University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Once more the labors of a twelve-month
had been exhibited at the Academy of Design—
some to be classed among things “that were
not born to die;” others to fall into nameless
graves. Many, who had worked faithfully, recognizing
the sacredness of their commission,
had climbed higher in public estimation; and
a few, making mere pastime, or resting upon
reputation already earned, had slipped back.
Mr. Clifton was represented by an exquisite
Œnone, and on the same wall, in a massive
oval frame, hung the first finished production
of his pupil. For months after Russell's departure
she sat before her easel, slowly filling
up the outline sketched while his eyes watched
her. She lingered over her work, loath to put
the final stroke, calling continually upon
Memory to furnish the necessary details; and
frequently, in recalling transient smiles, the
curl of his lip, or bending of his brow, palette
and brush would slip from her fingers, while
she sat weaving the broken yet priceless
threads of a hallowed Past. Application sometimes
trenches so closely upon genius as to be
mistaken for it in its results, and, where both
are happily blended, the bud of Art expands in
immortal perfection. Electra spared no toil,
and so it came to pass that the faultless head
of her idol excited intense and universal admiration.
In the catalogue it was briefly mensioned
as “No. 17—a portrait; first effort of
a young female artist.” Connoisseurs, who had
committed themselves by extravagant praise,
sneered at the announcement of the catalogue,
and, after a few inquiries, blandly asserted that
no tyro could have produced it; that the master
had wrought out its perfection, and generously
allowed the pupil to monopolize the encomiums.
In vain Mr. Clifton disclaimed the
merit, and asserted that he had never touched
the canvas; that she had jealously refused to
let him aid her. Incredulous smiles and unmistakable
motions of the head were the sole
results of his expostulation. Little mercy has
a critical world for novices, particularly those
clad in woman's garments; few helping hands
are kindly stretched toward her trembling fingers,
few strengthening words find her in her
seclusion; and when these last do come in
friendly whispers, are they not hung up “as
apples of gold in pictures of silver” along the
chequered walls of memory? Cold glances
generally greet her earliest works; they are
handled suspiciously, the beauties are all extracted,
set in a row, and labelled “plagiarisms;”
the residue, like dross in crucibles, is
handed back as “original, and her undoubted
property.” Or, perchance, the phraseology
varies, and she hears “This book, this statue,
this picture, is no unpracticed woman's work;
we speak advisedly and pronounce the fact,
that pen, or rasp, or chisel, or brush, belongs
unmistakably to a master—an experienced
writer or veteran artist.” It is this bent of
human nature to load with chaplets well-established
favorites of fame, to “whitewash”
continually with praise, to jealously withhold
the meed of beginners, rendering grudgingly
“Cæsar's things to Cæsar,” which tips many
a pen with gall, and shadows noble pictures
with unseemly clouds. Electra was indignant
at the injustice meted out to her, and, as
might have been expected, rebelled against
the verdict. Very little consolation was derived
from the argument by which her master
strove to mollify her—that the incredulity of
the critics was the highest eulogy that could
have been pronounced upon her work. Some
weeks after the close of the exhibition, the
Œnone was purchased and the portrait sent
home. Electra placed it on the easel once
more, and stood before it in rapt contemplation.
Down from the arched roof flowed billows

of light, bathing her rounded form as in a
sea of molten topaz, and kindling a startling,
almost unearthly, beauty in the canvas. What
mattered the brevity and paucity of Russell's
letters now?—what though three thousand
miles of tempestuous sea roared and tossed between
them?—she had his untarnished image
in her heart, his life-like features ever before
her. To this shrine she came continually, and
laid thereon the offering of a love passionate
and worshipping as ever took entire possession
of a woman's heart. Coldness, silence, neglect,
all were forgotten when she looked into
the deep, beautiful eyes, and upon the broad,
bold, matchless brow.

She had not the faintest hope that he would
ever cherish a tenderer feeling for her; but
love is a plant of strange growth: now lifting
its head feebly in rich, sunny spots, where
every fostering influence is employed; and
now springing vigorous from barren, rocky
cliffs, clinging in icy crevices, defying every
adverse element, sending its fibrous roots
deeper and deeper in ungenial soil; bending
before the fierce breath of storms, only to
erect itself more firmly; spreading its delicate
petals over the edges of eternal snow, self-sustaining,
invincible, immortal. A curious plant,
truly, and one which will not bear transplanting,
as many a luckless experiment has proved.
To-day, as Electra looked upon her labors, the
coils of Time seemed to fall away; the vista
of Eternity opened before her, peopled with
two forms, which on earth walked widely separate
paths, and over her features stole a serene,
lifted expression, as if, after painful scaling,
she had risen above the cloud-region and
caught the first rays of perpetual sunshine.

Time, like a weaver, made strange, dim, confused
masses of woof and warp; but in Eternity
the earth-work would be turned, and delicate
tracery and marvellous coloring, divine
gobelins, would come to light. Patience!
Away from the loom — let the shuttle fly!
“What I do thou knowest not now, but thou
shalt know hereafter.” Hence to thy barren
fields, and till them until the harvest.

Mr. Clifton had watched her for some moments,
with lowering brow and jealous hatred
of the picture. Approaching, he looked over
her shoulder, and asked:

“How much longer do you intend to stand
here? Pygmalion was not more captivated
by his ivory image than you are by your head.
Were it Antinous or Apollo, I doubt whether
your admiration would be enhanced.”

“It is more than Antinous and Apollo” she
answered, drawing the folds of silk over the
portrait and turning toward him.

“Child, you are an idolatress.”

“Perhaps so; but, at least, I am in a goodly
company. Many bow down before shrines of
their own handiwork; some bring libations to
Mammon, some to Fame, some to Ambition,
some to Love. Nature intended us to kneel,
which is preferable to standing, statue-like,
exacting obeisance from others. Which is
nobler? But how am I an idolatress? Shall
I not prize the features of my cousin, my earliest
friend and playmate? Would you have
me tear off and cast away the kindly emotions,
the warm affections wherewith God clothed
me, as badges of humanity?”

“By no means. But would you have a
second Ixion's wheel?”

“Aye, sir, when I am weak enough to worship
a cloud. Mr. Clifton, I believe I have
shaken hands with my rosy-cheeked, sunny-eyed,
siren-charmed childhood; and, to-day,
standing here a woman, with few ties to bind
me to my fellow-creatures, I hold this one
jewelled link of the past in the hollow of my
hand, and pet it. Why not? Oh, why not?
I am but seventeen; this is all that I have left
to caress, and soon the waves of coming years
will wash this, too, through my fingers. Would
you, less merciful than time, snatch it from me
prematurely?”

“I would, that in exchange I might heap
your hands with untold treasure and joy.”

“I think I am less grasping, then, than you.
Leave me the little I value; I ask no more,
wish no more, will have no more.”

She would have left him, but his hand fell
heavily on hers.

“Electra, I must speak to you; hear me.
You hug a phantom to your heart; Russell
does not and will not love you, other than as
his cousin.”

The blood deserted her face, leaving a grayish
pallor, but the eyes sought his steadily,
and the rippling voice lost none of its rich
cadence.

“Except as his cousin, I do not expect Russell
to love me.”

“Oh, child! you deceive yourself; this is a
hope that you cling to with mad tenacity.”

She wrung her hand from his, and drew her
figure to its utmost height.

“You transcend your privilege, sir! when
you attempt to catechise me thus. I deny the
right of any on earth to put such questions to
me—to make such assertions.”

“Electra, I did not mean to offend you, but
the time has come when we must understand
each other — —.”

“You did not mean to offend me — well,
let that pass; another day we will discuss it, if
you please,” she interrupted, waving him off
and turning toward the door.

“No; you must hear me now. I have a
right to question you—the right of my long, silent,
faithful love. You may deny it, but that
matters little; be still, and listen. Did you
suppose that I was simply a generous man,

when I offered to guard and aid you—when I
took you to my house, placed you in my mother's
care, and lavished affection upon you?
Did you dream that I was disinterested in
what I have done to encourage and assist you?
Did you imagine I was merely an amiable
philanthropist, anxious to help all in difficulty
and sorrow? If so, put away the hallucination.
Consider me no longer your friend;
look at me as I am, a jealous and selfishly exacting
man, who stands before you to-day and
tells you he loves you. Oh, Electra! From
the morning when you first showed me your
sketches, you have been more than my life to
me. An unconquerable love sprang up then,
and it has grown with the months and years,
taking sole possession of a heart which never
bowed before any other woman. Every hope
I have centres in you. I have not deceived
myself; I knew that you loved Russell. Nay,
don't deny it; I have watched you too long not
to probe your mask. I knew that he had your
girlish love, but I waited, and hoped my devotion
would win you. You were but a child,
and I thought the depth and fervor of my
affection would out-weigh a childish fancy.
When he came here, I saw that the old fascination
still kept its hold upon you; but I saw,
too, what you saw quite as plainly—that in
Russell Aubrey's heart there is room for nothing
but ambition. I knew how you suffered,
and I believed it was the death-struggle of
your love. But, instead, I find you, day by
day, before that easel — oblivious of me, of
everything but the features you cling to so
insanely. Do you wonder that I hate that
portrait? Do you wonder that I am growing
desperate? Where is your womanly pride,
that you lavish your love on one totally indifferent
to you? Strange paradox that you
are!—proud, passionate, exacting, and yet
clinging madly to a memory. Have you no
mercy, that you doom me to live for ever on
the rack? Shall yonder piece of canvas always
stand between your heart and mine? If
he loved you in return, I could bear it better;
but as it is, I am tortured beyond all endurance.
I have spent nearly three years in trying to
gain your heart; all other aims have faded before
this one absorbing love. To-day I lay it at
your feet, and ask if I have not earned some
reward. Oh, Electra! have you no gratitude?”

A scarlet spot burned on his pale cheeks, and
the mild liquid gray eyes sparkled like stars.

It was no startling revelation to her; long
before she had seen that this hour of trial must
come to both, and now, despite her resolution,
his words unnerved her. She dared not look
at him; the hollow voice told her too well what
effect this excitement was working on his
feeble frame.

“Oh, Mr. Clifton! I am grateful; God, who
sees my heart, knows that I am. No child
ever loved a parent better than I love you.”

“It is not filial affection that I ask of you
now. I beg you to lay your dear hands in
mine, and promise to be my wife. I ask this
of you in the name of my devotion. You gave
yourself to me years ago, and to-day I beseech
you to seal the compact by a final promise.
Electra, beware how you answer! Bridge the
gulf between us. Give me your hand.”

He stretched out his hand, but she drew
back a step.

“God forgive me! but I have no such love
for you.”

A ghastly smile broke over his face, and,
after a moment, the snowy handkerchief he
passed across his lips was stained with ruby
streaks.

“I know that, and I know the reason. But,
once more, I ask you to give me your hand.
Electra, dearest, do not, I pray you, refuse me
this. Oh, child! give me your hand, and in
time you will learn to love me.”

He seized her fingers, and stooped his head
till the silky brown beard mingled with her
raven locks.

“Mr. Clifton, to marry without love would
be a greivous sin; I dare not. We would hate
each other. Life would be a curse to both,
and death a welcome release. Could you endure
a wife who accepted your hand from
gratitude and pity? Oh! such a relationship
would be horrible beyond all degree. I shudder
at the thought.”

“But you would learn to love me.”

The summer wind shook the window-curtains
and rustled the folds of black silk till
the drapery slid from the portrait and left it
fully exposed to view. She gave one quick
glance at the beloved countenance, and, falling
on her knees before the easel, raised her
clasped hands passionately, and exclaimed:

“Impossible! impossible! You have said
that he is my idol, and you make no mistake.
He fills my heart so entirely, that I have
nothing but reverence and gratitude to offer
you. I am young, I know, and you think that
this is a girlish fancy, which will fade with coming
years. I tell you, sir, this love has become
part of me. When he went to Europe I said,
`I will tear it out of my heart, and forget him;
I will give every thought to my noble art.'
Faithfully I strove to do so; but a little mountain
stream, once merged in the pathless ocean,
might as well struggle to gather back its tiny
wavelets and return to its pebbly channel. I
am proud; it humiliates me to acknowledge
all this; and nothing on earth could wring it
from me but my desire to convince you that
it is utterly impossible I can ever love you, as
you ask.

“But you can not take Russell's place. None
can come between him and my heart.”

The yellow light dripped down on her
purplish hair, crystalizing into a nimbus, as
she knelt before the portrait, lifting her hands,
like saints in medieval pictures, fleeing from
martrydom. Shame dyed her cheeks, but a
desperate, reckless triumph flashed in the upraised
eyes, revealing fully the aversion
which his suit had inspired. Unfortunate,
deplorable as was her love for a cousin, it
seemed for the moment to glorify her, and
Mr. Clifton put his hand over his eyes to shut
out the vision.

“Electra Grey, you are unwomanly in your
unsought love.”

She turned her head, and, looking over her
shoulder at him, smiled derisively.

“Unwomanly! If so, made such by your
unmanliness. Unwomanly! I deny it. Which
is most womanly—to yield to the merciless
importunity of one to whom I am indebted;
to give my hand to him whose touch chills the
blood in my veins; to promise to become his
wife, when the bare thought sickens my soul;
to dare to stand before God's altar and take false
vows on my lips, or to tell the simple truth?
to shield myself from his entreaties, under the
holy mantle of a deep, undying love for another?
I volunteered no confession; you taxed
and taunted me with my affection. Sir, it
should have made me sacred in your eyes.
Unwomanly! Were you more manly, I had
never shocked your maudlin sentiments of
propriety.”

“And this is my reward for all the tenderness
I have lavished on you. When I stooped
to beg your hand, to be repulsed with scorn
and loathing. To spend three years in faithful
effort to win your heart, and reap —
contempt, hatred.”

Staggering back, he sank into his arm-chair
and closed his eyes a moment, then continued:

“If it were possible that you could be happy,
I would not complain; but there is no hope
of that. You might as well kneel to my marble
Hermes yonder, as to Russell. Stranger
infatuation never possessed a woman.”

“I am not blind; I neither ask nor expect
anything from him. Unless you betray my
confidence he will never suspect the truth,
and I would sooner endure the tortures of
Torquemada than that he should know it.
But by what process will you demonstrate
that, since a rare and royal banquet is for ever
shut beyond my reach, it is my duty to sit
down in the dust and try to content myself
with husks? Sir, my God never intended me
to live on crumbs, and I will not. I will be
true to my heart; if the vast host of my fellow-creatures
should pass away from earth, I
will stand alone, and conquer solitude as best
I may. Not `one jot, not one tittle' of my nature
will I yield for companionship. No mess
of pottage will I have, in lieu of my birthright.
All, or none! Marriage is holy; God, in His
wisdom, instituted it with the seal of love;
but its desecration with counterfeits makes
Tophets, Golgothas, instead of Edens. I know
what I have to expect; on my own head be
my future. If quarrel there be, it is between
fate and me; you have no concern in it.”

“I would not have troubled you long, Electra.
It was because I knew that my life must
be short at best, that I urged you to gild the
brief period with the light of your love. I
would not have bound you always to me; and
when I asked your hand a few minutes since, I
knew that death would soon sever the tie and
set you free. Let this suffice to palliate my
`unmanly' pleading. I have but one request
to make of you now, and, weak as it may seem,
I beg of you not to deny me. You are preparing
to leave my house; this I know; I see it
in your face, and the thought is harrowing to
me. Electra, remain under my roof while I
live; let me see you every day, here, in my
house. If not as my wife, stay as my friend,
my pupil, my child. I little thought I could
ever condescend to ask this of any one; but
the dread of separation bows me down. Oh,
child! I will not claim you long.”

She stood up before him with the portrait
in her arms, resolved, then and there, to leave
him for ever. But the ghastly pallor of his
face, the scarlet thread oozing over his lips
and saturating the handkerchief with which
he strove to staunch it, told her that the request
was preferred on no idle pretext. In
swift review, his kindness, generosity, and unwavering
affection passed before her, and the
mingled accents of remorse and compassion
whispered: “Pay your debt of gratitude by
sacrificing your heart. If you can make him
happy, you owe it to him.”

Without a word she passed him and went
up to her own room. It was an hour of sore
temptation for one so young and inexperienced,
but placing the portrait on the low mantle,
she crossed her arms before it, and tried to lay
matters in the scale. On one side, years of devotion,
the circumstances of the artist's life,
his mother's infirmity, confining her sometimes
to her bed, often to her room, preventing her
from nursing him; the weary season of his tedious
illness, the last hours gloomy and miserable,
unsoothed by gentle words or tender
offices. On the other, stern adherence, unerring
obedience to the dictates of her heart, the
necessary self-abnegation, the patient attendance
at the couch of prolonged suffering, and
entire devotion to him. For a time the scales
balanced; she could not conquer her repugnance
to remaining in his home; then a grave
and its monumental stone were added, and,
with a groan, she dropped her face in her
hands. At the expiration of two hours she
locked the portrait from view, and went slowly
back to the studio. The house was very
quiet; the ticking of the clock was distinctly

heard as she pushed the door open and glided
in. Involuntarily she drew a long, deep
breath, for it was like leaving freedom at the
threshold, and taking upon herself grievous
bonds. The arm-chair was vacant, but the
artist lay on one of the sofas, with his face toward
the wall, and on a small table beside him
stood a crystal bowl of cracked ice, a stained
wine-glass, and vial containing some dark
purple liquid. Approaching softly, she scanned
the countenance, and tears gathered in
her eyes as she saw how thin and hollow were
the now flushed cheeks; how the lips writhed
now and then, as if striving to suppress bitter
words. The beautiful brown hair was all
tossed back, and she noticed that along the
forehead clustered many silver threads. One
hand was thrust within his vest, the other
thrown up over the head, grasping a fresh
handkerchief. Softly she took this hand, and,
bending over him, said, in a low, thrilling
tone:

“Mr. Clifton, I was passionate and hasty,
and said some unkind things which I would
fain recall, and for which I beg your pardon.
I thank you for the honor you would have conferred
on me, and for the unmerited love you
offered me. Unless it were in my power to
return that love, it would be sinful to give you
my hand; but, since you desire it so earnestly,
I will promise to stay by your side, to do what
I can to make you happy; to prove, by my devotion,
that I am not insensible to all your
kindness, that I am very grateful for the affection
you have given me. I come and offer
you this, as a poor return for all that I owe
you; it is the most my conscience will permit
me to tender. My friend, my master, will you
accept it, and forgive the pain and sorrow I
have caused you?”

He felt her tears falling on his fingers, and,
for a moment, neither spoke; then he drew
the hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly.

“Thank you, Electra. I know it is a sacrifice
on your part, but I am selfish enough to
accept it. Heaven bless you, my pupil.”

“In future we will not allude to this day of
trial—let it be forgotten; `let the dead past
bury its dead.' I will have no resurrected
phantoms. And now, sir, you must not allow
this slight hemorrhage to depress you. In a
few days you will be stronger, quite able to
examine and find fault with my work. Shall
I send a note to Dr. LeRoy, asking him to call
and see you this evening?”

“He has just left me. Say nothing of the
hemorrhage to mother; it would only distress
her.”

He released her hands, and, stooping over his
pillow, she smoothed the disordered hair, and
for the first time pressed her lips to his forehead.

Thus she bowed her neck to the yoke, and,
with a fixed, unalterable will, entered on the
long, dreary ministry to which she felt that
duty called.

We shade our eyes, and peer into the dim
unknown, striving to see whither we are tending,
and a sudden turn in the way, a sharp
angle, brings us face to face with huge, frowning
obstacles, that grimly bar all progress in
the direction to which our inclinations point.
Strange devious paths stretch out at our feet,
baffling all our wise conjectures, setting at defiance
all our plans and prudential machinations.
From breath to breath, from step to
step, from hour to hour, is man's sole empire.
“Boast not thyself of to-morrow.”