was that troubled him, that
he could not resist her appeal.
"I am discharged!" said he, with bitter emphasis. "And there is no
other establishment in the town, nor within fifty miles!"
"O, Henry! how did that happen?"
"I hardly know myself, Ellen, for it all seems like a dream. When I
left home this morning, I did not go directly to the shop; I wanted
to see a man at the upper end of the town, and when I got back it
was an hour later than usual. Old Ballard took me to task before all
the shop, and intimated that I was not disposed to act honestly
towards him. This I cannot bear from any one; I answered him in
anger, and was discharged on the spot. And now, what we are to do,
heaven only knows! Winter is almost upon us, and we have not five
dollars in the world."
"But something will turn up for us, Henry, I know it will," said
Ellen, trying to smile encouragingly, although her heart was heavy
in her bosom.
Her husband shook his head, doubtingly, and then all was gloomy and
oppressive silence. For nearly an hour, no word was spoken by
either. Each mind was busy with painful thoughts, and one with
fearful forebodings of evil. At the end of that time, the husband
took up his hat and went out. For a long, long time after, Ellen sat
in dreamy, sad abstraction, holding her babe to her breast. From
this state, a sense of duty roused her, and laying her infant on the
bed,--for they had not yet been able to spare money for a
cradle,--she began to busy herself in her domestic duties. This
brought some little relief.
About eleven o'clock Jane came in with her usual cheerful, almost
happy face, bringing in her hand a stout bundle. Her countenance
changed in its expression to one of concern, the moment her eyes
rested upon her sister's face, and she laid her bundle on a chair
quickly, as if she half desired to keep it out of Ellen's sight.
"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked, with tender concern, the
moment she had closed the door.
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