University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Mary Mather.

Several weeks had already elapsed since Paul
had taken up his residence in the house of Nathaniel
Munson. One evening, as the twilight was
gathering fast, he and Edith sat together at the
casement of the little parlor, that looked out upon
the street. He had been making a sketch of her,
as she sat reading. The liquid blue eyes cast down
beneath their long flaxen fringes, the delicate oval
face, from which the hair was gathered simply
back, the small dimpled hand laid upon the white
page, and added to all this the plain Quaker attire,
formed a subject worthy of a more skilful pencil
than that which now attempted to transcribe it.
This, Paul was sensible of, and he no sooner finished
the drawing, than he destroyed it.

“Edith,” said he, “think you I shall ever be an
artist?”

“Certainly I do, Paul, otherwise I would advise
you to abandon all thoughts of art, and go immediately
to hard labor.”

“To hard labor, indeed! think you that the
artist lives the life of luxury and ease! Oh, no,
Edith. To pursue art, is to pursue early toil and

late watching, and too often obscurity, poverty and
want. The artist must grow pale over his pencil,
he must gird himself well for the long ordeal, if he
would be a great artist. But then how ennobling
the ambition, to pursue a great object through years
of perpetual darkness, to grapple even with the
lean hounds of poverty, and come out at last bright,
though worn down with the conflict! The thing is
achieved! and what is the sacrifice of this poor
mortality when compared with immortality! What
though Raffael's body fell away in early life, in his
works he still lives, and must live through all time.
How much shorter is the existence of the centenarian
that has lived without any exalted aim, who
dies, is buried and forgotten!”

“Is art, then, so difficult?” said Edith, with an
expression of terror.

“So indeed it would appear from the biography
of almost all that have ever excelled in it.”

“And so fatal?”

“Not always necessarily fatal; many have lived
to be quite aged, the fates, as it were, allowing
them more time wherein to achieve their greatness.
The brightest blaze is the soonest exhausted.”

“And you intend to endure all these things that
you have named for the sake of painting pictures?”

“Yes, Edith, such has always been my determination.”

“I have not the least doubt of your abilities,

Paul,” said Edith, with a sigh; “I think you capable
enough; but—”

“Well, proceed, I shall be glad to hear your
objections.”

“I think that you might be so comfortable and
happy in some simpler pursuit.”

“Pardon me, Edith, for differing with you on
that point. What is comfort or happiness? It is
to gratify the cravings of our highest nature, which
is the soul, and the commands of the soul are imperative;
disregard them and we must be unhappy;
obey them and we are rewarded even in the act.”

“That is very true, I did n't think of it before;
but then your enthusiasm is so strong, that you, I
fear, are in danger of becoming too early a prey to
it. Already I can see, or imagine that I see the
color leaving your cheeks; and every morning the
empty lamp tells a tale of studies protracted to a
very late hour.”

“It is an old custom of mine. Reading and
drawing have been to me, essentially a second life,
and to resign one, it seems would be to resign both.
Often, when a mere boy of ten or twelve, I have
wandered away to the hills, and amid haunts where
man seldom strayed, there would I pass the day in
making sketches, perchance, of some peculiar tree,
crag, waterfall, and mountain, and then amuse
myself by fantastically weaving them into one. I
have wandered abroad beneath the silent stars,
through dense woods, down by level meadows, and

sat on the rocks beside the river, to listen to the
thousand beautiful voices that darkness and wildness
only have. And none but those who have
done the same, know any thing of the bewitching
spell of night, or the enchantment of solitude.”

“But come, Paul,” said Edith, “you have never
told me any thing of your parents. Talk to me of
your mother. I am sure that you must still love
her memory.”

The young man leant his forehead on his hand,
and mused for some moments; not, however, to
conjure up some scene of his childhood where his
mother appeared prominent, for he remembered
but one wherein he could yet call up that loved
face to the eye of memory.

“There is but one incident that I can recollect,”
said Paul, at last, with a sigh, “in which I can yet
distinguish my mother, and that scene is too painful;
you would shudder to hear it.”

“Pray go on,” said Edith, eagerly.

“It was a dark, stormy night,” continued Paul.
“The winter winds were howling fearfully around
our country habitation; but a broad sheet of flame
went up the ample old-fashioned fireplace, and cast
a feverish glare over the room. My mother, I can
see her yet, passing to and fro with the little babe
in her arms, preparing the evening meal. She
was not tall, but yet was slender, and, as I recollect,
quite good-looking. On one side of the fire-place
sat my father, while, at the opposite side,

stood a short, dark, ill-looking man, of whom all
seemed to hold a continual dread. An iron hook
supplied the place of his right arm, which had been
amputated at the elbow. The prominence of his
cheek-bones and jagged brows formed between
them deep valleys, wherein were situated two
fiendish eyes, that seemed to shrink from the light
as it were their deadliest enemy. Long, thin,
straggling locks of hair, sprinkled with gray, hung
down about his face; and, in short, he was such a
character as you would tremble to meet with in
any unfrequented place. How distinctly I can still
see my dear mother passing back and forth through
the apartment. And all of the furniture of that one
room, too, as it appeared on that night; the old
muskets, powder-horns, and many other similar
articles, hanging or leaning against the wall, all
glistening in the fire light, and projecting their long
shadows; it seems, in effect, like a picture by Rembrant.

“When the supper was spread upon the table,
Fin, (for such was the ill-looking man's name,) sat
himself greedily to work, and appropriated the
different articles of food to himself, at a most astonishing
rate. My father rested his elbow on the
back of the chair, his chin on his hand, and muttered
something inaudible between his teeth.

“Fin stopped for a moment, and fixed his fiendish
eye on my father, and with a sarcastic smile,
exclaimed, `What's the matter, eh? have you lost
your appetite?'

“My father made no answer; but turned his
back to Fin, who, looking around at me, met the
indignant gaze of my mother. He smiled more
hideously than ever; and raising his ponderous eyebrows,
beckoned me to his side.

“`Come here, Paul,' said he, `come here!' his
evil eye was upon me, and I could not but obey.
Reaching forth the iron hook, he drew me close to
his side.

“`What is the matter, Paul?' ejaculated he, `are
you afraid of me, eh?' and he put his face close to
mine, repeating `are you afraid, Paul?' I turned
my head away, and answered, `yes.'

“`I thought so,' replied he, with a fiendish smile,
`afraid of Fin, afraid he 'll hurt you. Who taught
you to fear me, eh?' As he spoke, he cast his
malicious eyes back and forth, alternately, from my
father to my mother. `Yes,' continued he, `they
taught you to fear, and to hate Fin! They hate
Fin!' as he said this, he laughed through his clenched
teeth, and rubbed the iron hook, fiendishly,
across the table. `Oh, how they hate Fin!' cried
he again, in a voice that startled even my father,
who, with eyes flashing with anger, turned abruptly
around, and stared Fin full in the face.

“`He hates Fin,' screamed the ugly man, and,
at the same time, pointed the hook towards my
father, to designate who he meant. `Fin knows
too much! he has a secret! a dreadful secret!'

“`Fin!' cried my father, mounting to his feet,

and grasping a chair, `Fin! you infernal dog, if you
do n't hold your tongue, I 'll —' `Murder me!'
screamed Fin, finishing the sentence. `Murder!
ha, ha, ha! I 've got a secret, mind you!' And
Fin leaned over the table, and leered up in my
father's face. `The old man, he was asleep, he
never woke after, did he? The money, too, the
chest! ha, ha, ha!' My father's eyes flashed, and
bursting with fury, he hurled the chair at the head
of Fin, who, stunned by the blow, rolled with a
fearful howl to the floor.

“`Oh, what have you done?' cried my mother.
`Done!' ejaculated my father, `killed a villain!”'

Just at this point of the story, Paul and Edith
were both startled by a heavy crash at their side;
and suddenly looking around, they beheld the poor
house-keeper, Mary, with her hands thrown up,
staring at them, seeming entirely unconscious of
the half a dozen broken dishes at her feet. “What
in the world's the matter?” cried Edith. Poor
Mary, as if struggling with her senses, at last made
out to exclaim, “Why! why! I was just thinking
what an ugly man that Fin was;” and continuing
to murmur strange words to herself, she began very
coolly to collect the fragments of Mr. Munson's
best tea-plates; and gathering up the very smallest
pieces, she went and deposited them carefully in
the closet, as if they were yet as valuable as ever.