The Portrait
"Bless the happy art!" ejaculated Mrs. Morton, wiping the moisturefrom her eyes. "Could anything be more perfect than that likeness ofhis sweet, innocent face? Dear little Willie! I fear I love him toomuch.""It is indeed perfect," said Mr. Morton, after viewing the picturein many lights. "My favourite painter has surpassed himself. Whatcould be more like life, than that gentle, half-pensive face lookingso quiet and thoughtful, and yet so full of childhood's mostinnocent, happy expression?"Mr. Morton, here introduced to the reader, was a wealthy merchant ofPhiladelphia, and a liberal patron of the arts. He had, already,obtained several pictures from Sully, who was, with him, as anartist, a great favourite. The last order had just been sent home.It was a portrait of his youngest, and favourite child--a sweetlittle boy, upon whose head three summers had not yet smiled."I would not take the world for it!" said Mrs. Morton after lookingat it long and steadily for the hundredth time. "Dear little fellow!A year from now, and how changed he will be. And every year he willbe changing and changing; but this cannot alter, and even from theperiod of manhood, we may look back and see our Willie's face whenbut a child.""Every one who is able," remarked Mr. Morton, "should have theportraits of his children taken. What better legacy could a fatherleave to his child, than the image of his own innocent face! Surely,it were enough to drive away thoughts of evil, and call up old andinnocent affections, for any man, even the man of crime, to look forbut a moment upon the image of what he was in childhood.""And yet there are some," added Mrs. Morton, "who call portraits,and indeed, all paintings, mere luxuries--meaning, thereby,something that is utterly useless.""Yes, there are such, but even they, it seems to me, might perceivetheir use in preserving the innocent features of their children. Thegood impressions made in infancy and childhood, are rarely if everlost; they come back upon every one at times, and are, frequently,all-powerful in the influence they exert against evil. How like aspell to call back those innocent thoughts and affections, would bethe image of a man's face in childhood! No one, it seems to me,could resist its influence."One, two, and three years passed away, and every one wrought somechange upon "little Willie," but each change seemed to the fondparents an improvement,--yet, did they not look back to earlieryears, as they glanced at his picture, with less of tender emotion,and heart-stirring delight. But now a sad change, the saddest of allchanges that occur, took place. Disease fastened upon the child, andere the parents, and fond sisters of a younger and only brother,were fully sensible of danger, the spirit of the child had fled. Wewill not linger to pain the reader with any minute description ofthe deep and abiding grief that fell, like a shadow from an evilwing overspreading them, upon the household of Mr. Morton, but passon to scenes more exciting, if not less moving to the heart.For many weeks, Mrs. Morton could not trust herself to look up tothe picture that still hung in its place, the picture of her lostone. But after time had, in some degree, mellowed the grief thatweighed down her spirits, she found a melancholy delight in gazingintently upon the beautiful face that was still fresh andunchanged--that still looked the impersonation of innocence."He was too pure and too lovely for the earth," she said, one day,to her husband, about two months after his death, leaning her headupon his shoulder--"and so the angels took him.""Then do not grieve for him," Mr. Morton replied in a soothing tone."We know that he is with the angels, and where they are, is neitherevil, nor sorrow, nor pain. Much as I loved him, much as I grievedfor his loss, I would not recall him if I could. But, our picturecannot die. And though it is mute and inanimate, yet it is somethingto awaken remembrances, that, even though sad, we delight tocherish. It is something to remind us, that we have a child inheaven."But the loss of their child seemed but the beginning of sorrows toMr. Morton and his family. An unexpected series of failures inbusiness so fatally involved him, that extrication becameimpossible. He was an honest man, and therefore, this suddendisastrous aspect of affairs was doubly painful, for he knew noother course but the honourable giving up of everything. On learningthe whole truth in relation to his business, he came home, and afteropening the sad news to his wife, he called his family around him."My dear children," he said, "I have painful news to break to you;but you cannot know it too soon. Owing to a succession of heavyfailures, my business has become embarrassed beyond hope. I mustgive up all,--even our comfortable and elegant home must be changedfor one less expensive, and less comfortable. Can you, my children,bear with cheerfulness and contentment such a changed condition?"The heart of each one had already been subdued and chastened by theaffliction that removed the little playmate of all so suddenly away,and now the news of a painful and unlooked-for reverse came with ashock that, for a few moments, bewildered and alarmed."Are not my children willing to share the good and evil of life withtheir father?" Mr. Morton resumed after the gush of tears thatfollowed the announcement of his changed fortunes had in a degreesubsided."Yes, dear father! be they what they may," Constance, the eldest, ayoung lady in her seventeenth year, said, looking up affectionatelythrough her tears.Mary, next in years, pressed up to her father's side, and twining anarm around his neck, kissed his forehead tenderly. She did notspeak; for her heart was too full; but it needed no words to assurehim that her love was as true as the needle to the pole.Eliza, but twelve, and like an unfolding bud half revealing theloveliness and beauty within, could not fully comprehend the wholematter. But enough she did understand, to know that her father wasin trouble, and this brought her also to his side."Do not think of us, dear father!" Constance said, after the pauseof a few oppressive moments. "Let the change be what it may, itcannot take from us our father's love, and our father's honourableprinciples. Nor can it change the true affection of his children. Ifeel as if I could say, With my father I could go unto prison or todeath."The father was much moved. "That trial, my dear children, I trustyou may never be called upon to meet. The whole extent of thepainful one into which you are about to enter, you cannot nowpossibly realize, and I earnestly hope that your hearts may not failyou while passing through the deep waters. But one thought maystrengthen; think that by your patience and cheerfulness, yourfather's burdens will be lightened. He cannot see you pained withoutsuffering a double pang himself.""Trust us, father," was the calm, earnest, affectionate reply ofConstance; and it was plain, by the deep resolution expressed in thefaces of her sisters, that she spoke for them as well as herself.And now, the shadow that was obscuring their earthly prospects,began to fall thicker upon them. At the meeting of his creditorswhich was called, he gave a full statement of his affairs."And now," he said, "I am here to assign everything. In consequenceof heavy, and you all must see, unavoidable, losses, this assignmentwill include all my property, and still leave a small deficiency.Beyond that, I can only hope for success in my future exertions, andpledge that success in anticipation. Can I do more?""We could not ask for more certainly," was the cold response of asingle individual, made in a tone of voice implying no sympathy withthe debtor's misfortunes, but rather indicating disappointment thatthe whole amount of his claim could not be made out of the assets.Some degree of sympathy, some kind consideration for his painfulcondition Mr. Morton naturally looked for, but nearly every kindemotion for him was stifled by the sordid disappointment which eachone of his former business friends felt in losing what they valued,as their feelings indicated, above everything else--their money."When will the assignment be made?" was the next remark."Appoint your trustees, and I am ready at any moment."Trustees were accordingly appointed, and these had a privateconference with, and received their instructions from the creditors.In a week they commenced their work of appraisement. After athorough and careful examination into accounts, deeds, mortgages,and documents of various kinds, and becoming satisfied that everything was as Mr. Morton had stated it, it was found that theproperty represented by these would cover ninety cents in thedollar."Your furniture and plate comes next," said one of the trustees.Mr. Morton bowed and said, while his heart sunk in his bosom--"To-morrow I will be ready for that.""But why not to-day?" inquired one of the trustees. "We are anxiousto get through with this unpleasant business.""I said to-morrow," Mr. Morton replied, while a red spot burned uponhis cheek.The trustees looked at each other, and hesitated."Surely," said the debtor, "you cannot hesitate to let me have asingle day in which to prepare my family for so painful a duty asthat which is required of me.""We should suppose," remarked one of the trustees, in reply, "thatyour family were already prepared for that."The debtor looked the last speaker searchingly in the face for somemoments, and then said, as if satisfied with the examination--"Then you are afraid that I will make way, in the mean time, withsome of my plate!""I did not say so, Mr. Morton. But, you know we are under oath toprotect the interest of the creditors."An indignant reply trembled on the lips of Morton, but he curbed hisfeelings with a strong effort."I am ready now," he said, after a few moments of hurriedself-communion. "The sooner it is over the better."Half an hour after he entered his house with the trustees, and swornappraiser. He left them in the parlour below, while he held a briefbut painful interview with his family."Do not distress yourself, dear father!" Constance said, laying herhand upon his shoulder. We expected this, and have fully nervedourselves for the trial.""May he who watches over, and regards us all, bless you, mychildren!" the father said with emotion, and hurriedly left them.A careful inventory of the costly furniture that adorned theparlours was first taken. The plate was then displayed, rich andbeautiful, and valued; and then the trustees lifted their eyes tothe wall--they were connoisseurs in the fine arts; at least one ofthem was, but a taste for the arts had, in his case, failed tosoften his feelings. He looked at a picture much as a dealer inprecious stones looks at a diamond, to determine its money-value."That is from Guido," he said, looking admiringly at a sweetpicture, which had always been a favourite of Mr. Morton's, "and itis worth a hundred dollars.""Shall I put it down at that?" asked the appraiser, who had littleexperience in valuing pictures."Yes; put it down at one hundred. It will bring that under thehammer, any day," replied the connoisseur. "Ah, what have we here? Acopy from Murillo's 'Good Shepherd.' Isn't that a lovely picture?Worth a hundred and fifty, every cent. And here is 'Our Saviour,'from Da Vinci's celebrated picture of the Last Supper; and a'Magdalen' from Correggio. You are a judge of pictures, I see, Mr.Morton! But what is this?" he said, eyeing closely a largeengraving, richly framed."A proof, as I live! from the only plate worth looking at ofRaphael's Madonna of St. Sixtus. I'll give fifty dollars for that,myself."The pictures named were all entered up by the appraiser, and thenthe group continued their examination."Here is a Sully," remarked the trustee above alluded to, pausingbefore Willie's portrait."But that is a portrait," Mr. Morton said, advancing, while hisheart leaped with a new and sudden fear."If it is, Mr. Morton, it is a valuable picture, worth every cent oftwo hundred dollars. We cannot pass that, Sir.""What!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, "take my Willie's portrait? O no, youcannot do that!""It is no doubt a hard case, Mr. Morton," said one of the trustees."But we must do our duty, however painful. That picture is a mostbeautiful one, and by a favourite artist, and will bring at leasttwo hundred dollars. It is not a necessary article of householdfurniture, and is not covered by the law. We should be censured, andjustly too, if we were to pass it."For a few moments, Mr. Morton's thoughts were so bewildered and hisfeelings so benumbed by the sudden and unexpected shock, that hecould not rally his mind enough to decide what to say or how to act.To have the unfeeling hands of creditors, under the sanction of thelaw, seize upon his lost Willie's portrait, was to him so unexpectedand sacrilegious a thing, that he could scarcely realize it, and hestood wrapt in painful, dreamy abstraction, until roused by thedirection,"Put it down at a hundred and fifty," given to the appraiser, by oneof the trustees."Are your hearts made of iron?" he asked bitterly, roused at onceinto a distinct consciousness of what was transpiring."Be composed, Mr. Morton," was the cold, quiet reply."And thus might the executioner say to the victim he wastorturing--Be composed. But surely, when I tell you that thatpicture is the likeness of my youngest child, now no more, you willnot take it from us. To lose that, would break his mother's heart.Take all the rest, and I will not murmur. But in the name ofhumanity spare me the portrait of my angel boy."There was a brief, cold, silent pause, and the trustees continuedtheir investigations. Sick at heart, Mr. Morton turned from them andsought his family. The distressed, almost agonized expression of hiscountenance was noticed, as he came into the chamber where they hadretired."Is it all over?" asked Mrs. Morton."Not yet," was the sad answer.The mother and daughter knew how much their father prized his choicecollection of pictures, and supposed that giving an inventory ofthem had produced the pain that he seemed to feel. Of the truth,they had not the most distant idea. For a few minutes he sat withthem, and then, recovering in some degree, his self-possession, hereturned and kept with the trustees, until everything in the housethat could be taken, was valued. He closed the door after them, whenthey left, and again returned to his family."Have they gone?" asked Constance, in a low, almost whisperingvoice."Yes, my child, they have gone at last.""And what have they left us?" inquired Mrs. Morton somewhatanxiously."Nothing but the barest necessaries for housekeeping.""They did not take our carpets and--""Yes, Mary," said Mr. Morton interrupting her, "every article in theparlors has been set down as unnecessary.""O, father!" exclaimed the eldest daughter, "can it be possible?""Yes, my child, it is possible. We are left poor, indeed. But forall that I would not care, if they had only left us Willie'sportrait!"Instantly the mother and daughters rose to their feet, with blanchedcheeks, and eyes staring wildly into the father's face."O no, not Willie's portrait, surely!" the mother at length said,mournfully. "We cannot give that up. It is of no comparative valueto others, and is all in all to us.""I plead with them to spare us that. But it was no use," Mr. Mortonreplied. "The tenderest ties in nature were nothing to them incomparison with a hundred and fifty dollars.""But surely," urged Constance, "the law will protect us in thepossession of the picture. Who ever heard of a portrait being seizedupon by a creditor?""It is a cruel omission; but nevertheless, Constance, there is nolaw to protect us in keeping it.""But they shall not have it!" Mary said indignantly. "I will takeit away this very night, where they can never find it.""That would be doing wrong my child," Mr. Morton replied. "I owethese men, and this picture, they say, will bring a hundred andfifty dollars. If they claim it, then, I cannot honestly withholdit. Let us, then, my dear children, resolve to keep our consciencesclear of wrong, and endeavor patiently to bear with our afflictions.They can only result in good to us so far as we humbly acquiesce inthem. Nothing happens by chance. Every event affecting us, I haveoften told you, is ordered or permitted by Divine Providence, and isintended to make us better and wiser. This severest trial of all, ifpatiently borne, will, I am sure, result in good."But, even while he tried to encourage and bear up the droopingspirits of his family, his own heart sunk within him at the thoughtof losing the portrait of his child.One week sufficed to transfer his property into the hands of theindividuals appointed to receive it. He sought to make nounnecessary delay, and, therefore, it was quickly done. At the endof that time, he removed his family into a small house at thenorthern extremity of the city, and furnished it with the scantyfurniture that, as an insolvent debtor the law allowed him to claim.Ere he left his beautiful mansion with his wife and children, theyall assembled in the parlour where still hung Willie's sweetportrait. The calm, innocent face of the child had for their eyes amelancholy beauty, such as it had never worn before; and they gazedupon it until every cheek was wet, and every heart oppressed. A saleof the furniture had been advertised for that day, and already thehouse had been thrown open. Several strangers had come in to makeexaminations before the hour of sale, and among them was a youngman, who on observing the family in the parlour, instinctivelywithdrew; not, however before he had glanced at the picture theywere all looking at so earnestly. Aware that strangers weregathering, Mr. Morton and his family soon withdrew, each taking alast, lingering, tearful glance at the dear face looking so sweet,so calm, so innocent.Their new home presented a painful and dreary contrast to the onefrom which they had just parted. In the parlours, the floors ofwhich were all uncarpeted there were a dozen chairs, and a table,and that was all! Bedding barely enough for the family, with butscanty furniture, sufficed for the chambers; and the same exactinghands had narrowed down to a stinted remnant the appendages of thekitchen.It was an hour after the closing in of evening, and the familygreatly depressed in spirits, were gathered in one of the chambers,sad, gloomy, and silent, when the servant which they had retainedcame in and said that Mr. Wilkinson was below and wished to see MissConstance."Indeed, indeed, mother, I cannot see him!" Constance said burstinginto tears. "It is cruel for him to come here so soon," she added,after she had a little regained her self-possession."You can do no less than see him Constance," her mother said. "Donot lose that consciousness of internal truth of character whichalone can sustain you in your new relations. You are not changed,even if outward circumstances are no longer as they were. And if Mr.Wilkinson does not regard these do not you. Meet him my child, asyou have ever met him.""We have only met as friends," Constance replied, while her voicetrembled in spite of her efforts to be calm."Then meet now as friends, and equals. Remember, that, all that isof real worth in you remains. Adversity cannot rob you of your truecharacter.""Your mother has spoken well and wisely," Mr. Morton said. "If Mr.Wilkinson, whom I know to be a man of most sterling integrity ofcharacter, still wishes your society, or ours, it must not, from anyfoolish pride or weakness on our part, be denied.""Then I will see him, and try to meet him as I should, though I feelthat the task will be a hard one," Constance replied. And her palecheek and swimming eye, told but too well, that it would need allher efforts to maintain her self-possession.In a few minutes she descended and met Mr. Wilkinson in the parlour."Pardon me," he said advancing and taking her hand as she entered,"for so soon intruding upon you after the sad change in yourcondition. But I should have been untrue to the kind feelings I bearyourself and family, had I, from a principle of false delicacy,staid away. I trust I shall be none the less welcome now thanbefore.""We must all esteem the kindness that prompted your visit,"Constance replied with a strong effort to subdue the troubledemotions within, and which were but too plainly indicated, by hernow flushed cheek and trembling lips."No other feeling induced me to call, except indeed, one strongerthan that possibly could be--" Mr. Wilkinson said, still holding herhand, and looking intently in her face--" the feeling of profoundregard, nay, I must call it, affection, which I have longentertained for you."A declaration so unexpected, under the circumstances, entirelydestroyed all further efforts on the part of Constance, to controlher feelings. She burst into tears, but did not attempt to withdrawher hand."Can I hope for a return of like sentiment, Constance?" he at lengthsaid, tenderly.A few moments' silence ensued, when the weeping girl lifted herhead, and looked him in the face with eyes, though filled withtears, full of love's tenderest expression."I still confide in my father, Mr. Wilkinson," was her answer."Then I would see your father to-night."Instantly Constance glided from the room, and in a few minutes herfather came down into the parlour. A long conference ensued; andthen the mother was sent for, and finally Constance again. Mr.Wilkinson made offers of marriage, which, being accepted, he urgedan immediate consummation. Delay was asked, but he was so earnest,that all parties agreed that the wedding should take place in threedays.In three days the rite was said, and Wilkinson, one of the mostprosperous young merchants of Philadelphia, left for New York withhis happy bride. A week soon glided away, at the end of which timethey returned."Where are we going?" Constance asked, as they entered a carriage onlanding from the steamboat."To our own house, of course!" was her husband's reply."You didn't tell me that you had taken a house, and furnished it.""Didn't I? Well, that is something of an oversight. But you hardlythought that I was so simple as to catch a bird without having acage first provided for it.""You had but little time to get the cage," thought Constance, butshe did not utter the thought.In a few minutes the carriage stopped before a noble dwelling, thefirst glance of which bewildered the senses of the young bride, andcaused her to lean silent and trembling upon her husband's arm, asshe ascended the broad marble steps leading to the entrance. Thenceshe was ushered hurriedly into the parlours.There stood her father, mother, and sisters, ready to receive her.There was every article of furniture in its place, as she had leftit but a little over a week before. The pictures, so much admired byher father, still hung on the wall; and there, in the old spot, wasWillie s dear portrait, as sweet, as innocent, as tranquil as ever!One glance took in all this. In the next moment she fell weepingupon her mother's bosom.A few words will explain all. Mr. Wilkinson, who was comparativelywealthy, was just on the eve of making proposals for the hand ofConstance Morton, when the sudden reverse overtook her father, andprostrated the hopes of the whole family. But his regard was a trueone, and not to be marred or effaced by external changes. When hesaw the sale of the house and furniture announced, he determined tobuy all in at any price. And he did so. On the day of the sale, hebid over every competitor.On the night of his interview with Constance and her father, heproposed a partnership with the latter."But I have nothing, you know, Mr. Wilkinson," he replied."You have established business habits, and extensive knowledge ofthe operations of trade, and a large business acquaintance. Andbesides these, habits of discrimination obtained by long experience,which I need. With your co-operation in my business, I can double myprofits. Will you join me?""It were folly, Mr. Wilkinson, to say nay," Mr. Morton replied."Then I will announce the co-partnership at once," he said.And it was announced before the day of marriage, but Constance didnot see it.A happy elevation succeeded of course, the sudden, painful, butbrief depression of their fortunes. Nor was any of that tried familyless happy than before. And one was far happier. Still, neither Mr.Morton, nor the rest could ever look at Willie's portrait withoutremembering how near they had once been to losing it, nor without amomentary fear, that some change in life's coming mutations mightrob them of the precious treasure, now doubly dear to them.
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