Harry's Story
"I never was clever," began Harry, "and am not now. I used to be quite satisfied that kings and other celebrated people really had lived and died without learning a whole rigmarole about their lives. Really it did not interest me a bit. Geography was the same, composition was worse, mathematics was worst. I seemed always to be in hot water at school. Then one day the old man (we always called Jackson Spencer that) said after class was over—and of course I hadn't answered once—'Elliott, go to my room and wait for me.' I tell you, Gladys, I shivered; I didn't know what I was in for. Old man walked right in and shut the door, after having left me alone about ten minutes, and just said, 'Come and sit down, boy, I want to say something to you.' You could have knocked me over I was so surprised. He then said: 'Look here, Elliott, you are not a bad chap, but do you know that you are as blind as an owl?' I rubbed my eyes and said, 'No, sir, I can see all right.'
"'You must be very short-sighted, then.'
"Of course I said nothing.
"'Did you ever think why your father sent you to school?'
"'No-o, sir.'
"'I thought so, but I'm going to tell you. He is not a rich man, Harry, but he pays me to teach you all that will help you to rise above the level of an ignorant labourer. Culture and education are as necessary to a gentleman as bread is for food. I am doing my utmost, but I cannot pour instruction down your throat any more than you can make a horse drink by leading him to the trough. Now look here, boy, with all your faults you are no coward; haven't you the pluck to get to know yourself and stop being a shirker? Think what that means! A fellow never to be trusted, a lazy, good-for-nothing, cowardly loafer. Remember, if you don't work, you are taking your father's money under false pretences, which is only another word for dishonesty. Think about what I've said; turn over a page and start a new chapter. You can go, and mind—I trust you.'"
"What a splendid old boy!" exclaimed Gladys. "What did you do?"
"Do! I worked like a beaver for the balance of school life, I'd so much to make good. We shall touch the 'Stone' in a couple of——"
The sentence was never finished, for without warning, out of sight of a helping hand, Gladys and Harry skated right through a large hole, left by an ice-cutter without being marked by boughs, into ten feet of freezing water.
The shock was tremendous, but being fine swimmers they naturally struck out, trying to grasp the slippery ice.
To his horror Harry knew that his gloves were in his pocket, and now, try as he would, his hands would not grip the ice. Gladys had been entrusted to his care: not only would his life be the price of having separated from the "Bunch," but infinitely worse, she must share the same fate.
Despair lent him strength to support the girl with his left arm while he tried to swing his right leg over and dig the heel of his skate into the ice.
But all in vain, he tried and tried again. Numbed with cold, he felt himself growing weaker and he knew that the end could not be far off should the next attempt fail.
One more struggle—one last effort—and the skate, thank Heaven, had caught! Then came the last act. Clenching his teeth and wildly imploring help from on high, Harry gathered together his last remnant of strength, and swung the girl on to the ice—Gladys was saved!
The boy's heart beat, his panting breath seemed to suffocate him, the strain had been so fearful; now he could do no more, he seemed to make no effort to save himself.
"Harry! Harry!" cried Gladys; "you must try more! I'm all right and can help you—see, I am here close by!" she cried, frantic with terror. "It will be all right directly," she added bravely as she lay flat down and crept up to the edge of the ice.
The boy heard her encouraging words, but still made no progress.
"You are not doing your best, Harry! Think of me, if not of yourself. Remember, I am alone and so frightened. Oh! do be quick. Here, take hold of my hands."
This time her words went home, and the boy, half-paralysed with cold and completely worn out, remembered his responsibility.
"Come along, Harry—hold hard! Yes, I can bear the weight!" called out the courageous girl as she lay in her freezing garments on the ice, the strain of the lad's weight dragging her arms almost from their sockets.
Pluck Rewarded
At last their pluck was rewarded. Heaven was good to them, and Harry Elliott, trembling in every limb, his teeth chattering, his face pale as the moon, stood byGladys on solid ice. There was no time to waste in words, the boy merely stretched out his hand to the exhausted girl and started across the lake to the nearest house.
Not a word was spoken; they just sped onward, at first slowly and laboriously, until the blood began to circulate and progress became easier. When they reached the shore, they stood encased in solid ice, their wet clothes frozen stiff by the keen frost of the glorious night.
Not for some days did Gladys betray any signs of the mental shock she had received. Anxious parents and a careful doctor kept her in bed for a week, while Harry occupied his usual place at the bank.
It was during that week that the change in Gladys took place. She had plenty of time for thought. Recollections of her nearness to death, of her horror while under the ice, of her terror when saved, of seeing her brave rescuer sink, all these scenes made a deep and lasting impression on her, and she realised that life can never be made up of pleasures only.
When she met the rest of the "Bunch," her quietness puzzled them, her determination to go no more on the ice distressed them. But in her own heart Gladys felt that she had gained by her approach to death, for in the deadly struggle she had been brought near to God. As for Harry Elliott, need I forecast the trend of the two lives that were so nearly taken away together?
BY
Mike, the old Raven, is the central figure of this story for younger girls.
March came in with a roar that year. The elms of Old Studley creaked and groaned loudly as the wild wind tossed them about like toys.
"I'm frighted to go to bed," wailed little Jinty Ransom, burying her face in Mrs. Barbara's lap, when she had finished saying her prayers.
"Ah, dear, 'taint for we to be frightened at anything God sends! Do'ent He hold the storms in the hollow of His hand? And thou, dear maid, what's wind and tempest that's only 'fulfilling His word' compared wi' life's storms that will gather over thy sunny head one day, sure as sure?" Mrs. Barbara, the professor's ancient housekeeper, laid her knotted hand on the golden curls on her lap.
But "thou, dear maid" could not look ahead so far. It was more than enough for Jinty that Nature's waves and storms were passing over her at the moment.
"Sit beside my bed, and talk me to sleep, please, Mrs. Barbara, dear!" entreated the little girl, clutching tightly at the old lady's skirts.
So Mrs. Barbara seated herself, knitting in hand, by the little white bed, and Jinty listened to the storiesshe loved best of all, those of the days when her father was a little boy and played under the great elms of Old Studley with Mike, the ancient raven, that some people declared was a hundred years old at least. He was little more than a dream-father, for he had been for most of Jinty's little life away in far-off China in the diplomatic service. Her sweet, young, gentle mother Jinty did not remember at all, for she dwelt in a land that is far-and-away farther off than China, a land:
"Where loyal hearts and trueStand ever in the light,All rapture through and throughIn God's most holy sight."
"And, really and truly, Mrs. Barbara, was it the very same Mike and not another raven that pecked at father's little legs same's he pecks at mine?" Jinty inquired sleepily.
"The very self-same. Thief that he is and was!" wrathfully said Mrs. Barbara, who detested the venerable raven, a bird that gave himself the airs of being one of the family of Old Studley, and stirred up more mischief than a dozen human boys even.
"Why," grumbled on the old lady, "there's poor Sally Bent, the henwife, she's driven distracted with Mike's thievish tricks. This week only he stole seven eggs, three on 'em turkey's eggs no less. He set himself on the watch, he did, and as soon as an egg was laid he nipped it up warm, and away with it! If 'twasn't for master's anger I'd strangle that evil bird, I should. Why, bless her! The little maid's asleep, she is!"
And Mrs. Barbara crept away to see after her other helpless charge, the good old professor who lived so far back in the musty-fusty past that he would never remember to feed his body, so busy was he in feasting his mind on the dead languages.
Next morning the tearing winds had departed, the stately elms were motionless at rest, and the sun beatdown with a fierce radiance, upon the red brick walls of Old Studley.
Jinty Ransom leaned out of her latticed window and smiled contentedly back at the genial sun.
"Ah, thou maid, come down and count over the crocus flowers!" called up Mrs. Barbara from the green lawn below. "I fear me that thief Mike has nipped off the heads of a few dozens, out o' pure wicked mischief."
Presently Jinty was flashing like a sunbeam in and out of the old house.
"I must go round and scold Mike, then I'll come, back for breakfast, Mrs. Barbara. Grandpapa's not down yet."
Mike on the War-path
But scolding's a game two can play at. Mike charged at Jinty with a volley of angry chatter and fierce flappings of his heavy black wings. It was no good trying to get in a word about the headless crocus plants or the seven stolen eggs.
"Anybody would think that I was the thief who stole them, not you!" indignantly said Jinty. Then Mike craned suddenly forward to give the straight little legs a wicked nip, and Jinty fled with shrieks, to the proud ecstasy of the raven, who "hirpled" at her heels into the dining-room, into the learned presence of the old professor, by whom the mischievous Mike was welcomed as if he were a prince of the blood.
The raven knew, none better, that he had the freedom of the city, and at once set to work to abuse it. A sorry breakfast-table it was in less than five minutes. Here and there over the white tablecloth Mike scuttled and scrambled. His beak plunged into the cream-jug, then deep into the butter, next aimed a dab at the marmalade, and then he uttered a wrathful shriek became the bacon was too hot for his taste.
"My patience! Flesh and blood couldn't stand this!" Mrs. Barbara came in, her hands in the air.
But the professor neither saw nor heard the old housekeeper's anger.
"Wonderful, wonderful!" he was admiringly ejaculating. "Behold the amazing instinct implanted by nature. See how the feathered epicure picks and chooses his morning meal!"
"If a 'feathered pickyer' means a black thief as ever was, sir, that bird's well named!" said the housekeeper wrathfully.
At last Mike made his final choice, and, out of pure contrariness, it was the bowl of hot bread and milk prepared for Jinty's breakfast from which he flatly refused to be elbowed away.
"My pretty! Has it snatched the very cup from thy lip!" Mrs. Barbara's indignation boiled over against the bold audacious tyrant so abetted by its master—and hers. "If I'd but my will o' thee, thou thief, I'd flog thee sore!" she added.
"Quoth the raven: never more!"
solemnly edged in the professor, with a ponderous chuckle over his own aptitude which went unapplauded save by himself.
"I want my breakfast, grandpapa," whimpered Jinty.
It was all very funny indeed to witness Mike's reckless charge of destruction over the snowy tablecloth, but, when it came to his calm appropriation of her own breakfast, why, as Mrs. Barbara said, "Flesh and blood couldn't stand it."
"Have a cup of black coffee and some omelette, dearling!" said the professor, who would not have called anybody "darling" for the world. Then the reckless old gentleman proceeded to placidly sort the letters lying on the breakfast-table, comfortably unconscious that little maids "cometh up" on different fare from that of tough old veterans.
"Why, why! Here's a surprise for us all!" Pushing back his spectacles into the very roots of his white hair, the professor stared feebly round on the company,and twiddled in his fingers a sheet of thin foreign paper.
"Yes, sir?" Mrs. Barbara turned to her master eagerly alert for the news, and Jinty wondered if it were to say the dream-father was coming home at last.
But Mike, though some folk believe that ravens understand every word you say, continued to dip again and again into his stolen bread and milk with a lofty indifference. It might be an earthquake that had come to Old Studley for all he knew. What if it were? There would always be a ledge of rock somewhere about where he, Mike, could hold on in safety if the earth were topsy-turvy. Besides, he had now scooped up the last scrap of Jinty's breakfast, and it behoved him to be up and doing some mischief.
His bold black eye caught a gleam of silver, an opportunity ready to his beak. It was a quaint little Norwegian silver salt-cellar in the form of a swan. Mike, with his head on one side, considered the feasibility of removing that ancient Norse relic quietly. Then, afraid perhaps of bringing about bad luck by spilling the salt, he gave up the idea and stole softly away, unnoticed by his betters, who seemed ridiculously occupied with a thin, rustling sheet of paper.
But to this day Mrs. Barbara has never found the salt-spoon, a little silver oar, belonging to that Norse salt-cellar, and she never will, that's certain.
"Extraordinary, most extraordinary!" the professor was repeating. Then, when Mrs. Barbara felt she could bear it no longer, he went on to read out the foreign letter.
It was from his son, Jinty's father, and told how his life had been recently in grave peril. His house had been attacked by native rioters, and he would certainly have been murdered had it not been for the warning of a friendly Chinaman. Mr. Ransom escaped in the darkness, but the loyal native who had saved him, paid the cost with his own life. He was cruelly hacked to pieces for his so-called treachery. When the rioterswere quelled by a British detachment, Mr. Ransom's first thought was for the family of his faithful friend. But it was too late. With the exception of one tiny girl all had been killed by the rioters. This forlorn little orphan was already on her way crossing the Pacific, for she was to be housed and educated at Old Studley with Mr. Ransom's own little daughter, and at his expense. Common gratitude could do no less.
Ah Lon
The letter went on to say that Ah Lon, the little Chinese maiden, was a well-brought-up child, her father belonging to the anti-foot-binding community which is fast making its way throughout China. She would therefore be no more trouble in the old home than a little English girl, than father's own Jinty, in fact.
"Well, of course," said the Professor meditatively, "the heavy end of the beam will come upon you, my good Barbara. There's plenty of room in the old house for this young stranger, but she will be a great charge for you."
"'Deed, sir, and it's a charge I never looked to have put upon me!" quavered the scandalised Mrs. Barbara, twisting the corner of her apron agitatedly. "A haythen Chinee under this respected roof where there's been none but Christian Ransoms for generations back!"
"There, there!" said her master soothingly. "Your motherly heart would never turn away a poor orphan from our door!"
But Mrs. Barbara sniffed herself out of the room, and it was weeks before she reconciled herself to the new and disagreeable prospect.
Indeed, when poor, shivering Ah Lon arrived at Old Studley, the good woman nearly swooned at the spectacle of a little visitor arrayed in dark blue raiment consisting of a long, square-shaped jacket and full trousers, and a bare head stuck over with well-oiled queues of black hair.
"I thought as Mr. William wrote it was a girl, sir!" she gasped faintly, with a shocked face.
But the old professor was in ecstasies. All he could think of was the fact that under his roof was a being who could converse in pure Chinese; in truth, poor bewildered Ah Lon could not speak in anything else but her native tongue. He would have carried her off to his study and monopolised her, but Mrs. Barbara's sense of propriety was fired.
"No, sir," she interposed firmly. "If that being's the girl Mr. William sent she's got to look as such in some of Miss Jinty's garments and immediately."
So Ah Lon, trembling like a leaf, was carried off to be attired like a little English child.
"But as for looking like one, that she never will!" Mrs. Barbara hopelessly regarded the strangely-wide little yellow face, the singular eyes narrow as slits, and the still more singular eyebrows.
"Oh, never mind how she looks!" Jinty put her arms round the little yellow neck and lovingly kissed the stranger, who summarily shook her off. Perhaps Ah Lon was not accustomed to kisses at home.
It was a rebuff, and Jinty got many another as the days went on. Do what she could to please and amuse the little foreigner, Ah Lon shrank from her persistently.
HORRIBLE DREAMS OF MONSTERS AND DEMONS.HORRIBLE DREAMS OF MONSTERS AND DEMONS.
All Jinty's treasures, dolls and toys and keepsakes were exhibited, but Ah Lon turned away indifferently. The Chinese girl, in truth, was deadly home-sick, but she would have died rather than confess it, even to the professor, the only person who understood her speech. She detested the new, strange country, the queer, unknown food, the outlandish ways. Yet she was in many respects happier. Some of the old hardships of girl life in China were gone. Some old fears began to vanish, and her nights were no longer disturbed with horrible dreams of monsters and demons.
But of all things in and about Old Studley Ah Lon most detested Mike the raven, and Mike seemed fully to return her dislike. He pecked viciously at the spindly Chinese legs and sent Ah Lon into convulsions of terror.
"Ah well, bad as he is, Mike's British same's I am, and he do hate a foreigner!" said Mrs. Barbara appreciatively.
Time went on and Jinty began to shoot up; she was growing quite tall, and Ah Lon also grew apace. But, still, though the little foreigner could now find her way about in the language of her new country, she shut her heart against kind little Jinty's advances.
"She won't have anything to say to me!" complained Jinty, "she won't make friends, Mrs. Barbara! The only thing she will look at is my pearl locket, she likes that!"
Indeed Ah Lon seemed never tired of gazing at the pearl-rimmed locket which hung by a slender little chain round Jinty's neck, and contained the miniature of her pretty young mother so long dead. The little Chinese never tired of stroking the sweet face looking out from the rim of pearls.
"Do you say prayers to it?" she asked, in her stammering English.
"Prayers, no!" Jinty was shocked. "I only pray to our Father and to the good Jesus. Why, you wouldn't pray to a picture?"
Ah Lon was silent. So perhaps she had been praying to the sweet painted face already, who could say?
It was soon after this talk that the two little girls sat in the study one morning. Ah Lon was at the table by the side of the professor, an open atlas between them and the old gentleman in his element.
But Jinty sat apart, strangely quiet.
Ah Lon, watching out of her slits of eyes, had never seen Jinty so dull and silent. And all that summer day it was the same.
"What's amiss with my dear maid?" anxiously asked Mrs. Barbara, when bed-time came.
Then it all came out.
"I've lost my pearl-rimmed locket!" sobbed Jinty. "Ah Lon asked to look at it this morning the first thing; she always does, you know. And I took it off,and then Mike pecked my legs and Ah Lon's so hard that we both ran away screaming, and I must have dropped the locket—and it's gone!"
"Gone! That can't be! Unless—unless——" Mrs. Barbara hesitated, and Jinty knew they were thinking the same thing. "Have you told Ah Lon, deary?"
"I did this afternoon, and she cried. I never saw her cry before!"
"Ah, jes' so! You can't trust they foreigners. But I'll sift this business, I shall!" vigorously said Mrs. Barbara.
But for days the disappearance of the locket was a mystery. In Mrs. Barbara's mind there was no doubt that Ah Lon had taken the coveted picture and concealed it in safe hiding. Jinty almost thought so too, and a gloom crept over Old Studley. "I dursn't tell the master, he's that wrapped up in the wicked little yellow-faced creature. I'll step over to the parson and tell he," Mrs. Barbara decided, and arraying herself in her Sunday best, she sallied forth to the vicarage.
As she crossed the little common shouts and laughter and angry chatter fell on her ear.
A group of schoolboys, the parson's four little sons, were closing in round a dark object.
"Why, if that isn't our Mike! I never knew the bird to go outside of Old Studley before. What——"
"Oh, Mrs. Barbara, do come along here!" Reggie, the eldest of the four, turned his head and beckoned her.
Mike's Mishap
"Here's a nice go! We've run your Mike in, and see his fury, do! Our Tommy was looking for birds' eggs in the Old Studley hedge, and he saw a shine of gold and pulled out this! And Mike chased him, madly pecking his legs, out here to the common. And now he's fit to fly at me because I've got his stolen goods. Look, do!"
Reggie doubled up with yells of laughter, and Mike, in a storm of fury, shrieked himself hoarse.
But Mrs. Barbara stood dumb.
In a flash the truth had come to her.
Mike, not poor Ah Lon, was the thief. She tingled all over with remorseful shame as she crept home with the locket in her hand.
"Oh, and we thought you had stolen it, Ah Lon dear!" Jinty confessed, with wild weeping; but Ah Lon was placidly smoothing the precious little picture. It was enough for her that it had come back. "Grandpapa must know; he must be told!" went on Jinty, determined not to spare herself.
When the professor heard the whole story he was very quiet indeed. But a few days after he went up to London on a little visit, and when he returned he called Jinty into the study.
"This," he said, opening a case, "will perhaps make up to the friendless little stranger for your unjust suspicions!" He handed Jinty a pearl-edged locket with a painting of a Chinese lady's head. "Chinese faces are so similar that it may serve as a remembrance of her own mother. And this, Jinty dearling, will keep alive in your memory one of our Lord's behests!" From another case came a dainty silver bangle inside of which Jinty read, with misty eyes, the engraved words:Judge not!
But already their meaning was engraved on her heart; and—as time won Ah Lon's shy affections—she and the little Chinese stranger grew to be as true sisters under the roof of Old Studley.
BY
The artistic life sometimes leaves those who follow it largely dependent upon the stimulus and the aid which the devotion of others may supply. Rembrandt was a case in point, and the story of his sister's life is worth recalling.
The first glimpse we get of the noble woman who is the subject of this sketch gives us the key to her whole character. Her brother, the famous Paul Rembrandt, had come home from school in disgrace, and it is as his defender that Louise Gerretz first shows herself to the world. Her tender, sympathetic heart could find excuse for a brother who would not learn Latin because even as a child his heart was set upon becoming a painter. We know how he succeeded, but it is not always one's early desires are fulfilled so completely as they were in Paul's case.
It was in the evening of the very same day on which Louise championed her brother's cause that we find her almost heart-broken, yet bravely hiding her own grief and comforting her younger sisters and brothers in a terrible affliction, the most terrible that can overtake a family of young children. This was the sudden death of the beloved mother, who had been an invalid for some time. The father was a drunken sot, who had fallen into heavy slumber even while his dyingwife was uttering her last request to him on earth; this was that he would make an artist of the young Paul, instead of a lawyer, as was his intention.
The next day, while preparations were going on for the funeral, the brutal husband sought refuge from remorse in the bottle, so that for the most part of the day he was hopelessly drunk. In this emergency Louise (who was only fifteen) took the direction of affairs into her own hands. The little ones had been crying all day for their mother, and would not be even separated from the corpse. They were inconsolable, and at last the youngest sobbed out, "Who will be our mother now?"
At this question Louise arose, and said, with deep and solemn earnestness, "I will!"
There was something in her manner which struck the children with wonder. Their tears ceased immediately. It seemed as if an angel stood beside Louise, and said, "Behold your mother!"
"Do you not wish me for your mother?" she repeated.
The little ones ran into her embrace. She folded her arms around them, and all wept together.
She had conquered the children with love, and they were no more trouble to her. They all gladly gave the promise to look up to and obey her in everything.
But a harder task was before her. Strangers were present who must soon find out that her father was intoxicated, on this day of all others, if she did not get him out of the way. She succeeded at last, after infinite pains, and that so well that no one knew the state he was in, and thus he was saved from the open disgrace that would surely have followed him had it got about.
The sad duties of the funeral over, Louise Gerretz braced herself to the task of looking after the numerous household affairs. Nor was this all she had to do, for her father carried on the business of a miller, and because of his drunken habits his daughter had theworkpeople to look after, and also the shop to attend to. But she was sustained by the thought that her sainted mother was looking on her from heaven, and this helped her to bear up during the trying times that followed.
She now determined that, if it were possible, her brother Paul—who, afterwards following the usual custom amongst painters of the time, changed his name to Rembrandt—should have every opportunity afforded him of following his natural bent.
"I will be a Painter!"
But no sooner was the subject broached to M. Gerretz than his anger blazed forth, and though Louise withstood him for some time, she felt her cherished plans would receive no consideration whatever from a father who was three-parts of his time crazed with drink. Little Paul, who was present, seeing that the appeal would probably end in failure, exclaimed, with determined voice, "I will be a painter!"
A blow aimed at him was his father's reply. The blow missed its mark, but struck the sister-mother to the earth. Heedless of his own danger, Paul raised his sister's head, and bathed it tenderly until she came to herself again. Even the brutish Gerretz was somewhat shocked by what he had done, yet seizing what he thought an advantage, he cried, "Hark ye, young rascal! You mind not blows any more than my plain orders; but your sister helps you out in all your disobedience, and if you offend me I will punish her."
The brutal threat had its desired effect, and young Paul returned to those studies which were intended to make a lawyer of him.
Every spare moment, however, he spent in his favourite pursuit. His materials were of the roughest: a charred stick, a lump of chalk, and a flour sack. Not very encouraging tools, one would think, and yet the genius that was within would not be hid. He produced from memory a portrait of his mother, that had such an effect upon the father that the latter, affected to tears by the sight of his dead wife's face,dismissed the boy with his blessing, and promised him he should be a painter after all.
Great was Louise's joy; and then, like the loving, practical sister she was, she immediately set about the young artist's outfit. Nor did she pause until everything was in apple-pie order.
Surely God was strengthening and comforting His own. Just consider; here was a young girl, now only sixteen years of age, who had the management of a miller's business, was a mother and sister in one to three young children, and, one is almost tempted to say, was also a tender, loving wife to a drunken, incapable father.
The journey to Leyden, whither Paul was bound, was not without incident of a somewhat romantic kind. As the vehicle in which Louise and the future great painter sat neared Leyden, they came upon a man who lay insensible upon the road. The tender heart of the girl was touched, and she stopped and restored the man to consciousness, and then pressed further assistance upon him. The grateful recipient of her kindness, however, soon feeling strong enough, proceeded on his way alone.
The scene had not passed without a witness, though, who proved to be none other than the eminent master-painter Van Zwanenburg, who joined himself to the little party. But his brow darkened when he learned the purport of the young traveller's journey, and he spoke no more for some time, for he was a misanthrope, and, consequently, took small share in the hopes and pleasures of others. Soon after, however, as they were passing a forge, young Paul stopped and clapped his hands with delight at the sight of the ruddy light cast on the faces of the workmen.
"Canst thou sketch this scene?" asked Van Zwanenburg. Paul took a pencil, and in a few moments traced a sketch, imperfect, no doubt, but one in which the principal effects of light and shade especially were accurately produced.
"Young girl," said the painter, "you need go no further. I am Van Zwanenburg, and I admit your brother from this minute to my studio."
Further conversation ensued, and Van Zwanenburg soon learned the whole sorrowful tale, and also the courage and devotedness of this young foster-mother. He dismissed her with a blessing, misanthrope even as he was, and then carried Paul to his studio, lighter at heart for having done a kind action.
Sorrowful, and yet with a glad heart, did Louise part from little Paul, and then turn homewards. Little did she dream of the great sorrow that was there awaiting her.
Lost in the Forest
Arriving at home in the dark, she was startled to find that no one answered her repeated knocking. Accompanied by an old servant, who had been with her in the journey, she was about to seek assistance from the neighbours, when lights were seen in the adjoining forest. She hastened towards these, and was dismayed to learn that the two children left at home had strayed away and got lost in the forest. M. Gerretz was amongst the searchers, nearly frantic. The men were about to give up the search when Louise, with a prayer for strength on her lips, appealed to them to try once more. She managed to regulate the search this time, sending the men off singly in different directions, so as to cover as much ground as possible. Then with her father she set out herself.
It was morning when they returned. Gerretz, sober enough now, was bearing the insensible form of the brave girl in his arms. She recovered, but only to learn that one of the children had been brought in dead, while the other was nearly so. This sister thus brought so near to death's door was to prove a sore trial in the future to poor Louise.
A hard life lay before Louise, and it was only by God's mercy that she was enabled to keep up under the manifold trials that all too thickly strewed her path. Her father, sobered for a time by the dreadfuldeath of his child, through his own negligence, soon fell back into his evil ways, and became more incapable than ever. The business would have gone to the dogs had it not been for his heroic daughter, who not only looked after the household, but managed the mill and shop as well. All this was done in such a quiet, unostentatious manner that no one of their friends or customers but thought that the father was the chief manager.
But Louise had other trials in store. Her sister Thérèse was growing up into young womanhood, and rebelled against her gentle, loving authority. The father aided Thérèse in the rebellion, as he thought Louise kept too tight a hold of the purse-strings. Between father and sister, poor Louise had a hard time of it; she even, at one time, was compelled to sell some valued trinkets to pay a bill that was due, because money she had put by for the purpose was squandered in drink and finery.
The father died, and then after many years we see Louise Gerretz established in the house of Van Zwanenburg the artist, the same who had taken young Paul as a pupil. Both Louise and Paul were now his adopted children; nor was he without his reward. Under the beneficent rule of the gentle Louise things went so smoothly that the artist and his pupils blessed the day when she came amongst them.
But before the advent of Louise, her brother Paul had imbibed a great share of his master's dark and gloomy nature, and, what was perhaps even worse, had already, young as he was, acquired the habit of looking at everything from a money-making standpoint.
Another great sorrow was in store for Louise, though she came from the ordeal with flying colours, and once more the grand self-sacrificing nature of the young woman shone out conspicuous amidst its surroundings of sordid self-interest. It was in this way. The nephew of Van Zwanenburg, with the approval of his uncle, wooed and eventually obtained her consent to their marriage.
On the death of the father, Thérèse had been taken home by an aunt, who possessed considerable means, to Brussels. The aunt was now dead, and Thérèse, who inherited some of her wealth, came to reside near her sister and brother. She was prepossessing and attractive, and very soon it became evident that the lover of Louise, whose name was Saturnin, had transferred his affection to the younger sister. Saturnin, to his credit, did try to overcome his passion for Thérèse, but only found himself becoming more hopelessly in love with her handsome face and engaging ways. Van Zwanenburg stormed, and even forbade the young man his house.
Louise herself seemed to be the only one who did not see how things were going. She was happy in her love, which, indeed, was only increased by the thought that her promised husband and her sister seemed to be on the best of terms.
But one day she received a terrible awakening from her happy dreams. She heard two voices whispering, and, almost mechanically, stopped to listen. It was Saturnin and Thérèse. "I will do my duty," Saturnin was saying; "I will wed Louise. I will try to hide from her that I have loved another, even though I die through it."
Great was the grief of poor Louise, though, brave girl as she was, she strove to stifle her feelings, lest she should give pain to those she loved. A little later she sought Van Zwanenburg, and begged that he would restore Saturnin to favour, and consent to his marriage with Thérèse. She was successful in her mission of love, though not at first.
A Terrible Blow
Hiding her almost broken heart, Louise now strove to find comfort in the thought that she had made others happy, though she had to admit it was at a terrible cost to herself.
Her unselfishness had a great effect upon the old artist, whose admiration for his adopted daughter now knew no bounds. Through her he was restored to hisfaith in human nature, and he asked God to forgive him for ever doubting the existence of virtue.
We cannot follow Louise Gerretz through the next twenty years. Suffice it to say that during that time Van Zwanenburg passed peacefully away, and that Paul Rembrandt, whose reputation was now well established, had married. The lonely sister tried to get on with Paul's wife, but after a few years she had sadly to seek a home of her own.
At the end of the twenty years Louise one day received the following curt letter from her miserly brother:
"Sister,—My wife is dead, my son is travelling, I am alone."Paul Rembrandt."
"Sister,—My wife is dead, my son is travelling, I am alone.
"Paul Rembrandt."
The devoted sister, still intent on making others happy, started at once to her brother, and until the day of his death she never left him. A great change had come over Rembrandt. He had become more morose and bitter than ever. Success had only seemed to harden his heart, until nothing but the chinking of gold had any effect upon it. He was immensely wealthy, but a miser. As the years passed the gloom settled deeper upon his soul, until finally he shut himself up in his dark studio, and would see no one but Jews and money-brokers. At times he would not let a picture go unless it had been covered with gold, as the price of it. With all this wealth, the house of the famous painter bore a poverty-stricken look, which was copied in the person of Rembrandt himself.
Just before the end, when he felt himself seized by his death-sickness, Paul one day called his sister to his bedside, and, commanding her to raise a trapdoor in the floor of his bedroom, showed her his hoard of gold. He then begged, as his last request, that he should be buried privately, and that neither his son, nor indeed any one, should know that he died rich. Louise was to have everything, and the graceless son nothing.
Louise's Refusal
Great was his anger when his sister declared she should not keep the gold, but would take care that it passed into the hands of those who would know how to use it properly. Louise was firm, and Rembrandt was powerless to do more than toss about in his distress. But gradually, under the gentle admonitions of his sister, the artist's vision seemed to expand, and before his death he was enabled to see where and how he had made shipwreck of his happiness. Thanks to the ministrations of his sister, his end was a peaceful one, and he died blessing her for all her devotion to him.
Louise's own useful and devoted life was now near its close.
After winding up the affairs of her brother, she undertook to pay a visit to her sister, who had fallen ill. It was too much for the good old soul; she died on the journey.
BY
Hepsie's misdeed led, when she understood it, to a bold act which had very gratifying results.
"I say, little mother," said Hepsie, as she tucked her hand under Mrs. Erldon's arm, and hurried her along the snowy path from the old church door, "I say—I've been thinking what a jolly and dear old world this is, and if only the people in it were a little bit nicer, why, there wouldn't be a thing to grumble at, would there?"
Mrs. Erldon turned her rather sad, but sweet face towards her little daughter, and smiled at her.
Somehow folks oftendidsmile at Hepsie. She was such a breezy brisk sort of child, and had a way of looking at life in general that was distinctly interesting.
"Of course, dearie," she went on, in that protecting little manner Hepsie loved to adopt when talking to her beloved mother, "you can't imagine I am thinking of people like you. If every one were half—no—a quarter as delightful asyou, the world would be charming. Oh dear no, I am not flattering at all, I am just speaking the truth; but there aren't many of your kind about, as I find out more and more every day."
"My dearest of little girls," interrupted her mother, as they turned into Sunnycoombe Lane, where the snow lay crisply shining, and the trees were flecked with that dainty tracing of frozen white, "you look at me through glasses of love, andtheyhave a knack of painting a person as fair as you wish that one to be. Supposing you give the rest of the world a little of their benefit, Hepsie mine!"