THE PORTRAIT................................................................................................................................................1

AT the period when the following incidents occurred, I was living with my father at The Grove, a large old

house in the immediate neighborhood of a little town. This had been his home for a number of years; and I

believe I was born in it. It was a kind of house which, notwithstanding all the red and white architecture

known at present by the name of Queen Anne, builders nowadays have forgotten how to build. It was

straggling and irregular, with wide passages, wide staircases, broad landings; the rooms large but not very

lofty; the arrangements leaving much to be desired, with no economy of space; a house belonging to a period

when land was cheap, and, so far as that was concerned, there was no occasion to economize. Though it was

so near the town, the clump of trees in which it was environed was a veritable grove. In the grounds in spring

the primroses grew as thickly as in the forest. We had a few fields for the cows, and an excellent walled

garden. The place is being pulled down at this moment to make room for more streets of mean little

houses,the kind of thing, and not a dull house of faded gentry, which perhaps the neighborhood requires.

The house was dull, and so were we, its last inhabitants; and the furniture was laded, even a little

dingy,nothing to brag of I do not, however, intend to convey a suggestion that we were faded gentry, for

that was not the case. My father, indeed, was rich, and had no need to spare any expense in making his life

and his house bright if he pleased; but he did not please, and I had not been long enough at home to exercise

any special influence of my own. It was the only home I had ever known; but except in my earliest childhood,

and in my holidays as a schoolboy, I had in reality known but little of it. My mother had died at my birth, or

shortly after, and I had grown up in the gravity and silence of a house without women. In my infancy, I

believe, a sister of my father's had lived with us, and taken charge of the household and of me; but she, too.

had died long, long ago, my mourning for her being one of the first things I could recollect. And she had no

successor. There were, indeed, a housekeeper and some maids,the latter of whom I only saw disappearing

at the end of a passage, or whisking out of a room when one of "the gentlemen" appeared. Mrs. Weir, indeed,

I saw nearly every day; but a curtsey, a smile, a pair of nice round arms which she caressed while folding

them across her ample waist, and a large white apron, were all I knew of her. This was the only female

influence in the house. The drawingroom I was aware of only as a place of deadly good order, into which

nobody ever entered. It had three long windows opening on the lawn, and communicated at the upper end,

which was rounded like a great bay, with the conservatory. Sometimes I gazed into it as a child from without,

wondering at the needlework on the chairs, the screens, the lookingglasses which never reflected any living

face. My father did not like the room, which probably was not wonderful, though it never occurred to me in

I may say here, though it will probably be disappointing to those who form a sentimental idea of the

capabilities of children, that it did not occur to me either, in these early days, to make any inquiry about my

mother. There was no room in life, as I knew it, for any such person; nothing suggested to my mind either the

fact that she must have existed, or that there was need of her in the house. I accepted, as I believe most

children do, the facts of existence, on the basis with which I had first made acquaintance with them, without

question or remark. As a matter of fact, I was aware that it was rather dull at home; but neither by comparison

with the books I read, nor by the communications received from my schoolfellows, did this seem to me

anything remarkable. And I was possibly somewhat dull too by nature, for I did not mind. I was fond of

reading, and for that there was unbounded opportunity. I had a little ambition in respect to work, and that too

could be prosecuted undisturbed. When I went to the university, my society lay almost entirely among men;

but by that time and afterwards, matters had of course greatly changed with me, and though I recognized

women as part of the economy of nature, and did not indeed by any means dislike or avoid them, yet the idea

of connecting them at all with my own home never entered into my head. That continued to be as it had

always been, when at intervals I descended upon the cool, grave, colorless place, in the midst of my traffic

with the world: always very still, wellordered, serious,the cooking very good, the comfort perfect; old

Morphew, the butler, a little older (but very little older, perhaps on the whole less old, since in my childhood

I had thought him a kind of Methuselah); and Mrs. Weir, less active, covering up her arms in sleeves, but

folding and caressing them just as always. I remember looking in from the lawn through the windows upon

that deadlyorderly drawingroom, with a humorous recollection of my childish admiration and wonder, and

feeling that it must be kept so forever and ever, and that to go into it would break some sort of amusing mock

But it was only at rare intervals that I went home. In the long vacation, as in my school holidays, my father

often went abroad with me, so that we had gone over a great deal of the Continent together very pleasantly.

He was old in proportion to the age of his son, being a man of sixty when I was twenty, but that did not

disturb the pleasure of the relations between us. I don't know that they were ever very confidential. On my

side there was but little to communicate, for I did not get into scrapes nor fall in love, the two predicaments

which demand sympathy and confidences. And as for my father himself, I was never aware what there could

be to communicate on his side. I knew his life exactly,what he did almost at every hour of the day; under

what circumstances of the temperature he would ride and when walk . how often and with what guests he

would indulge in the occasional break of a dinnerparty, a serious pleasure,perhaps, indeed, less a pleasure

than a duty. All this I knew as well as he did, and also his views on public matters, his political opinions,

which naturally were different from mine. What ground, then, remained for confidence? I did not know any.

We were both of us of a reserved nature, not apt to enter into our religious feelings, for instance. There are

many people who think reticence on such subjects a sign of the most reverential way of contemplating them.

Of this I am far from being sure; but, at all events, it was the practice most congenial to my own mind.

And then I was for a long time absent, making my own way in the world. I did not make it very successfully.

I accomplished the natural fate of an Englishman, and went out to the Colonies; then to India in a

semidiplomatic position; but returned home after seven or eight years, invalided, in bad health and not much

better spirits, tired and disappointed with my first trial of life. I had, as people say, "no occasion" to insist on

making my way. My father was rich, and had never given me the slightest reason to believe that he did not

intend me to be his heir. His allowance to me was not illiberal, and though he did not oppose the carrying out

of my own plans, he by no means urged me to exertion. When I came home he received me very

affectionately, and expressed his satisfaction in my return. "Of course," he said, "I am not glad that you are

disappointed, Philip, or that your health is broken; but otherwise it is an ill wind, you know, that blows

"I don't see any difference, sir," said I; "everything here seems exactly the same as when I went away"

He smiled, and shook his head. "It is true enough," he said; "after we have reached a certain age we seem to

go on for a long time on a plane, and feel no great difference from year to year; but it is an inclined plane, and

the longer we go on the more sudden will be the fall at the end. But at all events it will be a great comfort to

"If I had known that," I said, "and that you wanted me, I should have come in any circumstances. As there are

"Yes," he said, "there are only two of us in the world; but still I should not have sent for you, Phil, to interrupt

"It is as well, then, that it has interrupted itself," I said rather bitterly; for disappointment is hard to bear.

He patted me on the shoulder, and repeated, "It is an ill wind that blows nobody good," with a look of real

pleasure which gave me a certain gratification too; for, after all, he was an old man, and the only one in all

the world to whom I owed any duty. I had not been without dreams of warmer affections, but they had come

to nothingnot tragically, but in the ordinary way. I might perhaps have had love which I did not want. but

not that which I did want,which was not a thing to make any unmanly moan about, but in the ordinary

course of events. Such disappointments happen every day; indeed, they are more common than anything else,

However, here I was at thirty stranded, yet wanting for nothing,in a position to call forth rather envy than

pity from the greater part of my contemporaries; for I had an assured and comfortable existence, as much

money as I wanted, and the prospect of an excellent fortune for the future. On the other hand, my health was

still low, and I had no occupation. The neighborhood of the town was a drawback rather than an advantage. I

felt myself tempted, instead of taking the long walk into the country which my doctor recommended, to take

a much shorter one through the High Street, across the river, and back again, which was not a walk but a

lounge. The country was silent and full of thoughts,thoughts not always very agreeable,whereas there

were always the humors of the little urban population to glance at, the news to be heard,all those petty

matters which so often make up life in a very impoverished version for the idle man. I did not like it, but I felt

myself yielding to it, not having energy enough to make a stand. The rector and the leading lawyer of the

place asked me to dinner. I might have glided into the society, such as it was, had I been disposed for that;

everything about me began to close over me as if I had been fifty, and fully contented with my lot.

It was possibly my own want of occupation which made me observe with surprise, after a while, how much

occupied my father was. He had expressed himself glad of my return; but now that I had returned, I saw very

little of him. Most of his time was spent in his library, as had always been the case. But on the few visits I

paid him there, I could not but perceive that the aspect of the library was much changed. It had acquired the

look of a businessroom, almost an office. There were large businesslike books on the table, which I could

not associate with anything he could naturally have to do; and his correspondence was very large. I thought

he closed one of those books hurriedly as I came in, and pushed it away, as if he did not wish me to see it.

This surprised me at the moment without arousing any other feeling; but afterwards I remembered it with a

clearer sense of what it meant. He was more absorbed altogether than I had been used to see him. He was

visited by men sometimes not of very prepossessing appearance. Surprise grew in my mind without any very

distinct idea of the reason of it; and it was not till after a chance conversation with Morphew that my vague

uneasiness began to take definite shape. It was begun without any special intention on my part. Morphew had

informed me that master was very busy, on some occasion when I wanted to see him. And I was a little

annoyed to be thus put off. "It appears to me that my father is always busy," I said hastily. Morphew then

This startled me much, and I asked hurriedly, "What do you mean?" without reflecting that to ask for private

information from a servant about my father's habits was as bad as investigating into a stranger's affairs. It did

"Mr. Philip," said Morphew, "a thing 'as 'appened as 'appens more often than it ought to. Master has got awful

"No, sir, begging your pardon, it ain't a new thing. He was once broke of it, and that was n't easy done; but it

's come back, if you 'll excuse me saying so. And I don't know as he 'll ever be broke of it again at his age."

I felt more disposed to be angry than disturbed by this. "You must be making some ridiculous mistake," I

said. "And if you were not so old a friend as you are, Morphew, I should not have allowed my father to be so

The old man gave me a halfastonished, halfcontemptuous look. "He 's been my master a deal longer than

he 's been your father," he said, turning on his heel. The assumption was so comical that my anger could not

stand in face of it. I went out, having been on my way to the door when this conversation occurred, and took

my usual lounge about, which was not a satisfactory sort of amusement. Its vanity and emptiness appeared to

be more evident than usual today. I met halfadozen people I knew, and had as many pieces of news

confided to me. I went up and down the length of the High Street. I made a small purchase or two. And then I

turned homeward, despising myself, yet finding no alternative within my reach. Would a long country walk

have been more virtuous? It would at least have been more wholesome; but that was all that could be said.

My mind did not dwell on Morphew's communication. It seemed without sense or meaning to me; and after

the excellent joke about his superior interest in his master to mine in my father, was dismissed lightly enough

from my mind. I tried to invent some way of telling this to my father without letting him perceive that

Morphew had been finding faults in him, or I listening; for it seemed a pity to lose so good a joke. However,

as I returned home, something happened which put the joke entirely out of my head. It is curious when a new

subject of trouble or anxiety has been suggested to the mind in an unexpected way, how often a second

advertisement follows immediately after the first, and gives to that a potency which in itself it had not

I was approaching our own door, wondering whether my father had gone, and whether, on my return, I

should find him at leisure,for I had several little things to say to him,when I noticed a poor woman

lingering about the closed gates. She had a baby sleeping in her arms. It was a spring night, the stars shining

in the twilight, and everything soft and dim; and the woman's figure was like a shadow, flitting about, now

here, now there, on one side or another of She gate. She stopped when she saw me approaching, and hesitated

for a moment, then seemed to take a sudden resolution. I watched her without knowing, with a prevision that

she was going to address me, though with no sort of idea as to the subject of her address. She came up to me

doubtfully, it seemed, yet certainly, as I felt, and when she was close to me, dropped a sort of hesitating

Then she poured forth suddenly, without warning or preparation, her long speech,a flood of words which

must have been all ready and waiting at the doors of her lips for utterance. "Oh, sir, I want to speak to you! I

can't believe you 'll be so hard, for you 're young; and I can't believe he 'll be so hard if so be as his own son,

as I 've always heard he had but one, 'll speak up for us. Oh, gentleman, it is easy for the likes of you, that, if

you ain't comfortable in one room, can just walk into another; but if one room is all you have, and every bit of

furniture you have taken out of it, and nothing but the four walls left,not so much as the cradle for the

child, or a chair for your man to sit down upon when he comes from his work, or a saucepan to cook him his

"My good woman," I said, "who can have taken all that from you? Surely nobody can be so cruel?"

"You say it 's cruel!" she cried with a sort of triumph. "Oh, I knowed you would, or any true gentleman that

don't hold with screwing poor folks. Just go and say that to him inside there, for the love of God. Tell him to

think what he 's doing, driving poor creatures to despair. Summer 's coming, the Lord be praised, but yet it's

bitter cold at night with your counterpane gone; and when you've been working hard all day, and nothing but

four bare walls to come home to, and all your poor little sticks of furniture that you 've saved up for, and got

together one by one, all gone, and you no better than when you started, or rather worse, for then you was

young. Oh, sir!" the woman's voice rose into a sort of passionate wail. And then she added, beseechingly,

The woman hesitated again, looking keenly in my face, then repeated with a slight faltering, "It's Mr. Philip?"

"Yes; I am Philip Canning," I said; "but what have I to do with this? and to whom am I to speak?"

She began to whimper, crying and stopping herself. "Oh, please, sir! it 's Mr. Canning as owns all the house

property about; it's him that our court and the lane and everything belongs to. And he's taken the bed from

under us, and the baby's cradle, although it 's said in the Bible as you 're not to take poor folks' bed."

"My father!" I cried in spite of myself; "then it must be some agent, some one else in his name. You may be

"Oh, God bless you, sir," said the woman. But then she added, in a lower tone, "It 's no agent. It 's one as

never knows trouble. It 's him that lives in that grand house." But this was said under her breath, evidently not

Morphew's words flashed through my mind as she spoke. What was this? Did it afford an explanation of the

muchoccupied hours, the big books, the strange visitors? I took the poor woman's name, and gave her

something to procure a few comforts for the night, and went indoors disturbed and troubled. It was

impossible to believe that my father himself would have acted thus; but he was not a man to brook

interference, and I did not see how to introduce the subject, what to say. I could but hope that, at the moment

of broaching it, words would be put into my mouth, which often happens in moments of necessity, one knows

not how, even when one's theme is not so allimportant as that for which such help has been promised. As

usual, I did not see my father till dinner. I have said that our dinners were very good, luxurious in a simple

way, everything excellent in its kind, well cooked, well served,the perfection of comfort without

show,which is a combination very dear to the English heart. I said nothing till Morphew, with his solemn

attention to everything that was going, had retired; and then it was with some strain of courage that I began.

"I was stopped outside the gate today by a curious sort of petitioner,a poor woman, who seems to be one

"I don't know his name, and I doubt his competence. The poor creature seems to have had everything taken

"You take it coolly," said my father, with an upward glance, halfamused, not in the least shocked by my

statement. "But when a man, or a woman either, takes a house, I suppose you will allow that they ought to

"I don't allow the reservation," he said. But he was not angry, which I had feared he would be.

"I think," I continued, "that your agent must be too severe. And this emboldens me to say something which

has been in my mind for some time"(these were the words, no doubt, which I had hoped would be put into

my mouth; they were the suggestion of the moment, and yet as I said them it was with the most complete

conviction of their truth)"and that is this: I am doing nothing; my time hangs heavy on my hands. Make

me your agent. I will see for myself, and save you from such mistakes; and it will be an occupation"

"Mistakes? What warrant have you for saying these are mistakes?" he said testily; then after a moment: "This

is a strange proposal from you, Phil. Do you know what it is you are offering?to be a collector of rents,

going about from door to door, from week to week; to look after wretched little bits of repairs, drains, etc; to

get paid, which, after all, is the chief thing, and not to be taken in by tales of poverty."

He gave me a strange glance, which I did not very well understand, and said abruptly, a thing which, so far as

I remember, he had never in my life said before, "You 've become a little like your mother, Phil"

"My mother!" the reference was so unusualnay, so unprecedentedthat I was greatly startled. It seemed

to me like the sudden introduction of a quite new element in the stagnant atmosphere, as well as a new party

to our conversation. My father looked across the table, as if with some astonishment at my tone of surprise.

"No; of course it is not extraordinary that I should resemble my mother. OnlyI have heard very little of

"That is true." He got up and placed himself before the fire, which was very low, as the night was not

coldhad not been cold heretofore at least; but it seemed to me now that a little chill came into the dim and

faded room. Perhaps it looked more dull from the suggestion of a something brighter, warmer, that might

have been. "Talking of mistakes," he said, "perhaps that was one: to sever you entirely from her side of the

house. But I did not care for the connection. You will understand how it is that I speak of it now when I tell

you" He stopped here, however, said nothing more for a minute or so, and then rang the bell. Morphew

came, as he always did, very deliberately, so that some time elapsed in silence, during which my surprise

grew. When the old man appeared at the door"Have you put the lights in the drawingroom, as I told

This the old man got out in a great hurry, as if afraid that his master would stop him. My father did so with a

The door closed upon us, and there was again a pause. My subject had floated away altogether like a mist,

though I had been so concerned about it. I tried to resume, but could not. Something seemed to arrest my very

breathing; and yet in this dull, respectable house of ours, where everything breathed good character and

integrity, it was certain that there could be no shameful mystery to reveal. It was some time before my father

spoke, not from any purpose that I could see, but apparently because his mind was busy with probably

"Very little. I have never seen it used. I have a little awe of it, to tell the truth."

"That should not be. There is no reason for that. But a man by himself, as I have been for the greater part of

my life, has no occasion for a drawingroom. I always, as a matter of preference, sat among my books;

"Oh, it is not important," I said; "the awe was childish. I have not thought of it since I came home."

"It never was anything very splendid at the best," said he. He lifted the lamp from the table with a sort of

abstraction, not remarking even my offer to take it from him, and led the way. He was on the verge of

seventy, and looked his age; but it was a vigorous age, with no symptom of giving way. The circle of light

from the lamp lit up his white hair and keen blue eyes and clear complexion; his forehead was like old ivory,

his cheek warmly colored; an old man, yet a man in full strength. He was taller than I was, and still almost as

strong. As he stood for a moment with the lamp in his hand, he looked like a tower in his great height and

bulk. I reflected as I looked at him that I knew him intimately, more intimately than any other creature in the

world,I was familiar with every detail of his outward life; could it be that in reality I did not know him at

The drawingroom was already lighted with a flickering array of candles upon the mantelpiece and along the

walls, producing the pretty, starry effect which candles give without very much light. As I had not the

smallest idea what I was about to see, for Morphew's "speaking likeness" was very hurriedly said, and only

half comprehensible in the bewilderment of my faculties, my first glance was at this very unusual

illumination, for which I could assign no reason. The next showed me a large fulllength portrait, still in the

box in which apparently it had travelled, placed upright, supported against a table in the centre of the room.

My father walked straight up to it, motioned to me to place a smaller table close to the picture on the left side,

and put his lamp upon that. Then he waved his hand towards it, and stood aside that I might see.

It was a fulllength portrait of a very young womanI might say a girl scarcely twentyin a white dress,

made in a very simple old fashion, though I was too little accustomed to female costume to be able to fix the

date. It might have been a hundred years old, or twenty, for aught I knew. The face had an expression of

youth, candor, and simplicity more than any face I had ever seen,or so, at least in my surprise, I thought.

The eyes were a little wistful, with something which was almost anxietywhich at least was not contentin

them; a faint, almost imperceptible, curve in the lids. The complexion was of a dazzling fairness, the hair

light, but the eyes dark, which gave individuality to the face. It would have been as lovely had the eyes been

blue,probably more so,but their darkness gave a touch of character, a slight discord, which made the

harmony finer. It was not, perhaps, beautiful in the highest sense of the word. The girl must have been too

young, too slight, too little developed for actual beauty; but a face which so invited love and confidence I

never saw. One smiled at it with instinctive affection. "What a sweet face!" I said. "What a lovely girl! Who

My father made me no reply. He stood aside, looking at it as if he knew it too well to require to look,as if

the picture was already in his eyes. "Yes," he said, after an interval, with a longdrawn breath, "she was a

"Was?then she is dead. What a pity!" I said; "what a pity! so young and so sweet!"

We stood gazing at her thus, in her beautiful stillness and calm,two men, the younger of us fullgrown and

conscious of many experiences, the other an old man,before this impersonation of tender youth. At length

he said, with a slight tremulousness in his voice, "Does nothing suggest to you who she is, Phil?"

I turned round to look at him with profound astonishment, but he turned away from my look. A sort of quiver

passed over his face. "That is your mother," he said, and walked suddenly away, leaving me there.

I stood for a moment in a kind of consternation before the whiterobed innocent creature, to me no more than

a child; then a sudden laugh broke from me, without any will of mine: something ludicrous, as well as

something awful, was in it. When the laugh was over, I found myself with tears in my eyes, gazing, holding

my breath. The soft features seemed to melt, the lips to move, the anxiety in the eyes to become a personal

inquiry. Ah, no! nothing of the kind; only because of the water in mine. My mother! oh, fair and gentle

creature, scarcely woman, how could any man's voice call her by that name! I had little idea enough of what

it meant,had heard it laughed at, scoffed at, reverenced, but never had learned to place it even among the

ideal powers of life. Yet if it meant anything at all, what it meant was worth thinking of. What did she ask,

looking at me with those eyes? What would she have said if "those lips had language"? If I had known her

only as Cowper didwith a child's recollectionthere might have been some thread, some faint but

comprehensible link, between us; but now all that I felt was the curious incongruity. Poor child! I said to

myself; so sweet a creature: poor little tender soul! as if she had been a little sister, a child of mine,but my

mother! I cannot tell how long I stood looking at her, studying the candid, sweet face, which surely had

germs in it of everything that was good and beautiful; and sorry, with a profound regret, that she had died and

never carried these promises to fulfilment. Poor girl! poor people who had loved her! These were my

thoughts; with a curious vertigo and giddiness of my whole being in the sense of a mysterious relationship,

Presently my father came back, possibly because I had been a long time unconscious of the passage of the

minutes, or perhaps because he was himself restless in the strange disturbance of his habitual calm. He came

in and put his arm within mine, leaning his weight partially upon me, with an affectionate suggestion which

went deeper than words. I pressed his arm to my side: it was more between us two grave Englishmen than

"No. I don't wonder at that; but if it is strange to you, Phil, think how much more strange to me! That is the

partner of my life. I have never had another, or thought of another. Thatgirl! If we are to meet again, as I

have always hoped we should meet again, what am I to say to her,I, an old man? Yes; I know what you

mean. I am not an old man for my years; but my years are threescore and ten, and the play is nearly played

out. How am I to meet that young creature? We used to say to each other that it was forever, that we never

could be but one, that it was for life and death. But whatwhat am I to say to her, Phil, when I meet her

again, thatthat angel? No, it is not her being an angel that troubles me; but she is so young! She is like

mymy granddaughter," he cried, with a burst of what was half sobs, half laughter; "and she is my

wife,and I am an old manan old man! And so much has happened that she could not understand."

I was too much startled by this strange complaint to know what to say. It was not my own trouble, and I

"They are not as we are, sir," I said; "they look upon us with larger, other eyes than ours."

"Ah! you don't know what I mean," he said quickly; and in the interval he had subdued his emotion. "At first,

after she died, it was my consolation to think that I should meet her again,that we never could be really

parted. But, my God, how I have changed since then! I am another man,I am a different being. I was not

very young even then,twenty years older than she was; but her youth renewed mine. I was not an unfit

partner; she asked no better, and knew as much more than I did in some things,being so much nearer the

source,as I did in others that were of the world. But I have gone a long way since then, Phil,a long way;

I pressed his arm again. "Father," I said, which was a title I seldom used, "we are not to suppose that in a

higher life the mind stands still." I did not feel myself qualified to discuss such topics, but something one

"Worse, worse!" he replied; "then she too will be, like me, a different being, and we shall meet as what? as

strangers, as people who have lost sight of each other, with a long past between us,we who parted, my

His voice broke and ended for a moment: then while, surprised and almost shocked by what he said, I cast

about in my mind what to reply, he withdrew his arm suddenly from mine, and said in his usual tone, "Where

shall we hang the picture, Phil? It must be here in this room. What do you think will be the best light?"

This sudden alteration took me still more by surprise, and gave me almost an additional shock; but it was

evident that I must follow the changes of his mood, or at least the sudden repression of sentiment which he

originated. We went into that simpler question with great seriousness, consulting which would be the best

light. "You know I can scarcely advise," I said; "I have never been familiar with this room. I should like to

"I think," he said, "that this would be the best place." It was on the other side of the fireplace, on the wall

which faced the windows,not the best light, I knew enough to be aware, for an oilpainting. When I said

so, however, he answered me with a little impatience, "It does not matter very much about the best light;

there will be nobody to see it but you and me. I have my reasons"There was a small table standing against

the wall at this spot, on which he had his hand as he spoke. Upon it stood a little basket in very fine lacelike

wickerwork. His hand must have trembled, for the table shook, and the basket fell, its contents turning out

upon the carpet,little bits of needlework, colored silks, a small piece of knitting half done. He laughed as

they rolled out at his feet, and tried to stoop to collect them, then tottered to a chair, and covered for a

No need to ask what they were. No woman's work had been seen in the house since I could recollect it. I

gathered them up reverently and put them back. I could see, ignorant as I was, that the bit of knitting was

something for an infant. What could I do less than put it to my lips? It had been left in the doingfor me.

"Yes, I think this is the best place," my father said a minute after, in his usual tone.

We placed it there that evening with our own hands. The picture was large, and in a heavy frame, but my

father would let no one help me but himself. And then, with a superstition for which I never could give any

reason even to myself, having removed the packings, we closed and locked the door, leaving the candles

about the room, in their soft, strange illumination, lighting the first night of her return to her old place.

That night no more was said. My father went to his room early, which was not his habit. He had never,

however, accustomed me to sit late with him in the library. I had a little study or smokingroom of my own,

in which all my special treasures were, the collections of my travels and my favorite books,and where I

always sat after prayers, a ceremonial which was regularly kept up in the house. I retired as usual this night to

my room, and, as usual, read,but tonight somewhat vaguely, often pausing to think. When it was quite

late, I went out by the glass door to the lawn, and walked round the house, with the intention of looking in at

the drawingroom windows, as I had done when a child. But I had forgotten that these windows were all

shuttered at night; and nothing but a faint penetration of the light within through the crevices bore witness to

In the morning my father was entirely himself again. He told me without emotion of the manner in which he

had obtained the picture. It had belonged to my mother's family, and had fallen eventually into the hands of a

cousin of hers, resident abroad,"A man whom I did not like, and who did not like me," my father said;

"there was, or had been, some rivalry, he thought: a mistake, but he was never aware of that. He refused all

my requests to have a copy made. You may suppose, Phil, that I wished this very much. Had I succeeded, you

would have been acquainted, at least, with your mother's appearance, and need not have sustained this shock.

But he would not consent. It gave him, I think, a certain pleasure to think that he had the only picture. But

now he is dead, and out of remorse, or with some other intention, has left it to me."

"Yes; or something else. He might have thought that by so doing he was establishing a claim upon me," my

father said; but he did not seem disposed to add any more. On whose behalf he meant to establish a claim I

did not know, nor who the man was what had laid us under so great an obligation on his deathbed. He had

established a claim on me at least; though, as he was dead, I could not see on whose behalf it was. And my

father said nothing more; he seemed to dislike the subject. When I attempted to return to it, he had recourse to

his letters or his newspapers. Evidently he had made up his mind to say no more.

Afterwards I went into the drawingroom, to look at the picture once more. It seemed to me that the anxiety

in her eyes was not so evident as I had thought it last night. The light possibly was more favorable. She stood

just above the place where, I make no doubt, she had sat in life, where her little workbasket was,not very

much above it. The picture was fulllength, and we had hung it low, so that she might have been stepping

into the room, and was little above my own level as I stood and looked at her again. Once more I smiled at

the strange thought that this young creatureso young, almost childishcould be my mother; and once

more my eyes grew wet looking at her. He was a benefactor, indeed, who had given her back to us. I said to

myself, that if I could ever do anything for him or his, I would certainly do it, for myfor this lovely young

And with this in my mind, and all the thoughts that came with it, I am obliged to confess that the other

matter, which I had been so full of on the previous night, went entirely out of my head.

It is rarely, however, that such matters are allowed to slip out of one's mind. When I went out in the afternoon

for my usual stroll,or rather when I returned from that stroll,I saw once more before me the woman with

her baby, whose story had filled me with dismay on the previous evening. She was waiting at the gate as

before, and, "Oh, gentleman, but have n't you got some news to give me?" she said.

"Ah!" she said, with a little cry of disappointment, "my man said not to make too sure, and that the ways of

"I cannot explain to you," I said, as gently as I could, "what it is that has made me forget you. It was an event

that can only do you good in the end. Go home now, and see the man that took your things from you, and tell

The woman looked at me in astonishment, then burst forth, as it seemed, involuntarily, "What! without asking

no questions?" After this there came a storm of tears and blessings, from which I made haste to escape, but

not without carrying that curious commentary on my rashness away with me,"Without asking no

questions?" It might be foolish, perhaps; but after all, how slight a matter. To make the poor creature

comfortable at the cost of what,a box or two of cigars, perhaps, or some other trifle. And if it should be her

own fault, or her husband'swhat then? Had I been punished for all my faults, where should I have been

now? And if the advantage should be only temporary, what then? To be relieved and comforted even for a

day or two, was not that something to count in life? Thus I quenched the fiery dart of criticism which my

prot�g�e herself had thrown into the transaction, not without a certain sense of the humor of it. Its effect,

however, was to make me less anxious to see my father, to repeat my proposal to him, and to call his

attention to the cruelty performed in his name. This one case I had taken out of the category of wrongs to be

righted, by assuming arbitrarily the position of Providence in my own person,for, of course, I had bound

myself to pay the poor creature's rent as well as redeem her goods,and, whatever might happen to her in

the future, had taken the past into my own hands. The man came presently to see me, who, it seems, had

acted as my father's agent in the matter. "I don't know, sir, how Mr. Canning will take it," he said. "He don't

want none of those irregular, badpaying ones in his property. He always says as to look over it and let the

rent run on is making things worse in the end. His rule is, 'Never more than a month, Stevens;' that 's what

Mr. Canning says to me, sir. He says, 'More than that they can't pay. It 's no use trying.' And it 's a good rule;

it 's a very good rule. He won't hear none of their stories, sir. Bless you, you 'd never get a penny of rent from

them small houses if you listened to their tales. But if so be as you 'll pay Mrs. Jordan's rent, it 's none of my

business how it 's paid, so long as it 's paid, and I 'll send her back her things. But they 'll just have to be took

next time," he added composedly. "Over and over; it 's always the same story with them sort of poor

Morphew came back to my room after my visitor was gone. "Mr. Philip," he said, "you 'll excuse me, sir, but

if you 're going to pay all the poor folks' rent as have distresses put in, you may just go into the court at once,

"I am going to be the agent myself, Morphew, and manage for my father; and we 'll soon put a stop to that," I

He did not deny the fact. He said with excitement, "Master, sir,master don't let himself be put a stop to by

any man. Master 'snot one to be managed. Don't you quarrel with master, Mr. Philip, for the love of God."

"Quarrel!" I said. "I have never quarrelled with my father, and I don't mean to begin now."

Morphew dispelled his own excitement by making up the fire, which was dying in the grate. It was a very

mild spring evening, and he made up a great blaze which would have suited December. This is one of many

ways in which an old servant will relieve his mind. He muttered all the time as he threw on the coals and

wood. "He 'll not like it,we all know as he 'll not like it. Master won't stand no meddling, Mr.

Philip,"this last he discharged at me like a flying arrow as he closed the door.

I soon found there was truth in what he said. My father was not angry; he was even half amused. "I don't

think that plan of yours will hold water, Phil. I hear you have been paying rents and redeeming

furniture,that 's an expensive game, and a very profitless one. Of course, so long as you are a benevolent

gentleman acting for your own pleasure, it makes no difference to me. I am quite content if I get my money,

even out of your pockets,so long as it amuses you. But as my collector, you know, which you are good

"Of course I should act under your orders," I said; "but at least you might be sure that I would not commit

"Act of oppression," he said, with a smile"piece of cruelty, exactionthere are halfadozen words"

"Stop, Phil, and let us understand each other. I hope I have always been a just man. I do my duty on my side,

and I expect it from others. It is your benevolence that is cruel. I have calculated anxiously how much credit

it is safe to allow; but I will allow no man, or woman either, to go beyond what he or she can make up. My

law is fixed. Now you understand. My agents, as you call them, originate nothing; they execute only what I

"But then no circumstances are taken into account,no bad luck, no evil chances, no loss unexpected."

"There are no evil chances," he said; "there is no bad luck; they reap as they sow. No, I don't go among them

to be cheated by their stories, and spend quite unnecessary emotion in sympathizing with them. You will find

it much better for you that I don't. I deal with them on a general rule, made, I assure you, not without a great

"And must it always be so?" I said. "Is there no way of ameliorating or bringing in a better state of things?"

"It seems not," he said; "we don't get 'no forrarder' in that direction so far as I can see." And then he turned

I retired to my room greatly discouraged that night. In former agesor so one is led to supposeand in the

lower primitive classes who still linger near the primeval type, action of any kind was, and is, easier than

amid the complication of our higher civilization. A bad man is a distinct entity, against whom you know more

or less what steps to take. A tyrant, an oppressor, a bad landlord, a man who lets miserable tenements at a

rackrent (to come down to particulars), and exposes his wretched tenants to all those abominations of which

we have heard so muchwell! he is more or less a satisfactory opponent. There he is, and there is nothing to

be said for himdown with him! and let there be an end of his wickedness. But when, on the contrary, you

have before you a good man, a just man, who has considered deeply a question which you allow to be full of

difficulty; who regrets, but cannot, being human, avert the miseries which to some unhappy individuals

follow from the very wisdom of his rule,what can you do? What is to be done? Individual benevolence at

haphazard may balk him here and there, but what have you to put in the place of his wellconsidered

scheme? Charity which makes paupers? or what else? I had not considered the question deeply, but it seemed

to me that I now came to a blank wall, which my vague human sentiment of pity and scorn could find no way

to breach. There must be wrong somewhere, but where? There must be some change for the better to be

I was seated with a book before me on the table, with my head supported on my hands. My eyes were on the

printed page, but I was not reading; my mind was full of these thoughts, my h~art of great discouragement

and despondency,a sense that I could do nothing, yet that there surely must and ought, if I but knew it, be

something to do. The fire which Morphew had built up before dinner was dying out, the shaded lamp on my

table left all the corners in a mysterious twilight. The house was perfectly still, no one moving: my father in

the library, where, after the habit of many solitary years, he liked to be left alone, and I here in my retreat,

preparing for the formation of similar habits. I thought all at once of the third member of the party, the

newcomer, alone too in the room that had been hers; and there suddenly occurred to me a strong desire to

take up my lamp and go to the drawingroom and visit her, to see whether her soft, angelic face would give

any inspiration. I restrained, however, this futile impulse,for what could the picture say?and instead

wondered what might have been had she lived, had she been there, warmly enthroned beside the warm

domestic centre, the hearth which would have been a common sanctuary, the true home. In that case what

might have been? Alas! the question was no more simple to answer than the other: she might have been there

alone too, her husband's business, her son's thoughts, as far from her as now, when her silent representative

held her old place in the silence and darkness. I had known it so, often enough. Love itself does not always

give comprehension and sympathy. It might be that she was more to us there, in the sweet image of her

undeveloped beauty, than she might have been had she lived and grown to maturity and fading, like the rest.

I cannot be certain whether my mind was still lingering on this not very cheerful reflection, or if it had been

left behind, when the strange occurrence came of which I have now to tell. Can I call it an occurrence? My

eyes were on my book, when I thought I heard the sound of a door opening and shutting, but so far away and

faint that if real at all it must have been in a far corner of the house. I did not move except to lift my eyes

from the book as one does instinctively the better to listen; when But I cannot tell, nor have I ever been

able to describe exactly what it was. My heart made all at once a sudden leap in my breast. I am aware that

this language is figurative, and that the heart cannot leap; but it is a figure so entirely justified by sensation,

that no one will have any difficulty in understanding what I mean. My heart leaped up and began beating

wildly in my throat, in my ears, as if my whole being had received a sudden and intolerable shock. The sound

went through my head like the dizzy sound of some strange mechanism, a thousand wheels and springs

circling, echoing, working in my brain. I felt the blood bound in my veins; my mouth became dry, my eyes

hot; a sense of something insupportable took possession of me. I sprang to my feet, and then I sat down

again. I cast a quick glance round me beyond the brief circle of the lamplight, but there was nothing there to

account in any way for this sudden extraordinary rush of sensation, nor could I feel any meaning in it, any

suggestion, any moral impression. I thought I must be going to be ill, and got out my watch and felt my pulse:

it was beating furiously, about one hundred and twentyfive throbs in a minute. I knew of no illness that

could come on like this without warning, in a moment, and I tried to subdue myself, to say to myself that it

was nothing, some flutter of the nerves, some physical disturbance. I laid myself down upon my sofa to try if

rest would help me, and kept still, as long as the thumping and throbbing of this wild, excited mechanism

within, like a wild beast plunging and struggling, would let me. I am quite aware of the confusion of the

metaphor; the reality was just so. It was like a mechanism deranged, going wildly with everincreasing

precipitation, like those horrible wheels that from time to time catch a helpless human being in them and tear

him to pieces; but at the same time it was like a maddened living creature making the wildest efforts to get

When I could bear this no longer I got up and walked about my room; then having still a certain command of

myself, though I could not master the commotion within me, I deliberately took down an exciting book from

the shelf, a book of breathless adventure which had always interested me, and tried with that to break the

spell. After a few minutes, however, I flung the book aside; I was gradually losing all power over myself

What I should be moved to do,to shout aloud, to struggle with I know not what; or if I was going mad

altogether, and next moment must be a raving lunatic,I could not tell. I kept looking round, expecting I

don't know what; several times with the corner of my eye I seemed to see a movement, as if some one was

stealing out of sight; but when I looked straight, there was never anything but the plain outlines of the wall

and carpet, the chairs standing in good order. At last I snatched up the lamp in my hand, and went out of the

room. To look at the picture, which had been faintly showing in my imagination from time to time, the eyes,

more anxious than ever, looking at me from out the silent air? But no; I passed the door of that room swiftly,

moving, it seemed, without any volition of my own, and before I knew where I was going, went into my

He was still sitting there at his writingtable he looked up astonished to see me hurrying in with my light.

"Phil!" he said, surprised. I remember that I shut the door behind me, and came up to him, and set down the

lamp on his table. My sudden appearance alarmed him. "What is the matter?" he cried. "Philip, what have

I sat down on the nearest chair and gasped, gazing at him. The wild commotion ceased; the blood subsided

into its natural channels; my heart resumed its place. I use such words as mortal weakness can to express the

sensations I felt. I came to myself thus, gazing at him, confounded, at once by the extraordinary passion

which I had gone through, and its sudden cessation. "The matter?" I cried; "I don't know what is the matter."

My father had pushed his spectacles up from his eyes. He appeared to me as faces appear in a fever, all

glorified with light which is not in them,his eyes glowing, his white hair shining like silver; but his looks

were severe. "You are not a boy, that I should reprove you; but you ought to know better," he said.

Then I explained to him, so far as I was able, what had happened. Had happened? Nothing had happened. He

did not understand me; nor did I, now that it was over, understand myself; but he saw enough to make him

aware that the disturbance in me was serious, and not caused by any folly of my own. He was very kind as

soon as he had assured himself of this, and talked, taking pains to bring me back to unexciting subjects. He

had a letter in his hand with a very deep border of black when I came in. I observed it, without taking any

notice or associating it with anything I knew. He had many correspondents; and although we were excellent

friends, we had never been on those confidential terms which warrant one man in asking another from whom

a special letter has come. We were not so near to each other as this, though we were father and son. After a

while I went back to my own room, and finished the evening in my usual way, without any return of the

excitement which, now that it was over, looked to me like some extraordinary dream. What had it meant?

Had it meant anything? I said to myself that it must be purely physical, something gone temporarily amiss,

which had righted itself. It was physical; the excitement did not affect my mind. I was independent of it all

the time, a spectator of my own agitation,a clear proof that, whatever it was, it had affected my bodily

Next day I returned to the problem which I had not been able to solve. I found out my petitioner in the back

street, and that she was happy in the recovery of her possessions, which to my eyes indeed did not seem very

worthy either of lamentation or delight. Nor was her house the tidy house which injured virtue should have

when restored to its humble rights. She was not injured virtue, it was clear. She made me a great many

curtseys, and poured forth a number of blessings. Her "man" came in while I was there, and hoped in a gruff

voice that God would reward me, and that the old gentleman 'd let 'em alone. I did not like the look of the

man. It seemed to me that in the dark lane behind the house of a winter's night he would not be a pleasant

person to find in one's way. Nor was this all: when I went out into the little street which it appeared was all,

or almost all, my father's property, a number of groups formed in my way, and at least halfadozen

applicants sidled up. "I 've more claims nor Mary Jordan any day," said one; "I 've lived on Squire Canning's

property, one place and another, this twenty year." "And what do you say to me?" said another; "I 've six

children to her two, bless you, sir, and ne'er a father to do for them." I believed in my father's rule before I got

out of the street, and approved his wisdom in keeping himself free from personal contact with his tenants. Yet

when I looked back upon the swarming thoroughfare, the mean little houses, the women at their doors all so

openmouthed and eager to contend for my favor, my heart sank within me at the thought that out of their

misery some portion of our wealth came, I don't care how small a portion; that I, young and strong, should be

kept idle and in luxury, in some part through the money screwed out of their necessities, obtained sometimes

by the sacrifice of everything they prized ! Of course I know all the ordinary commonplaces of life as well as

any one,that if you build a house with your hand or your money, and let it, the rent of it is your just due,

"Don't you think, sir," I said that evening at dinner, the subject being reintroduced by my father himself, "that

"Certainly," he said; "I take as much trouble about their drains as I do about my own."

"Something! it is a great deal; it is more than they get anywhere else. I keep them clean, as far as that 's

possible. I give them at least the means of keeping clean, and thus check disease, and prolong life, which is

I was not prepared with arguments as I ought to have been. That is all in the Gospel according to Adam

Smith, which my father had been brought up in, but of which the tenets had begun to be less binding in my

day. I wanted something more, or else something less; but my views were not so clear, nor my system so

logical and wellbuilt, as that upon which my father rested his conscience, and drew his percentage with a

Yet I thought there were signs in him of some perturbation. I met him one morning coming out of the room in

which the portrait hung, as if he had gone to look at it stealthily. He was shaking his head, and saying "No,

no," to himself, not perceiving me, and I stepped aside when I saw him so absorbed. For myself, I entered

that room but little. I went outside, as I had so often done when I was a child, and looked through the

windows into the still and now sacred place, which had always impressed me with a certain awe. Looked at

so, the slight figure in its white dress seemed to be stepping down into the room from some slight visionary

altitude, looking with that which had seemed to me at first anxiety, which I sometimes represented to myself

now as a wistful curiosity, as if she were looking for the life which might have been hers. Where was the

existence that had belonged to her, the sweet household place, the infant she had left? She would no more

recognize the man who thus came to look at her as through a veil, with a mystic reverence, than I could

recognize her. I could never be her child to her, any more than she could be a mother to me.

Thus time passed on for several quiet days. There was nothing to make us give any special heed to the

passage of time, life being very uneventful and its habits unvaried. My mind was very much preoccupied by

my father's tenants. He had a great deal of property in the town which was so near us,streets of small

houses, the bestpaying property (I was assured) of any. I was very anxious to come to some settled

conclusion: on the one hand, not to let myself be carried away by sentiment; on the other, not to allow my

strongly roused feelings to fall into the blank of routine, as his had done. I was seated one evening in my own

sittingroom, busy with this matter,busy with calculations as to cost and profit, with an anxious desire to

convince him, either that his profits were greater than justice allowed, or that they carried with them a more

It was night, but not late, not more than ten o'clock, the household still astir. Everything was quiet,not the

solemnity of midnight silence, in which there is always something of mystery, but the softbreathing quiet of

the evening, full of the faint habitual sounds of a human dwelling, a consciousness of life about. And I was

very busy with my figures, interested, feeling no room in my mind for any other thought. The singular

experience which had startled me so much had passed over very quickly, and there had been no return. I had

ceased to think of it; indeed, I had never thought of it save for the moment, setting it down after it was over to

a physical cause without much difficulty. At this time I was far too busy to have thoughts to spare for

anything, or room for imagination; and when suddenly in a moment, without any warning, the first symptom

returned, I started with it into determined resistance, resolute not to be fooled by any mock influence which

could resolve itself into the action of nerves or ganglions. The first symptom, as before, was that my heart

sprang up with a bound, as if a cannon had been fired at my ear. My whole being responded with a start. The

pen fell out of my fingers, the figures went out of my head as if all faculty had departed; and yet I was

conscious for a time at least of keeping my selfcontrol. I was like the rider of a frightened horse, rendered

almost wild by something which in the mystery of its voiceless being it has seen, something on the road

which it will not pass, but wildly plunging, resisting every persuasion, turns from, with everincreasing

passion. The rider himself after a time becomes infected with this inexplainable desperation of terror, and I

suppose I must have done so; but for a time I kept the upper hand. I would not allow myself to spring up as I

wished, as my impulse was, but sat there doggedly, clinging to my books, to my table, fixing myself on I did

not mind what, to resist the flood of sensation, of emotion, which was sweeping through me, carrying me

away. I tried to continue my calculations. I tried to stir myself up with recollections of the miserable sights I

had seen, the poverty, the helplessness. I tried to work myself into indignation; but all through these efforts I

felt the contagion growing upon me, my mind falling into sympathy with all those straining faculties of the

body, startled, excited, driven wild by something, I knew not what. It was not fear. I was like a ship at sea

straining and plunging against wind and tide, but I was not afraid. I am obliged to use these metaphors,

otherwise I could give no explanation of my condition, seized upon against my will, and torn from all those

moorings of reason to which I clung with desperation, as long as I had the strength.

When I got up from my chair at last, the battle was lost, so far as my powers of selfcontrol were concerned.

I got up, or rather was dragged up, from my seat, clutching at these material things round me as with a last

effort to hold my own. But that was no longer possible; I was overcome. I stood for a moment looking round

me feebly, feeling myself begin to babble with stammering lips, which was the alternative of shrieking, and

which I seemed to choose as a lesser evil. What I said was, "What am I to do?" and after a while, "What do

you want me to do?" although throughout I saw no one, heard no voice, and had in reality not power enough

in my dizzy and confused brain to know what I myself meant. I stood thus for a moment, looking blankly

round me for guidance, repeating the question, which seemed after a time to become almost mechanical,

"What do you want me to do?" though I neither knew to whom I addressed it nor why I said it.

Presentlywhether in answer, whether in mere yielding of nature, I cannot tellI became aware of a

difference: not a lessening of the agitation, but a softening, as if my powers of resistance being exhausted, a

gentler force, a more benignant influence, had room. I felt myself consent to whatever it was. My heart

melted in the midst of the tumult; I seemed to give myself up, and move as if drawn by some one whose arm

was in mine, as if softly swept along, not forcibly, but with an utter consent of all my faculties to do I knew

not what, for love of I knew not whom. For love,that was how it seemed,not by force, as when I went

before. But my steps took the same course: I went through the dim passages in an exaltation indescribable,

He was seated there at his table as usual, the light of the lamp falling on his white hair; he looked up with

some surprise at the sound of the opening door. "Phil," he said, and with a look of wondering apprehension

on his face, watched my approach. I went straight up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Phil, what is

"Father, I can't tell you. I come not of myself. There must be something in it, though I don't know what it is.

"Are you going?" He stopped himself The exclamation had been begun with an angry intention. He

"Do you mean mad? I don't think so. I have no delusions that I know of. Father, thinkdo you know any

I stood with my hand upon the back of his chair. His table was covered with papers, among which were

several letters with the broad black border which I had before observed. I noticed this now in my excitement

without any distinct association of thoughts, for that I was not capable of; but the black border caught my eye.

And I was conscious that he too gave a hurried glance at them, and with one hand swept them away.

"Philip," he said, pushing back his chair, "you must be ill, my poor boy. Evidently we have not been treating

you rightly; you have been more ill all through than I supposed. Let me persuade you to go to bed."

"I am perfectly well," I said. "Father, don't let us deceive one another. I am neither a man to go mad nor to

see ghosts. What it is that has got the command over me I can't tell; but there is some cause for it. You are

He turned round squarely in his chair, with a spark in his blue eyes. He was not a man to be meddled with. "I

have yet to learn what can give my son a right to interfere. I am in possession of all my faculties, I hope."

"Father," I cried, "won't you listen to me? No one can say I have been undutiful or disrespectful. I am a man,

with a right to speak my mind, and I have done so; but this is different. I am not here by my own will.

Something that is stronger than I has brought me. There is something in your mind which disturbsothers. I

don't know what I am saying. This is not what I meant to say; but you know the meaning better than I. Some

onewho can speak to you only by mespeaks to you by me; and I know that you understand."

He gazed up at me, growing pale, and his underlip fell. I, for my part, felt that my message was delivered. My

heart sank into a stillness so sudden that it made me faint. The light swam in my eyes; everything went round

with me. I kept upright only by my hold upon the chair; and in the sense of utter weakness that followed, I

dropped on my knees I think first, then on the nearest seat that presented itself, and, covering my face with

my hands, had hard ado not to sob, in the sudden removal of that strange influence,the relaxation of the

There was silence between us for some time; then he said, but with a voice slightly broken, "I don't

understand you, Phil. You must have taken some fancy into your mind which my slower intelligenceSpeak

out what you want to say. What do you find fault with? Is it allall that woman Jordan?"

He gave a short, forced laugh as he broke off, and shook me almost roughly by the shoulder, saying, "Speak

"It seems, sir, that I have said everything." My voice trembled more than his, but not in the same way. "I have

told you that I did not come by my own will,quite otherwise. I resisted as long as I could: now all is said. It

He got up from his seat in a hurried way. "You would have me asmad as yourself," he said, then sat down

again as quickly. "Come, Phil: if it will please you, not to make a breach,the first breach between us,you

shall have your way. I consent to your looking into that matter about the poor tenants. Your mind shall not be

"Then it is a piece of folly," he said angrily. "I suppose you meanbut this is a matter in which I choose to

"You know what I mean," I said, as quietly as I could, "though I don't myself know; that proves there is good

reason for it. Will you do one thing for me before I leave you? Come with me into the drawingroom"

"What end," he said, with again the tremble in his voice, "is to be served by that?"

"I don't very well know; but to look at her, you and I together, will always do something for us, sir. As for

He got up, trembling like an old man, which he was, but which he never looked like save at moments of

emotion like this, and told me to take the light; then stopped when he had got halfway across the room.

"This is a piece of theatrical sentimentality," he said. "No, Phil, I will not go. I will not bring her into any

"At least," I said, "I will trouble you no more, father, tonight. So long as you understand, there need be no

He gave me a very curt "goodnight," and turned back to his papers,the letters with the black edge, either

by my imagination or in reality, always keeping uppermost. I went to my own room for my lamp, and then

alone proceeded to the silent shrine in which the portrait hung. I at least would look at her tonight. I don't

know whether I asked myself, in so many words, if it were she whoor if it was any oneI knew nothing;

but my heart was drawn with a softnessborn, perhaps, of the great weakness in which I was left after that

visitationto her, to look at her, to see, perhaps, if there was any sympathy, any approval in her face. I set

down my lamp on the table where her little workbasket still was; the light threw a gleam upward upon

her,she seemed more than ever to be stepping into the room, coming down towards me, coming back to

her life. Ah, no! her life was lost and vanished: all mine stood between her and the days she knew. She

looked at me with eyes that did not change. The anxiety I had seen at first seemed now a wistful, subdued

I need not linger on the intervening time. The doctor who attended us usually, came in next day "by

accident," and we had a long conversation. On the following day a very impressive yet genial gentleman from

town lunched with us,a friend of my father's, Dr. Something; but the introduction was hurried, and I did

not catch his name. He, too, had a long talk with me afterwards, my father being called away to speak to

some one on business. Dr. drew me out on the subject of the dwellings of the poor. He said he heard I took

great interest in this question, which had come so much to the front at the present moment. He was interested

in it too, and wanted to know the view I took. I explained at considerable length that my view did not concern

the general subject, on which I had scarcely thought, so much as the individual mode of management of my

father's estate. He was a most patient and intelligent listener, agreeing with me on some points, differing in

others; and his visit was very pleasant. I had no idea until after of its special object; though a certain puzzled

look and slight shake of the head when my father returned, might have thrown some light upon it. The report

of the medical experts in my case must, however, have been quite satisfactory, for I heard nothing more of

them. It was, I think, a fortnight later when the next and last of these strange experiences came.

This time it was morning, about noon,a wet and rather dismal spring day. The halfspread leaves seemed

to tap at the window, with an appeal to be taken in; the primroses, that showed golden upon the grass at the

roots of the trees, just beyond the smoothshorn grass of the lawn, were all drooped and sodden among their

sheltering leaves. The very growth seemed drearythe sense of spring in the air making the feeling of winter

a grievance, instead of the natural effect which it had conveyed a few months before. I had been writing

letters, and was cheerful enough, going back among the associates of my old life, with, perhaps, a little

longing for its freedom and independence, but at the same time a not ungrateful consciousness that for the

This was my conditiona not unpleasant onewhen suddenly the now wellknown symptoms of the

visitation to which I had become subject suddenly seized upon me,the leap of the heart; the sudden,

causeless, overwhelming physical excitement, which could neither ignore nor allay. I was terrified beyond

description, beyond reason, when I became conscious that this was about to begin over again: what purpose

did it answer; what good was in it? My father indeed understood the meaning of it, though I did not

understand; but it was little agreeable to be thus made a helpless instrument, without any will of mine, in an

operation of which I knew nothing; and to enact the part of the oracle unwillingly, with suffering and such a

strain as it took me days to get over. I resisted, not as before, but yet desperately, trying with better

knowledge to keep down the growing passion. I hurried to my room and swallowed a dose of a sedative

which had been given me to procure sleep on my first return from India. I saw Morphew in the hall, and

called him to talk to him, and cheat myself, if possible, by that means. Morphew lingered, however, and,

before he came, I was beyond conversation. I heard him speak, his voice coming vaguely through the turmoil

which was already in my ears, but what he said I have never known. I stood staring, trying to recover my

power of attention, with an aspect which ended by completely frightening the man. He cried out at last that he

was sure I was ill, that he must bring me something; which words penetrated more or less into my maddened

brain. It became impressed upon me that he was going to get some oneone of my father's doctors,

perhapsto prevent me from acting, to stop my interference, and that if I waited a moment longer I might be

too late. A vague idea seized me at the same time, of taking refuge with the portrait,going to its feet,

throwing myself there, perhaps, till the paroxysm should be over. But it was not there that my footsteps were

directed. I can remember making an effort to open the door of the drawingroom, and feeling myself swept

past it, as if by a gale of wind. It was not there that I had to go. I knew very well where I had to go,once

more on my confused and voiceless mission to my father, who understood, although I could not understand.

Yet as it was daylight, and all was clear, I could not help noting one or two circumstances on my way. I saw

some one sitting in the hall as if waiting,a woman, a girl, a blackshrouded figure, with a thick veil over

her face; and asked myself who she was, and what she wanted there. This question, which had nothing to do

with my present condition, somehow got into my mind, and was tossed up and down upon the tumultuous

tide like a stray log on the breast of a fiercely rolling stream, now submerged, now coming uppermost, at the

mercy of the waters. It did not stop me for a moment, as I hurried towards my father's room, but it got upon

the current of my mind. I flung open my father's door, and closed it again after me, without seeing who was

there or how he was engaged. The full clearness of the daylight did not identify him as the lamp did at night.

He looked up at the sound of the door, with a glance of apprehension; and rising suddenly, interrupting some

one who was standing speaking to him with much earnestness and even vehemence, came forward to meet

me. "I cannot be disturbed at present," he said quickly; "I am busy." Then seeing the look in my face, which

by this time he knew, he too changed color. "Phil," he said, in a low, imperative voice, "wretched boy, go

"I can't go away," I said. "It is impossible. You know why I have come. I cannot, if I would. It is more

"Go, sir," he said; "go at once; no more of this folly. I will not have you in this room: Gogo!"

I made no answer. I don't know that I could have done so. There had never been any struggle between us

before; but I had no power to do one thing or another. The tumult within me was in full career. I heard indeed

what he said, and was able to reply; but his words, too, were like straws tossed upon the tremendous stream. I

saw now with my feverish eyes who the other person present was. It was a woman, dressed also in mourning

similar to the one in the hall; but this a middleaged woman, like a respectable servant. She had been crying,

and in the pause caused by this encounter between my father and myself, dried her eyes with a handkerchief,

which she rolled like a ball in her hand, evidently in strong emotion. She turned and looked at me as my

father spoke to me, for a moment with a gleam of hope, then falling back into her former attitude.

My father returned to his seat. He was much agitated too, though doing all that was possible to conceal it. My

inopportune arrival was evidently a great and unlookedfor vexation to him. He gave me the only look of

passionate displeasure I have ever had from him, as he sat down again; but he said nothing more.

"You must understand," he said, addressing the woman, "that I have said my last words on this subject. I

don't choose to enter into it again in the presence of my son, who is not well enough to be made a party to any

discussion. I am sorry that you should have had so much trouble in vain; but you were warned beforehand,

and you have only yourself to blame. I acknowledge no claim, and nothing you can say will change my

resolution. I must beg you to go away. All this is very painful and quite useless. I acknowledge no claim."

"Oh, sir," she cried, her eyes beginning once more to flow, her speech interrupted by little sobs. "Maybe I did

wrong to speak of a claim. I 'm not educated to argue with a gentleman. Maybe we have no claim. But if it 's

not by right, oh, Mr. Canning, won't you let your heart be touched by pity? She don't know what I 'm saying,

poor dear. She 's not one to beg and pray for herself, as I 'm doing for her. Oh, sir, she 's so young! She 's so

lone in this world,not a friend to stand by her, nor a house to take her in! You are the nearest to her of any

one that 's left in this world. She has n't a relation,not one so near as you,oh!" she cried, with a sudden

thought, turning quickly round upon me, "this gentleman 's your son! Now I think of it, it 's not your relation

she is, but his, through his mother! That 's nearer, nearer! Oh, sir! you 're young; your heart should be more

tender. Here is my young lady that has no one in the world to look to her. Your own flesh and blood; your

My father called to her to stop, with a voice of thunder. "Philip, leave us at once. It is not a matter to be

And then in a moment it became clear to me what it was. It had been with difficulty that I had kept myself

still. My breast was laboring with the fever of an impulse poured into me, more than I could contain. And

now for the first time I knew why. I hurried towards him, and took his hand, though he resisted, into mine.

Mine were burning, but his like ice: their touch burnt me with its chill, like fire. "This is what it is?" I cried.

"I had no knowledge before. I don't know now what is being asked of you. But, father, understand! You

know, and I know now, that some one sends me,some onewho has a right to interfere."

He pushed me away with all his might. "You are mad," he cried. "What right have you to think? Oh, you

The woman, the petitioner, had grown silent, watching this brief conflict with the terror and interest with

which women watch a struggle between men. She started and fell back when she heard what he said, but did

not take her eyes off me, following every movement I made. When I turned to go away, a cry of indescribable

disappointment and remonstrance burst from her, and even my father raised himself up and stared at my

withdrawal, astonished to find that he had overcome me so soon and easily. I paused for a moment, and

looked back on them, seeing them large and vague through the mist of fever. "I am not going away," I said. "I

My father rose. He called out to me threateningly, "I will have nothing touched that is hers. Nothing that is

I waited to hear no more; I knew what I had to do. By what means it was conveyed to me I cannot tell; but the

certainty of an influence which no one thought of calmed me in the midst of my fever. I went out into the

hall, where I had seen the young stranger waiting. I went up to her and touched her on the shoulder. She rose

at once, with a little movement of alarm, yet with docile and instant obedience, as if she had expected the

summons. I made her take off her veil and her bonnet, scarcely looking at her, scarcely seeing her, knowing

how it was: I took her soft, small, cool, yet trembling hand into mine; it was so soft and cool,not cold,it

refreshed me with its tremulous touch. All through I moved and spoke like a man in a dream; swiftly,

noiselessly, all the complications of waking life removed; without embarrassment, without reflection, without

the loss of a moment. My father was still standing up, leaning a little forward as he had done when I

withdrew; threatening, yet terrorstricken, not knowing what I might be about to do, when I returned with my

companion. That was the one thing he had not thought of. He was entirely undecided, unprepared. He gave

her one look, flung up his arms above his head, and uttered a distracted cry, so wild that it seemed the last

outcry of nature,"Agnes!" then fell back like a sudden ruin, upon himself, into his chair.

I had no leisure to think how he was, or whether he could hear what I said. I had my message to deliver.

"Father," I said, laboring with my panting breath, "it is for this that heaven has opened, and one whom I never

saw, one whom I know not, has taken possession of me. Had we been less earthly, we should have seen

herherself, and not merely her image. I have not even known what she meant. I have been as a fool without

understanding. This is the third time I have come to you with her message, without knowing what to say. But

now I have found it out. This is her message. I have found it out at last." There was an awful pause,a pause

in which no one moved or breathed. Then there came a broken voice out of my father's chair. He had not

understood, though I think he heard what I said. He put out two feeble hands. "PhilI think I am dyinghas

We had to carry him to his bed. What struggles he had gone through before I cannot tell. He had stood fast,

and had refused to be moved, and now he fell,like an old tower, like an old tree. The necessity there was

for thinking of him saved me from the physical consequences which had prostrated me on a former occasion.

His delusion was not wonderful, but most natural. She was clothed in black from head to foot, instead of the

white dress of the portrait. She had no knowledge of the conflict, of nothing but that she was called for, that

her fate might depend on the next few minutes. In her eyes there was a pathetic question, a line of anxiety in

the lids, an innocent appeal in the looks. And the face the same: the same lips, sensitive, ready to quiver; the

same innocent, candid brow; the look of a common race, which is more subtle than mere resemblance. How I

knew that it was so I cannot tell, nor any man. It was the other, the elder,ah, no! not elder; the ever young,

the Agnes to whom age can never come, she who they say was the mother of a man who never saw her,it

My father recovered after a few days: he had taken cold, it was said, the day before; and naturally, at seventy,

a small matter is enough to upset the balance even of a strong man. He got quite well; but he was willing

enough afterwards to leave the management of that ticklish kind of property which involves human

wellbeing in my hands, who could move about more freely, and see with my own eyes how things were

going on. He liked home better, and had more pleasure in his personal existence in the end of his life. Agnes

is now my wife, as he had, of course, foreseen. It was not merely the disinclination to receive her father's

daughter, or to take upon him a new responsibility, that had moved him, to do him justice; but both these

motives had told strongly. I have never been told, and now will never be told, what his griefs against my

mother's family, and specially against that cousin, had been; but that he had been very determined, deeply

prejudiced, there can be no doubt. It turned out after, that the first occasion on which I had been mysteriously

commissioned to him with a message which I did not understand, and which for that time he did not

understand, was the evening of the day on which he had received the dead man's letter, appealing to himto

him, a man whom he had wrongedon behalf of the child who was about to be left friendless in the world.

The second time, further lettersfrom the nurse who was the only guardian of the orphan, and the chaplain

of the place where her father had died, taking it for granted that my father's house was her natural

For a long time after, my mind was never without a lurking fear that the influence which had once taken

possession of me might return again. Why should I have feared to be influenced, to be the messenger of a

blessed creature, whose wishes could be nothing but heavenly? Who can say? Flesh and blood is not made for

such encounters: they were more than I could bear. But nothing of the kind has ever occurred again.

Agnes had her peaceful domestic throne established under the picture. My father wished it to be so, and spent

his evenings there in the warmth and light, instead of in the old library,in the narrow circle cleared by our

lamp out of the darkness, as long as he lived. It is supposed by strangers that the picture on the wall is that of

my wife; and I have always been glad that it should be so supposed. She who was my mother, who came back

to me and became as my soul for three strange moments and no more, but with whom I can feel no credible

relationship as she stands there, has retired for me into the tender regions of the unseen. She has passed once

more into the secret company of those shadows, who can only become real in an atmosphere fitted to modify

and harmonize all differences, and make all wonders possible,the light of the perfect day. (End.)