The Old, Old Story, Love

Preface

. Kind Reader, what shall I say, for venturing to bring before you a Novel destitute of the seemingly indispensable requisites of a Novel ! Alas, here is no heroine rescued from waves or flames by an intrepid hero ; here no horses who throw their riders, no carriages that break down ; worse than all, here is no one brought up in the delusion that he is an Earl's heir, and who then discovers that he is only a change ling, a cousin's son, and then discovers again that he was originally the butler's or game-keeper's bantling, and then discovers again that all these discoveries were nonsense, that the Earl is his real father. PBEFACE. Then there is no one that elopes, and all the peo ple in the book are not killed off in the end, like the dramatis personæ in " Titus Andronicus ! " Alto gether this will prove a dull tale to you, unless some pulse in your heart finds an echo in a little talking about " The Old, Old Stoet, Love." B. AIKIN. THE OLD, OLD STORY > LO YE.

Chapter I

Art is immortal, so let us venture to talk once more of an artist : and ours was no com mon one, either as regarded mind or heart ; which of the two was the noblest in him it would be hard to say. His studio was in Rome, the nurse of all pure art, and the gold of a Roman sun lit it ; but within those poor walls was no wealth but God's glorious light, and the genius he had given to the man Herman Fulton. The room was so bare of commodious furniture as to give plain evidence that the occupant w7as not far removed from penury ; the walls were faded, the naked floor old and wormeaten ; one rough table in the centre was piled with books and drawings ; a second, leaning against the wall as if half for support, was similarly occupied, only that on the front rested a plate containing dry bread, and another with a few dates, besides a carafe of sparkling water.

The painter's easel stood at the end of the room, under a rude attempt at a sky -light, and an open casement-window let a few wild branches of an untrained vine swing in and out according to the caprice of the soft-blowing wind. Around the chamber were scattered various paintings, studies, and rougher sketches, few of them finished, for the artist had evidently thrown many aside, not from fickleness, not from the want of that faith in his own powers which true genius must have, or perish, but that Heaven had revealed to him some fresh secret of art, such as masters teach not, and he w7ould press forward to perfection; he had gained light enough to see the errors he had committed in darker hours, so he swept away the past. Thus came it, perchance, that he had nothing to show for his many long hours of solitary study, and that his few friends looked upon him as a dreamer of dreams, and that noble patrons of other artists passed by Herman Fulton's modest threshold, without knowing that there was a Herman Fidton, or that God had made him at all different from other men.

Upon the easel rested the portrait of a young girl, and a beautiful one too, for the features were almost faultless ; but no soul looked out from the large blue eyes, they were lovely, yet they said nothing beyond half shyly pro claiming their own beauty and expressing some tenderness. " I can never do this girl justice ! " exclaimed Fulton, with a deep sigh of disappointment, and laying his pencil down ; " never ! unless I were to paint her as an angel in some beatific vision ; yet no, that would not do, for there is sometimes a languid indolence in her face that would betray the mortal. She might be a Hebe ! No, she sometimes looks proud, as I suppose she thinks one of her race has a right to look ; pride would spoil Hebe ! She is beau tiful certainly, yet I do not feel her beauty, no, not half so much as I should were* it in marble or on canvas.

I scarcely like her ! That is as it should be," he muttered, knitting his fine brow into a frown, " Herman Fulton has no right to like, or even to think of, a well-born lady, whose ancestors came in with the Nor mans ! Ah, smile at me, fair face ! it is all in vain, I can wipe you out with a touch ! " He rubbed a sponge over the face of the portrait, and sat down to his hermit repast, opening a book beside his plate while he ate. Herman Fulton was about four-and-twenty, though he looked some years older, and prob ably men thought him so. He was tall, well formed, but had a slovenly stoop, which took from the height and grace of his figure. His head was grand as an antique cast, and as it rises before me now, it seems that of all faces I have ever seen, from that of infancy to those who have reached the period of life when something of child-like innocence creeps over toil-worn man, I think his wore the holiest look ; passionless it was not, for sorrow had al ready cut deep lines there, but there was not the faintest touch of sensualism in the large, thoughtful blue eye, nor round the firm but gentle mouth.

I have seen one head of Christ which might have passed for Fidton's portrait, even to the full, gold-tinged beard, which gave added manliness to his countenance. The repast over, the painter closed his book, and entering a small recess of the apartment which a full curtain concealed, he hastily ar rayed himself in a suit of shabby black, the coat of which was of velvet, and greatly became his slight figure. " I wonder whether she will come to-day ? " he murmured, " whether she will keep her appointment ? " He of course meant the lady, whom he rather disliked than otherwise, and while debating the probability of the fair sit ter's appearance he, somewhat disdaining him self for the action, arranged the thick locks of yellow hair over his broad forehead. " I won der whether she will come ? " he repeated, and wdiile he yet spoke the lady's approach was proclaimed by the peculiar rustle silk makes, which sound some mad lover or insane poet has compared to the music of the summer wdnd among the leaves, or that of the sea's ripple.

Fulton stept out from behind his curtain and bowed lowly, in that the lady was a fair woman, somewhat haughtily, in that she was herself proud. The girl was really beautiful, tall, graceful, with a lovely face, all youth and freshness, and with such a complexion, and such eyes, that the fair forehead, the straight Greek nose, the well-formed, smiling mouth, with pearly teeth, seemed almost a prodigality of nature. There was no doubt of her birth, no doubt of her having being reared in purple and fine linen, her air, her very tread, showed that plainly ; so did the helpless little hand that was ungloved, in the act of untying her bonnet-strings. The Hon. Miss de Bonneville bowed po litely to the artist, and turning aside, she began, with the assistance of an elderly chaperon and a French maid, to make some trifling alterations and improvements in the ornaments of her dress.

While thus employed, the two women stood between the lady and the artist, who, appar ently careless of their proceedings, was busy arranging his easel. At length the sitter was ready ; the painter looked up with some chagrin. " It will not do, Miss de Bonneville," he exclaimed, " it will not do, I am sorry to say." " Mr Fulton ! " said the lady in surprise, and with a little flush. " Your head-dress, I mean, it is disfiguring, frightful ! " " Frightful ! " said the girl, really a little hurt. " Yes, excuse the word, but I cannot paint you thus ; pray let your maid remove the jewels, and let your hair fall with something like natural grace." "Will that do, Mr Fulton?" " No, it is almost worse." « What shall I do, then ? " a little help lessly, and like a spoilt beauty. " Stay, I will show you if you please," and putting down his brush, the painter approached the lady, and, taking her golden tresses in his hands, seemed for a moment to scatter them upon the winds, but the result was something beyond what a skilful arrangement would have produced.

Nothing could exceed the artist's sang froid during the performance of this action ; no smile lit his grave face, nor was he for a moment conscious that the fair 'girl blushed and trembled with some strange emotion as his fingers momentarily dallied with her hair. But wrhen he returned to his easel, and recom menced the sketch he had effaced, he thought Miss de Bonneville had never looked so beautiful, and that he w7as, what few artists are, peculiarly fortunate in his sitter. " Why would you not paint me with jewels, Mr Fulton ? " asked May de Bonne ville, with some embarrassment. " Jewels destroy the character of your face, which I take to be simplicity ; jewels for a haughty beauty, flowers or a snood for you. You seldom look proud, Miss de Bonne ville." "I do so sometimes, then ? You smile !

I believe there is a lingering pride in the de Bonneville blood, but I hate it, I hate myself for it, when I feel it coming out in me, as I should hate a leprous spot. All men, I think, should be brothers, and, if brothers, equals ! " Fulton's pencil stood still, and he looked up at the young aristocrat with a sort of incre dulous smile. " Don't you think all men should be brothers, Mr Fulton ? " she asked, " nay, are they not so ? " " Yes, in church." " And out of it ? " " Patricians and Plebeians." " Are you a democrat, Mr Fulton ? " " No, my political creed is floating, ready to moor itself to any firm foundation. Look up a little more, if you please, look at m — , at the picture behind me, on the wall." " May I go on talking ? " " Certainly." " What is the subject of that painting ? " " An attempt to delineate Raphael receiving his first gleam of inspiration."

"I don't like Raphael's head, Mr Fulton, do you ? " " As I have rendered it, no ; I never satis fy myself ; but the real Raphael was in youth divine." " And that picture in the corner, the boy praying at his mother's knee, though he has passed childhood, who is that ? " " Myself, ten years ago." " Ah, then, that is your mother ; you have a mother ? " " I had one ! Look at the Raphael, if you please, Miss de Bonneville." " Yes. Will my portrait soon be finished ? " " It is scarcely begun." " But last time you said — " " That I had done a good deal ! truly, but I effaced all my work this morning." " You wrere not satisfied ? " " No, and I never shall be satisfied with your likeness." Miss de Bonneville looked pleased, and exclaimed, " I hope you wdll come to England, Mr Fulton. I shall tease my uncle to have you down to our place, to paint us all !

" Fulton did not care to inquire who the "all" might be, he only answered quietly, " I shall of course feel highly honoured by Miss de Bonneville' s patronage." There was something in his tone which May could not understand ; she looked per plexed, and almost fancied she had said some thing to offend him. She sat silent for some time, indeed until the painter bowed, and in formed her that he need not trouble her further for that day. She rose slowly, then more slowly re-assumed her bonnet and mantle. " May I not look?" she asked, with the slightest little air of coquetry, and approaching the easel. " I am sorry, but I cannot oblige you," said Fulton gravely. She lingered still, slowly drawing on a delicate primrose glove. " Mr Fulton, do you like being a painter?" " Yes, or I shoidd not be one."

" But, I thought perhaps you were o — " " Obliged, Miss de Bonneville? yes, I am obliged to be a painter, first because it is my natural vocation, and, besides, that I may live ; the poor must work to live, you know." " Oh yes, of course, but I wish no one were poor, I should like all to be rich and happy ! " " You are very benevolent ! " " No, I am selfish ; it disturbs my own happiness to know what others suffer ! " " Then I hope you will use your station, fortune, and influence well." " Ah, I mean to do so. I am ashamed to be rich and happy, Mr Fulton, I that am worth nothing, positively nothing, while peo ple with noble hearts and minds are often poor and — " " Are you very tired, Miss de Bonneville?" " Not at all." " Would you mind, would you very much mind, sitting down again for half an hour?

" " No, but why ? " " I stopped because I felt I was failing, but now, now I feel I could go on." The half-hour passed, and another, and another, but neither artist nor sitter grew weary, nor noted how time sped. Vaguely but sweetly Avere those two young hearts dreaming, — why should they not ? And in at the casement window streamed the Roman sunset, gold and purple mixed, and a wo man's voice went by singing, — * " lo ti chidea le rose Eiore che invita al riso, Tu a me porgi il narciso Ch'e fiore di dolor ; " * and yet the two hearts went on dreaming. * An exquisite song by Carrer, lately set to very good music by M. A. Medhurst, and published by Cock and Hutchings, New Bond Street.

Chapter II

Herman Fulton stood alone in the world. He was the son of a man of birth, education, and refinement, but who had no money to back his pretensions to the name and position of a gentleman ; the consequence was that his inferiors considered him as a nobody, setting up for better than his neighbours, while his self-styled superiors graciously accorded him the dubious concession that he was a very respectable person, who had perhaps seen better days, was a little pushing, but might have had an occasional vacant place at the foot of various dinner-tables, had his coat been a little less shabby, or his de meanour somewhat less independent, in his intercourse with the world. At three or four-and-thirty years of age the poor gentleman, who had never been taught a profession in his youth, and w7ho probably would have made nothing out of it had he been taught one, for though he had a fine intellect he had never had the least tinge of common sense — at three or four-and thirty he was vegetating on an infinitesimal income, in the country.

Day and night Mr Fulton spent in dreaming ; some of his dreams, and they were scarcely the pleasantest, passing through his brain on a little lowdy bed, in the whitewashed garret of a farm-house wherein he lodged, the other visions flitted before his mind's eye while he stood absorb edly peering into the primrose-hedges of Devonshire lanes, seeking and finding beau tiful objects which no one but himself valued, a stray root, a pretty wild flower, a peculiar moth or butterfly, or a bird's nest. Mr Fulton might have made a naturalist had he been trained thereto, yet, no, he could have been trained to nothing ; but he was a guileless, noble-hearted man, wdio only saw the world through his own peculiar spectacles, and they certainly were magic glasses. He had few friends but the poor ; to them he was peculiarly gentle, and out of his little store even generous ; the curly-headed, hatless children ventured to pull his coat-tail, and sorrowing mothers would open their hearts to him as they never could have had courage to open them to the dignified Levite who offici ated in their "parish church every week, and often preached on humility, while he carried pride even in the turn of his head and the fall of his surplice.

It was in a labourer's cottage, into which Mr Fulton had just stepped to offer the inmates a penny a week towards a child's schooling, and to recommend calamint tea as a sovereign remedy for colds, that the good gentleman met the daughter of the village squire. Miss Hamilton was no longer a girl, she might have been seven or eight-and-twenty ; she was not a beauty, but her face w7as pleasant for sweetness and intellect, and her manners were singularly gentle and refined. It happened that she arrived at the cottage on precisely the same errand as Mr Fidton, only, as her means were larger, her liberality seemed greater, and the poor gentleman withdrew his slender offering in confusion. But Mr Fulton and Miss Hamilton got into con versation, and though they had never met before, a certain reciprocity of sentiment and thought soon became obvious to both.

When they met again it was in a narrow7 lane. Mr Fulton was absorbed in the con templation of a caterpillar, and did not per ceive the lady, but she smiled and bowed ; he awoke from his reverie sufficiently to enable him to return the salutation, though with some embarrassment. After that day they frequently met at the various cottages of the neighbourhood, as fre quently in the beautiful vales and w7oods in which the neighbourhood abounded ; at first a few courteous words w7ere exchanged, in the end a great many pleasant ones. Mr Fulton and Miss Hamilton w7ere not a boy and girl, the last thing either would think of would be a romantic attachment, the very last. But there came a day, nevertheless, wdien Fulton ceased to hunt hedge-rows for curious objects, or if from old association he occasionally turn ed to familiar employment, it w7as with a vague sort of feeling that he wanted some one to share his child-like feeling of pleasure.

It was strange how much he had been reminded lately of a far-off passage in his boyhood, in which he had been an ardent, though a timid, lover. It might have been that the disap pointment he experienced, when his young romance had been rudely crushed by the idol of his fancy marrying a rich old man, had had somewhat to do with the odd sort of life he had led since. It was strange that he should now feel that were it all to go through again he must die, as lovers did in the old romances and ancient ballads of long ago. Verily the love of boyhood is as a slender withy, a shaking reed, compared to the full grown royal forest tree of manhood's affection. Fulton heard one day that Miss Hamilton was to be married shortly, — well married, the world said, but it seemed to him that the wealth of love in his heart was worth all the other man's gold a thousand times over, so he took courage and wrote to the lady of his thoughts, pouring out his whole soul in his simple, truthful words.

Miss Hamilton knew what a heart like his deserved ; she had spent the best years of her life mourning a faithless, mercenary lover ; per haps she had wished to show him and the world that the mad dream was trampled down under the feet of time in life's dusty high -way. For a moment she had contemplated a marriage which all but her own heart would applaud, but Mr Fulton's offer awakened a healthier throb ; she cast aside the unworthy thought of a worldly union, and gave herself to a poor man. Her father deeply resented her choice, and never forgave her ; perhaps he would have been more placable but that death left him no time for a reconciliation. He died leaving his daugh ter disinherited, and her husband considered her too rich a treasure to need a fortune. The Fultons were very poor ; still they con trived, by wise economy, to maintain that decent appearance which places the respectable beyond the reach of compassion.

Several years of quiet happiness they spent together, living on in that same old farm-house, wherein the husband had passed so many of his bachelor days ; it was there that a son was born to them, and baptized in the name of Herman, after a Ger man ancestor. Mr Fulton's paternity roused him to the necessity of exertion ; he must be something, must do something to provide for his child. He regretted his wasted years, his desultory wan derings, his aimless existence ; his son would look to him for example, guidance, fortune perhaps ! So he cast about in his mind various plans, most of which were no sooner suggested than overturned. He would enter a profession, he would labour night and day ; but the habit of dreaming was too strong to be overcome by such resolves as he could make. In the presence of action he invariably became timid and ir resolute.

To struggle with the world we must have lived in it, and know it well ; it does not do to rush from the solitude of the cloister or the wilderness into the battle of life, to con tend with well-trained athletæ. A few unsuccessful attempts at accomplish ing his wishes drove Mr Fulton from the con test with weariness and disgust ; and, sighing over the disappointment which he wanted energy to avert, he sat down to amuse his little son with a magic lantern and a microscope, since he could not build up his fortune. Per haps he was wiser than if had struggled on to make him rich, for he taught him to be pure and honourable, to serve God, and for God's sake to serve man. Thus passed several quiet years. Mr Ful ton's uneasiness as to his son's prospects grad ually died away. He saw him happy with the careless joy of childhood ; of the boy's over flowing sunshine he gathered enough to re plenish his own soul, and thus left no room for corroding cares ; these fell to the wife's share : it was she whose anxious eye looked forward to the future, but her love for Fulton was too per fect to admit of her harassing his mind with disquietudes which she knew he had neither the skill nor the means of removing.

So the loving wife and mother carried all those silent griefs to Heaven, and at length learnt to trust hopefully, till her life flowed on nearly as gently as those of the bright child and the child-like man. When Herman Fulton's twelfth birth-day came round he knew his first sorrow. His father coidd no longer rub up his old lore of Latin and other classic knowledge, that he might im part it to him, and, sadder still, he could no longer lead him forth over the green fields, and by the hedge-rows, picking up curious stones, or gathering wild flowers to adorn the little oak table at which the mother sat repairing the almost irreparable garments of father and son. The poor gentleman was dying, and dying much as he had lived, quietly, thank fully, owning that life and love were passing pleasant, but persuaded that life infinite, love infinite, must be yet pleasanter.

Then for worldly affairs, the three had lived on so little, the two might still live on the same as well, nay better ; there was a pang in parting, one " longing, lingering glance was cast behind," but Fulton smiled as the lamp of life went outj and pointed upwards, to show that all was light there. Why paint the grief of wife and child ! who was the artist that veiled the face whose sorrow he dared not strive to depict ? From the day of his father's death Herman Fulton seemed to be struggling into prema ture manhood; w7ith a strange precocity of intelligence he took in his mother's position and his own, and understood that her future as well as his own rested in his hands. The boy took a noble resolution in that hour, to be to her something more than an ordinary son, TnE OLD, OLD STORY, LOVE. and his resolution was carried into action.

The Fultons in the literal sense fulfilled the Scripture text, " The poor is despised even of his neighbour ! " they met w7ith very little sympathy or attention. A few said "Poor Mrs Fulton," and seemed glad to have some thing to talk about, but the neighbourhood in general agreed that all her trials arose from her foolish, imprudent marriage ; it could not be excused on the plea of youth, she was quite an old maid at the time it took place, for what could she have hoped in a union with a man who had w7anted skill or industry to secure a position for himself ? A few remarks of this nature were actually made to the widow, who was a widow7 indeed, but she replied with more independence and spirit than she was supposed to possess, and, disclaiming any desire or necessity for assistance, ventured also to assert her right to reject advice or anim adversion.

A few months after the death of Mr Ful ton his widow and son departed from C , and no one in the little community knew what had become of them, though they strongly suspected that, being weary of the continued observation drawn upon them in a small place, where every one knew his neighbour's affairs better than his own, they had sought to be lost in that crowded refuge for genteel poverty, London. A little talking, a little stretch of imagination, a few inventions, which a skilful story-teller might have worked up into so many charming romances, and mother and son had the happiness of being entirely forgotten in C , unless it might be that one gentle spirit thought on both, while hovering over the scenes of past happiness, happiness too exquisite on earth to be quite forgotten even in heaven.

Chapter III

At eighteen years of age, instead of evinc ing the light-hearted spirit of youth, Herman Fulton was a thoughtful man, grave and silent, full of aspirations that were more religious than mere ambition. Nature had made him an artist, but adverse circumstances in a great measure withheld from him those ordinary helps and appliances which might have smoothed the rugged path of his lonely genius. With him and for him art was an emanation of divinity, purifying and ennobling in its revelations ; had he been more prosperous in worldly possessions perhaps his perceptions of the beautiful and the holy might have been obscured, if not deadened. How he laboured at his calling, up in the dull, cold, grey city, early as the lark rose over the green fields of his infancy, whither his yearning spirit often followed, and sang with her spirit, though with a less glad trill, even to the very gates of heaven !

How late into the dreaiy evening he la boured, till the stars came out and glanced into the little chamber, brighter light-bearers than the poor candles by whose uncertain flicker he sometimes strove to work. The painter's labour was not all pleasure ; he had known before he had crossed the rubicon that he must struggle on through doubt, depression, and a thousand hindrances, that he must combat as if for life, and flinch from no adverse thrust of fate in disarming her. Privations of all kinds he was prepared to meet ; criticism, derision, or neglect ; he knew that greater souls than his had had all that, and yet more, to bear, that many a brave heart around him in the midst of the great city was bearing much more, nay some, with starvation staring them in the face, beset with devils in the shape of temptation to distrust themselves, the God that made them, and to die by their own hands, instead of struggling bravely onward.

Poor, lonely, tired spirits ! When Herman Fulton thought on these he thanked God and took courage, for he saw a shield held between him and despair, or even doubt ; the mild, loving face of the widowed mother, as she sat beside his easel, smiling him into hope, like heaven's visible presence. But had Herman no dark minutes ? Yes, many. In the best days of his life, when his young fresh spirit longed to dream of and to realize beauty, longed to transpose lovely visions from his mind to the canvass, to seize on the poetical side of life, even then, to meet the wants of daily existence, he was obliged to break through the young romance of the artist, and haggle with a fat butcher or grocer ,as to the price at which he would paint himself, his wife, and seven or eight children. He was reminded of his extreme youth, " how new he was in the trade ; " told of Mr Simpkins, who had painted a family of ten, each with a full-blown rose in his or her hand (like Flamborough's orange portraits), for twelve and sixpence a-piece.