Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 424 | Page 7

And now, what do you say

to this history of mine? For fifteen years, I have never been free from
sorrow. No sooner did one grow so familiar to me, that I ceased to
tremble at its hideousness, than another, still more terrible, came to
overwhelm me in fresh misery. For fifteen years, my heart has never
known an hour's peace; and to the end of my life, I shall be a desolate,
miserable, broken-hearted woman. Can you understand, now, the
valuelessness of my riches, and how desolate my splendid house must
seem to me? They have been given me for no useful purpose here or
hereafter; they encumber me, and do no good to others. Who is to have
them when I die? Hospitals and schools? I hate the medical profession,
and I am against the education of the poor. I think it the great evil of
the day, and I would not leave a penny of mine to such a radical wrong.
What is to become of my wealth?'--
'Your grandson,' I interrupted hastily: 'the child of the officer.'
The old woman's face gradually softened. 'Ah! he is a lovely boy,' she
said; 'but I don't love him--no, I don't,' she repeated vehemently. 'If I set
my heart on him, he will die or turn out ill: take to the low ways of his
wretched mother, or die some horrible death. I steel my heart against
him, and shut him out from my calculations of the future. He is a sweet
boy: interesting, affectionate, lovely; but I will not allow myself to love
him, and I don't allow him to love me! But you ought to see him. His
hair is like my own daughter's--long, glossy, golden hair; and his eyes
are large and blue, and the lashes curl on his cheek like heavy fringes.
He is too pale and too thin: he looks sadly delicate; but his wretched
mother was a delicate little creature, and he has doubtless inherited a
world of disease and poor blood from her. I wish he was here though,
for you to see; but I keep him at school, for when he is much with me, I
feel myself beginning to be interested in him; and I do not wish to love
him--I do not wish to remember him at all! With that delicate frame
and nervous temperament, he must die; and why should I prepare fresh
sorrow for myself, by taking him into my heart, only to have him
plucked out again by death?'
All this was said with the most passionate vehemence of manner, as if
she were defending herself against some unjust charge. I said
something in the way of remonstrance. Gently and respectfully, but
firmly, I spoke of the necessity for each soul to spiritualise its
aspirations, and to raise itself from the trammels of earth; and in

speaking thus to her, I felt my own burden lighten off my heart, and I
acknowledged that I had been both foolish and sinful in allowing my
first disappointment to shadow all the sunlight of my existence. I am
not naturally of a desponding disposition, and nothing but a blow as
severe as the non-success of my 'Finding the Body of Harold by
Torch-light' could have affected me to the extent of mental prostration
as that under which I was now labouring. But this was very hard to bear!
My companion listened to me with a kind of blank surprise, evidently
unaccustomed to the honesty of truth; but she bore my remarks
patiently, and when I had ended, she even thanked me for my advice.
'And now, tell me the cause of your melancholy face?' she asked, as we
were nearing Birmingham. 'Your story cannot be very long, and I shall
have just enough time to hear it.'
I smiled at her authoritative tone, and said quietly: 'I am an artist,
madam, and I had counted much on the success of my first historical
painting. It has failed, and I am both penniless and infamous. I am the
"presumptuous dauber" of the critics--despised by my
creditors--emphatically a failure throughout.'
'Pshaw!' cried the lady impatiently; 'and what is that for a grief? a day's
disappointment which a day's labour can repair! To me, your troubles
seem of no more worth than a child's tears when he has broken his
newest toy! Here is Birmingham, and I must bid you farewell. Perhaps
you will open the door for me? Good-morning: you have made my
journey pleasant, and relieved my ennui. I shall be happy to see you in
town, and to help you forward in your career.'
And with these words, said in a strange, indifferent, matter-of-fact tone,
as of one accustomed to all the polite offers of good society, which
mean nothing tangible,