Mrs. Brahan rang for water; but I did not faint.
"I have taken a long walk this morning," I said, "and your rooms are warm. I feel better, now. And this house belonged to the artist? I feel interested in his story."
"I wish Mr. Brahan were here; but I will tell you all I recollect. It was a long time ago; and what we hear from others of individuals in whom we have no personal interest, is soon forgotten. Do you really feel better? Well, I believe St. James, the artist, was a highly accomplished, gifted man. He was married to a beautiful young wife, and I think had one child. Of course he was supremely happy. It seems he was called away from home very suddenly, was gone a few months, and when he returned, he found his wife and child fled, and a stranger claiming her name and place. I never heard this mystery explained; but it is said, she disappeared as suddenly as she came, while he sought by every means to recover his lost treasure, but in vain. His reason at one time forsook him, and his health declined. At length, unable to remain where every thing reminded him of his departed happiness, he resolved to leave the country and go to foreign climes. Mr. Brahan, who wished to purchase at that time, was pleased with the house,—bought it, and brought me here, a bride. He has altered and improved it a great deal, but many things remain just as they were. You seem interested. There is something mysterious and romantic connected with it. Oh! here is Mr. Brahan himself; he can relate it far better than I can."
After the usual courtesies of meeting, she resumed the subject, and told her husband how much interested I was in the history of the unfortunate artist.
"Ah yes!" cried he; "poor fellow!—he was sore beset. Two women claimed him as wives,—and he lost both. I never heard a clear account of this part of his life; for when I knew him, he was just emerging from insanity, and it was supposed his mind was still clouded. He was very reserved on the subject of his personal misfortunes. I only know it was the loss of the wife whom he acknowledged that unsettled his reason. He was a magnificent looking fellow,—full of genius and feeling. He told me he was going to Italy,—and very likely he died of a broken heart, beneath its sunny and genial skies. He was a fine artist. That picture has inspiration in it. Look at the reflection of the moon in the water. How tremulous it is! You can almost see the silver rippling beneath that gliding boat. He was a man of genius. There is no doubt he was."
"I should like to show Mrs. Linwood the picture which you found in the closet of his studio," said Mrs. Brahan. "Do you know, I think there is a resemblance to herself?"
"So there is," exclaimed Mr. Brahan, as if making a sudden discovery. "Her face has haunted me since I first beheld her, and I have just discovered where I have seen its semblance. If you will walk up stairs, I will show it to you."
Almost mechanically I followed up the winding stairs, so often pressed by the feet now mouldering side by side beneath the dark coffin lid, into the room where my now degraded parent gave form and coloring to the dreams of imagination, or the shadows of memory. The walls were arching, and lighted from above. Mr. Brahan had converted it into a library, and it was literally lined with books on every side but one. Suspended on that, in a massy gilt frame, was a sketch which arrested my gaze, and it had no power to wander. The head alone was finished,—but such a head! I recognized at once my mother's features; not as I had seen them faded by sorrow, but in the soft radiance of love and happiness. They did not wear the rosy brightness of the miniature I had seen in my father's hand, which was probably taken immediately after her marriage. This picture represented her as my imagination pictured her after my birth, when the tender anxieties of the mother softened and subdued the splendor of her girlish beauty; those eyes,—those unforgotten eyes, with their long, curling lashes, and expression of heavenly sweetness,—how they seemed to bend on me,—the child she had so much loved! I longed to kneel before it, to appeal to it, by every holy and endearing epithet,—to reach the cold, unconscious canvas, and cover it with my kisses and my tears. But I could only gaze and gaze, and the strong spell that bound me was mistaken for the ecstasy of admiration, such as genius only can awaken.
"There is a wonderful resemblance," said Mr. Brahan, breaking the silence. "I shall feel great pride henceforth in saying, I have an admirable likeness of Mrs. Linwood."
"I ought to feel greatly flattered," I answered with a quick drawn breath; "it certainly is very lovely."