approaching“itmustbemeantforsomebodyelse.”Istoopedtoexaminetheaddress:—
“Wm.Crimsworth,Esq.,No—,—St.,Brussels.”
Iwaspuzzled,butconcludingthatthebestwaytoobtaininformationwastoaskwithin,Icutthecordsandopenedthecase.Greenbaizeenvelopeditscontents,sewncarefullyatthesidesIrippedthepack-threadwithmypen-knife,andstill,astheseamgaveway,glimpsesofgildingappearedthroughthewideninginterstices.Boardsandbaizebeingatlengthremoved,Iliftedfromthecasealargepicture,inamagnificentframeleaningitagainstachair,inapositionwherethelightfromthewindowfellfavourablyuponit,Isteppedback—alreadyIhadmountedmyspectacles.Aportrait-painter’ssky(themostsombreandthreateningofwelkins),anddistanttreesofaconventionaldepthofhue,raisedinfullreliefapale,pensive-lookingfemaleface,shadowedwithsoftdarkhair,almostblendingwiththeequallydarkcloudslarge,solemneyeslookedreflectivelyintomineathincheekrestedonadelicatelittlehandashawl,artisticallydraped,halfhid,halfshowedaslightfigure.Alistener(hadtherebeenone)mighthaveheardme,aftertenminutes’silentgazing,uttertheword“Mother!”Imighthavesaidmore—butwithme,thefirstwordutteredaloudinsoliloquyrousesconsciousnessitremindsmethatonlycrazypeopletalktothemselves,andthenIthinkoutmymonologue,insteadofspeakingit.Ihadthoughtalongwhile,andalongwhilehadcontemplatedtheintelligence,thesweetness,and—alas!thesadnessalsoofthosefine,greyeyes,thementalpowerofthatforehead,andtheraresensibilityofthatseriousmouth,whenmyglance,travellingdownwards,fellonanarrowbillet,stuckinthecornerofthepicture,betweentheframeandthecanvas.ThenIfirstasked,“Whosentthispicture?Whothoughtofme,saveditoutofthewreckofCrimsworthHall,andnowcommitsittothecareofitsnaturalkeeper?”Itookthenotefromitsnichethusitspoke:—
“Thereisasortofstupidpleasureingivingachildsweets,afoolhisbells,adogabone.Youarerepaidbyseeingthechildbesmearhisfacewithsugarbywitnessinghowthefool’secstasymakesagreaterfoolofhimthaneverbywatchingthedog’snaturecomeoutoverhisbone.IngivingWilliamCrimsworthhismother’spicture,Igivehimsweets,bells,andboneallinonewhatgrievesmeis,thatIcannotbeholdtheresultIwouldhaveaddedfiveshillingsmoretomybidiftheauctioneercouldonlyhavepromisedmethatpleasure.
“H.Y.H.
“P.S.—Yousaidlastnightyoupositivelydeclinedaddinganotheritemtoyouraccountwithmedon’tyouthinkI’vesavedyouthattrouble?”
Imuffledthepictureinitsgreenbaizecovering,restoredittothecase,andhavingtransportedthewholeconcerntomybed-room,putitoutofsightundermybed.MypleasurewasnowpoisonedbypungentpainI