After awhile the subject was dropped. There had been a silence of some minutes, when the attention of Mr. Green was again called to certain unpleasant bodily sensations, and he said--
"I declare! this cold of mine is very bad. I must do something to break it before it gets worse. Henry, did you get that Irish whiskey I sent for?"
"No, sir," replied the child, "I was so frightened when I saw Mr.
Brooks strike Margaret, that I ran back."
"Oh, well, I don"t wonder! It was dreadful. Mr. Brooks was very wicked to do so. But take the flask and run over to the store. Tell Brady that I want a pint of good Irish whiskey."
Henry turned from his father, and went to the table on which he had placed the flask. He did not move with his usual alacrity.
"It was whiskey, wasn"t it," said the child, as he took the bottle in his hand, "that made Mr. Brooks strike Margaret?" And he looked so earnestly into his father"s face, and with so strange an expression, that the man felt disturbed, while he yet wondered at the manner of the lad.
"Yes," replied Mr. Green, "it was the whiskey. Mr. Brooks, if he had been sober, would not have hurt a hair of her head."
Henry looked at the bottle, then at his father, in so strange a way, that Mr. Green, who did not at first comprehend what was in the child"s thoughts wondered still more. All was soon understood, for Harry, bursting into tears, laid down the flask, and, throwing his arms around his father"s neck, said--
"Oh, father! don"t get any whiskey!"
Mr. Green deeply touched by the incident, hugged his boy tightly to his bosom. He said--
"I only wanted it for medicine, dear. But, never mind. I won"t let such dangerous stuff come into my house. Mother shall make me some of her herb-tea, and that will do as well."
Henry looked up, after a while, timidly.--"You"re not angry with me, father?" came from his innocent lips.
"Oh, no, my child! Why should I be angry?" replied Mr. Green, kissing the cheek of his boy. Then the sunshine came back again to Henry"s heart, and he was happy as before.
Mrs. Green made the herb-tea for her husband, and it proved quite as good for him as the whiskey-punch. A gla.s.s or two of cold water, on going to bed, would probably have been of more real advantage in the case, than either of these doubtful remedies.
THE PORTRAIT.
"BLESS the happy art!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Morton, wiping the moisture from her eyes. "Could anything be more perfect than that likeness of his sweet, innocent face? Dear little Willie! I fear I love him too much."
"It is indeed perfect," said Mr. Morton, after viewing the picture in many lights. "My favourite painter has surpa.s.sed himself. What could be more like life, than that gentle, half-pensive face looking so quiet and thoughtful, and yet so full of childhood"s most innocent, happy expression?"
Mr. Morton, here introduced to the reader, was a wealthy merchant of Philadelphia, and a liberal patron of the arts. He had, already, obtained several pictures from Sully, who was, with him, as an artist, a great favourite. The last order had just been sent home.
It was a portrait of his youngest, and favourite child--a sweet little boy, upon whose head three summers had not yet smiled.
"I would not take the world for it!" said Mrs. Morton after looking at it long and steadily for the hundredth time. "Dear little fellow!
A year from now, and how changed he will be. And every year he will be changing and changing; but this cannot alter, and even from the period of manhood, we may look back and see our Willie"s face when but a child."
"Every one who is able," remarked Mr. Morton, "should have the portraits of his children taken. What better legacy could a father leave to his child, than the image of his own innocent face! Surely, it were enough to drive away thoughts of evil, and call up old and innocent affections, for any man, even the man of crime, to look for but a moment upon the image of what he was in childhood."
"And yet there are some," added Mrs. Morton, "who call portraits, and indeed, all paintings, mere luxuries--meaning, thereby, something that is utterly useless."
"Yes, there are such, but even they, it seems to me, might perceive their use in preserving the innocent features of their children. The good impressions made in infancy and childhood, are rarely if ever lost; they come back upon every one at times, and are, frequently, all-powerful in the influence they exert against evil. How like a spell to call back those innocent thoughts and affections, would be the image of a man"s face in childhood! No one, it seems to me, could resist its influence."
One, two, and three years pa.s.sed away, and every one wrought some change upon "little Willie," but each change seemed to the fond parents an improvement,--yet, did they not look back to earlier years, as they glanced at his picture, with less of tender emotion, and heart-stirring delight. But now a sad change, the saddest of all changes that occur, took place. Disease fastened upon the child, and ere the parents, and fond sisters of a younger and only brother, were fully sensible of danger, the spirit of the child had fled. We will not linger to pain the reader with any minute description of the deep and abiding grief that fell, like a shadow from an evil wing overspreading them, upon the household of Mr. Morton, but pa.s.s on to scenes more exciting, if not less moving to the heart.
For many weeks, Mrs. Morton could not trust herself to look up to the picture that still hung in its place, the picture of her lost one. But after time had, in some degree, mellowed the grief that weighed down her spirits, she found a melancholy delight in gazing intently upon the beautiful face that was still fresh and unchanged--that still looked the impersonation of innocence.
"He was too pure and too lovely for the earth," she said, one day, to her husband, about two months after his death, leaning her head upon his shoulder--"and so the angels took him."
"Then do not grieve for him," Mr. Morton replied in a soothing tone.
"We know that he is with the angels, and where they are, is neither evil, nor sorrow, nor pain. Much as I loved him, much as I grieved for his loss, I would not recall him if I could. But, our picture cannot die. And though it is mute and inanimate, yet it is something to awaken remembrances, that, even though sad, we delight to cherish. It is something to remind us, that we have a child in heaven."
But the loss of their child seemed but the beginning of sorrows to Mr. Morton and his family. An unexpected series of failures in business so fatally involved him, that extrication became impossible. He was an honest man, and therefore, this sudden disastrous aspect of affairs was doubly painful, for he knew no other course but the honourable giving up of everything. On learning the whole truth in relation to his business, he came home, and after opening the sad news to his wife, he called his family around him.
"My dear children," he said, "I have painful news to break to you; but you cannot know it too soon. Owing to a succession of heavy failures, my business has become embarra.s.sed beyond hope. I must give up all,--even our comfortable and elegant home must be changed for one less expensive, and less comfortable. Can you, my children, bear with cheerfulness and contentment such a changed condition?"
The heart of each one had already been subdued and chastened by the affliction that removed the little playmate of all so suddenly away, and now the news of a painful and unlooked-for reverse came with a shock that, for a few moments, bewildered and alarmed.
"Are not my children willing to share the good and evil of life with their father?" Mr. Morton resumed after the gush of tears that followed the announcement of his changed fortunes had in a degree subsided.
"Yes, dear father! be they what they may," Constance, the eldest, a young lady in her seventeenth year, said, looking up affectionately through her tears.
Mary, next in years, pressed up to her father"s side, and twining an arm around his neck, kissed his forehead tenderly. She did not speak; for her heart was too full; but it needed no words to a.s.sure him that her love was as true as the needle to the pole.
Eliza, but twelve, and like an unfolding bud half revealing the loveliness and beauty within, could not fully comprehend the whole matter. But enough she did understand, to know that her father was in trouble, and this brought her also to his side.
"Do not think of us, dear father!" Constance said, after the pause of a few oppressive moments. "Let the change be what it may, it cannot take from us our father"s love, and our father"s honourable principles. Nor can it change the true affection of his children. I feel as if I could say, With my father I could go unto prison or to death."
The father was much moved. "That trial, my dear children, I trust you may never be called upon to meet. The whole extent of the painful one into which you are about to enter, you cannot now possibly realize, and I earnestly hope that your hearts may not fail you while pa.s.sing through the deep waters. But one thought may strengthen; think that by your patience and cheerfulness, your father"s burdens will be lightened. He cannot see you pained without suffering a double pang himself."
"Trust us, father," was the calm, earnest, affectionate reply of Constance; and it was plain, by the deep resolution expressed in the faces of her sisters, that she spoke for them as well as herself.
And now, the shadow that was obscuring their earthly prospects, began to fall thicker upon them. At the meeting of his creditors which was called, he gave a full statement of his affairs.
"And now," he said, "I am here to a.s.sign everything. In consequence of heavy, and you all must see, unavoidable, losses, this a.s.signment will include all my property, and still leave a small deficiency.
Beyond that, I can only hope for success in my future exertions, and pledge that success in antic.i.p.ation. Can I do more?"
"We could not ask for more certainly," was the cold response of a single individual, made in a tone of voice implying no sympathy with the debtor"s misfortunes, but rather indicating disappointment that the whole amount of his claim could not be made out of the a.s.sets.
Some degree of sympathy, some kind consideration for his painful condition Mr. Morton naturally looked for, but nearly every kind emotion for him was stifled by the sordid disappointment which each one of his former business friends felt in losing what they valued, as their feelings indicated, above everything else--their money.
"When will the a.s.signment be made?" was the next remark.
"Appoint your trustees, and I am ready at any moment."
Trustees were accordingly appointed, and these had a private conference with, and received their instructions from the creditors.
In a week they commenced their work of apprais.e.m.e.nt. After a thorough and careful examination into accounts, deeds, mortgages, and doc.u.ments of various kinds, and becoming satisfied that every thing was as Mr. Morton had stated it, it was found that the property represented by these would cover ninety cents in the dollar.
"Your furniture and plate comes next," said one of the trustees.
Mr. Morton bowed and said, while his heart sunk in his bosom--