by Ellen Wood
“Stay!” she implored. “I lie here alone with all my pain and trouble; and wild thoughts intrude themselves into my mind, something like they come to us in a dream. It was a wild thought — an improbable one — the speaking to you of an oath; perhaps it was a wrong one. Will you pass your word to me, Alfred, that Raby shall be reared to good, not to evil? And you surely will hold sacred your word to the dying!”
“I promise you that the best shall be done for the boy in all ways, Maria, so far as I can do it,”
He turned impatiently as he spoke, and left the room. She did not call again. And just then her little boy peeped in. He had been christened Raby.
“You may come, dear.”
Raby Verner, a child of seven, who had inherited his mother’s beauty, drew towards her on tiptoe. He was too intelligent for his years, too sensitive, too thoughtful. His large and brilliant brown eyes were raised to hers with a sweet, sad expression of inquiry. Then the long, dark eyelashes fell over them, and he laid his head on her bosom, and threw up his arms lovingly to clasp her neck.
“Raby, I was just thinking of you. I must tell you something.”
As if he had a dread presentiment of what was coming, he did not speak, but bent his face where she could not see it, and slightly shivered.
“Raby, darling, do you know that I am going to leave you — that I am going to heaven?”
The child had known it some time, for he had been alive to the gossiping of the servants, but, true to his shy and sensitive nature, he had buried the knowledge and the misery within his poor little heart. True to it now, he would not give vent to his emotion, but his mother felt that he shivered from head to foot, as his clasp tightened upon her.
“I read a pretty book, Raby, once. It told of the creed of some people, far, far away from our own land, who believe that when they die — if they die in God’s love — they are permitted to become ministering spirits to those whom they leave here; to hover invisibly round them, and direct their thoughts and steps away from harm. My dearest, how I should like to find this to be really the case! I would come and watch over you.”
His sobs could no longer be suppressed, though he strove for it still. They broke out in a wail.
“Raby, dear, you have heard that this is a world of care. All people find it so: though some more than others. When it shall fall upon you hereafter — as it is sure to do — remember God sends it only to fit you for a better land.”
The child looked up, his large eyes swimming. “Mamma, have you had much care?” —
“A great deal; more than many have. But, Raby, that care has taken me home; it has shewn me the way to get there. It will shew you. I shall be there waiting for you. Carry always with you, through life, the hope to come there, and you will be sure to come.”
What more she would have said is uncertain. Probably much. The child was not like a child of seven; he was more like one of fourteen, and he understood well. It was Mr. Raby who interrupted them.
“Raby! crying, sir! What for? Has your mamma been talking gloomy stuff to you, or saying that she fears that she is worse? It is not true, boy, either of it. Dry up that face of yours. Maria, you are not worse: if you were, I should see it. Run away into the nursery, sir.”
The boy drew away choking, and Mr. Raby continued —
“It is not judicious of you, Maria, to alarm the boy. I cannot think what has put these ideas into your head. He will be in tears for the rest of the day.”
“He is so sensitive,” she whispered. “Alfred, something seems to tell me he will be destined to sorrow. It is an impression I have always felt, but never so forcibly as now. Shield him from it where-ever you can. Oh that I could take him with me!”
“You are growing fanciful,” answered Mr. Raby. “Destined to sorrow, indeed! Is there nothing else you fancy him destined to? Whence draw you your deduction?”
“I do not know. But a timid, sensitive, refined nature, such as his, with its unusual gift of genius, is generally destined to what the world looks upon as adverse fate. It may be deep sorrow, or it may be an early death.”
“All mothers think their child a genius,” interrupted Mr. Raby, in his slighting tone.
“Well, if he lives, time will prove,” she panted. “I fear you will find my words true. When the mind is about to separate from the body, I believe it sees with unusual clearness — that it can sometimes read the future, almost with a spirit of prophecy.”
“I am not given to metaphysics, Maria,” remarked Mr. Raby, as he again escaped from the room.
Mrs. Verner Raby died. Raby, in due course, went to Eton, and afterwards to college. A shy, proud young man: at least, his reserved manners and his refined appearance and habits gave a stranger the idea that he was proud. He kept one term at Oxford, and had returned to keep a second, when a telegraphic despatch summoned him to London. Mr. Verner Raby had died a sudden death.
When Raby went back to Oxford, it was only to take his name off the college books, for his father had eaten up all he possessed, had died in debt, and Raby must no longer be a gentleman. A rentier, the French would say, which is a much more suitable term: we have no word that answers to it. Mr. Raby, after the death of his wife, had plunged into worse expense than before; he had lived a life of boundless extravagance, and his affairs proved to be in a sad state. He had afforded Raby a home; he had educated him in accordance with his presumed rank; but he had done no more. He had given him no profession; he had squandered his mother’s money, as well as his own; he had bequeathed him no means to live, or even to complete his education; he left him to struggle with the world as he best could. And that was how he fulfilled his promise to his dead wife!
Yes; Raby must struggle now with the world — fight with it for a living. How was he able to do it? His mother said he possessed genius, and he undoubtedly did — a genius for painting. He had loved the art all his life, but his father had been against his pursuing it, even as an amateur — had obstinately set his face and interposed his veto against it. Raby determined to turn to it with a will now.
CHAPTER II.
Dreams of Fame.
A GENTLEMAN stood one morning in the studio of a far-famed painter, the great Coram, as the world called him. The visitor was Sir Arthur Saxonbury, one of those warm patrons of art all too few in England. Rich, liberal, and enthusiastic, his name was a welcome sound, not only to the successful, but to the struggling artist. The painter was out; but, in a second room, seated before an easel, underneath the softened light of the green blind, was a young man, working assiduously. Sir Arthur took little notice of him at first; he supposed him to be a humble assistant, or colour-mixer of the great man’s; but, upon drawing nearer, he was struck with the exceeding and rare beauty of the face that was raised to look at him. But for the remarkable intellect of the high, broad brow, and the flashing light of the luminous eye, the face, in its sweet and delicate symmetry, in its transparency of complexion, might have been taken for a woman’s. Sir Arthur, a passionate admirer of beauty, wherever he saw it, forgot the pictures of still life around him, and gazed at the living one: gazed until he heard the painter enter.
“Who is that in the other room?” inquired Sir Arthur, when greetings were over.
“Ah, poor fellow, his is a sad history. A very common one, though. When did you return to England, Sir Arthur?”
“But last week. Lady Saxonbury is tired of France and Germany, and her health seems to get no better. I must look at your new works, Coram; I suppose you have many to shew me, finished or unfinished.”
“Ay. It must be three years since you were here, Sir Arthur.”
“Nearly.”
They proceeded round the rooms, when Sir Arthur’s eye once more fell on the young man.
“He has genius, that young fellow, has he not?” he whispered.
“Very great genius.”
“I could have told it,” returned Sir Arthur. “What a countenance it is! Transformed to canvas, its beauty alone would ren
der the painter immortal. His face seems strangely familiar to me. Where can I have seen it?”
Mr. Coram had his eyes bent close to one of his paintings. He saw a speck on it which had no business there. The baronet’s remark remained unanswered.
“I presume he is an aspirant for fame,” continued Sir Arthur. “Will he get on?”
“No,” said Mr. Coram.
Sir Arthur Saxonbury looked surprised.
“It is the old tale,” proceeded the painter. “Poverty, friendlessness, and overwhelming talent.”
“Talent has struggled through mountains before now, Coram,” significantly observed the baronet.
“Yes. But Raby’s enemy lies here” touching his own breast. “He is inclined to consumption, and these ultra-refined natures cannot battle against bodily weakness. His sensitiveness is something marvellous. A rude blow to his feelings would do for him.”
Sir Arthur had looked up at the sound of the name. “What did you call him? Raby?”
“Raby Verner Raby is his name. The son of spendthrift Verner and Maria Raby the heiress.”
Raby Verner Raby! Middle-aged though he was, years though it was ago, now, since his dream of love with Maria Raby had come to an abrupt ending, Sir Arthur Saxonbury, once Arthur Mair, positively felt his cheeks blush through his gray whiskers. He glanced eagerly at Raby’s face, and memory carried him back to its spring-time, for those were her very eyes, with their sweet, melancholy expression, and those were her chiselled features.
“I saw Verner Raby’s death in the papers,” said Sir Arthur, rousing himself, “two — three years ago, it seems to me. What is the son doing here?”
“Raby left nothing behind him but debts. The son sold off all, and paid them, leaving himself, I believe, about half sufficient for the bare necessaries of life. So he turned to what he loved best, painting, and has been working hard ever since. He expects to make a good thing of it. I let him come here to copy, for he has no convenience at his lodgings! Poor fellow! better that he had been a painter of coach panels.”
“Why do you say that, Coram?”
“A man whose genius goes no higher than coachpainting can bear rubs and crosses. We can’t. And Raby is so sanguine! Thinks he is going to be a second Claude Lorraine. He is great in landscapes.”
At that moment they were interrupted by Raby. He came across the room in search of something wanted in his work, and Sir Arthur Saxonbury saw that the beauty of the face did not extend to the form. Not more than the middle height, and slender, his long arms and legs looked too long for his body. He stooped in the shoulders, he had a sensitive look of physical weakness, and his gait was uncertain and timid. Coram laid his hand on his shoulder.
“This is Sir Arthur Saxonbury, of whom you have heard so much,” he said.
Raby was unacquainted with the episode in his mother’s early life, therefore the flush that rose to, and dyed his face, was caused only by the greeting of a stranger; with these sensitive natures, it is sure to do so, whether they be man or woman. The bright colour only served to render him more like Maria Raby, and Sir Arthur, in spite of the sore feeling her treatment had left, felt his heart warm to her son. A wish half crossed his mind that that son was his — his heir; he had no son, only daughters. Raby was astonished at the warmth of his greeting. Sir Arthur clasped and held his hand; he turned with him to inspect the painting he was engaged on. It was a self-created landscape, betraying great imaginative power and genius; but genius, as yet, only half cultivated.
“You have your work cut out for you,” observed Sir Arthur, who was an excellent judge of art, and its indispensable toil.
“I know it, Sir Arthur. I ought to have begun the study earlier; but during my father’s lifetime the opportunity was not afforded me. It is all I have to depend on now, for with him died my wealth and my prospects.”
“He had great wealth once. How could he have been so reprehensible as to dissipate it all, knowing there was one to come after him?” involuntarily spoke Sir Arthur.
“These are thoughts that I avoid,” replied Raby. “He was my father.”
“Do you remember much of your mother?”
“I remember her very well indeed. She died when I was seven years old. All the good that is in me I owe to her. I have never forgotten her early lessons or her early love. I seem to see her face as plainly as I saw it then. I see it often in my dreams.”
“It was a face that the world does not see too often,” said Sir Arthur, whose thoughts were buried in the past. “Your own is like it,” he added, rousing himself.
“Did you know my mother, Sir Arthur?”
“Once: when she was Miss Raby,” answered the baronet, in an indifferent tone, as he turned again to the painting. “Where do you live?” he suddenly asked.
“I give my address here,” answered the young man. “Mr. Coram allows me to do so: though indeed it is never asked for. I have only a room in an obscure neighbourhood. I cannot afford anything better.”
Sir Arthur Saxonbury smiled. “You are not like most people,” he said: “they generally strive to hide their fallen fortunes: you make no secret of yours.”
Raby shook his head, and a strangely painful flush rose to his face. His poverty was a sore point with him, the sense of disgrace it brought eating into his very heartstrings.
“My fallen fortunes have been a world’s talk,” he answered. “I could not keep them secret if I would.”
“Have you retained your former friends?” asked Sir Arthur.
“Not one. Perhaps it is, in some degree, my own fault, for my entire time is given to painting. Few would care to know or recognise me now: Raby Verner Raby, the son and heir of the rich and luxurious Verner Raby, who made some noise in the London world, and Raby, the poor art-student, are two people. None have sought me since the change. Not one has addressed me with the kindness and sympathy that you have now, Sir Arthur.”
“I shall see you again,” remarked Sir Arthur, as he shook him by the hand, and turned away to the great artist and his paintings.
In the evening, Raby returned to his home — if the garret he occupied could be called such. Coram had spoken accurately: not half sufficient for what would generally be called the bare necessaries of life, remained from the wreck of his father’s property. But it was made to suffice for his wants. It would seem that surely his clothes must take it all, and none could conjecture how he contrived to eke it out. He was often cold, often hungry, always weary; yet his hopeful spirit buoyed him up, and pictured visions of future greatness. He never for one moment doubted that he was destined to become a worlds fame: those who possess true genius are invariably conscious of it in their inmost heart: and he would repeat over and over again to himself the words he felt must some time be applied to him— “The great painter — the painter Raby.”
He sat down that evening to his dinner-supper of bread and cheese. It tasted less dry than usual, for his thoughts were absorbed by the chief event of the day, the meeting Sir Arthur Saxonbury. He attributed, in his unconsciousness, the interest which Sir Arthur had betrayed in him, to admiration of his genius: he knew how warm a supporter of rising artists Sir Arthur was, and he deemed the introduction the very happiest circumstance that could have befallen him. Could he but have foreseen what that introduction was to bring forth!
CHAPTER III.
Maria Saxonbury.
THE golden light of the setting sun was falling on a golden room. It is scarcely wrong to call it such, for the colour prevailing in it was that of gold. Gold-coloured satin curtains and cushioned chairs, gilt cornices, mirrors in gilded frames, gilded consoles whose slabs of the richest lapis lazuli shone with costly toys, paintings in rich enclosures, and golden ornaments. Altogether the room looked a blaze of gold. The large window opened upon a wide terrace, on which rose an ornamental fountain, its glittering spray dancing in the sunlight: and beyond that terrace was a fair domain, stretched out far and wide; the domain of Sir Arthur Saxonbury.
Sw
inging her pretty foot to and fro, and leaning back in one of the gay chairs, was a lovely girl budding into womanhood, with bright features and a laughing eye, the youngest, the most indulged, and the vainest daughter of Sir Arthur. She was in a white lace evening dress, and wore a pearl necklace and pearl bracelets on her fair neck and arms. They had recently come home after the short London season, which had been half over when they returned from the Continent, and were as yet free from visitors. Lady Saxonbury was in ill health, and Mrs. Ashton, the eldest married daughter, was staying with them while her husband was abroad.
In a chair, a little behind Miss Saxonbury, as if conscious of the difference between them — for there was a distance — sat Raby Raby. It was said the house was free from visitors, but he was scarcely regarded as such. Sir Arthur, in the plenitude of his heart, had invited him to come and stay a couple of months at Saxonbury; the country air would renovate him; he could have the run of the picture-gallery, and copy some of its chefs d’oeuvre. And Raby came. Sir Arthur’s early secret was safe with himself, and he could only explain that his interest in Raby Raby was but that which he would take in any rising artist. So the family, even the servants, looked upon him with a patronising eye, as one who had “come to paint.” Raby had accepted Sir Arthur’s invitation with a glow of gratification — the far-famed Saxonbury gallery was anticipation enough for him. He forgot to think where the funds could come from to make a suitable appearance as Sir Arthur Saxonbury’s guest; but these the painter Coram delicately furnished. “It is but a loan,” said he: “you can repay me with the first proceeds that your pencil shall receive.”
Thus Raby went to Saxonbury. And there had he been now for half his allotted time, drinking in the wondrous beauties of the place and scenery — and other wondrous beauties which it had been as well that he had not drunk in. The elegance that surrounded him, and to which he had been latterly a stranger, — the charms of the society he was thrown amongst once again, as an equal for the time being, — the gratification of the eye and mind, and the pomp and pride of courtly life; all this was but too congenial to the exalted taste of Raby Raby, and he was in danger of forgetting the stern realities of life, to become lost in a false Elysium.