University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

“Cities give not the human senses room
enough,” says a latter-day seer, and Electra
Grey sometimes felt that her heart and soul
were in the stocks, or ironed down to a stake,
leaving only a periphery of a few feet. Brick
walls and paving-stones uttered no kindly
message; hurrying foot-passengers and crowded
omnibuses told of the din and strife of life,
but whispered no word of cheer, no lesson of
uncomplaining fortitude, no exhortation to be
strong and patient. She saw colossal selfishness
crushing along its Juggernautic way;
wealth jostled poverty into the gutter, and
beauty picked a dainty crossing to give a wide
berth to deformity; hard, stern, granite-like
faces passed her window day by day; princely
equipages, with haughty, supercilious occupants,
rolled along the street, and bridal trains
and funeral processions mingled in their windings.
If man be, indeed, a “microcosm,” to
what shall I liken that great city wherein
dwelt the painter and his pupil? Isis, the
great nursing-mother—genial Nature, teeming
with soothing influences, and missals of joy
and strength, seemed sepulchred—and in her
place, a flint-featured, miserly, and most intolerable
step-mother, frowned upon the luckless
young artist. City life! City starvation,
rather, she found it, until a long and painful
apprenticeship taught her the priceless alchemy
whereby smiling Plenty beamed upon her.
Reared on the outskirts of a country-town, she
longed for the freedom and solitude of the old
pine-woods at home, and sickened at the
thought of spending her life within walls of
brick and mortar. She had selected an attic
room, with dormer windows looking eastward,
and her she daily watched the pale gray
dawn struggle with the vapors and shadows of
night. “Quiet fields of crimson cirri,” fleecy
masses of restless, glittering cumuli, or the
sweep and rush of “inky-fringed,” lowering
rain-clouds, alike charmed her. Long before
the servants stirred below she was seated at
the window, noting the waning shimmer of
the Morning-Star as the waves of light rolled
up and crested the horizon, whitening the
deep dark blue with their sparkling spray

The peculiarities of each sunrise and sunset
were jotted down assiduously;
were sketched with great care, and put aside
for future use; and it rarely happened that, on
a dull, rainy morning, she came down to breakfast
looking other than moody and disappointed,
as though her rights had been infringed,
her privileges curtailed. Constituted with
keen susceptibility to impressions of beauty or
sublimity, whether physical, moral, or intellectual,
Nature intended her as a thing for sunshine
and holidays, as a darling to be petted;
but Fate shook her head, and, with a grimace,
set the tender young soul on a bleak exposure,
to be hardened and invigorated.

With the characteristic fitfulness of consumption,
Mr. Clifton rallied, and, for a time,
seemed almost restored; but at the approach
of winter the cough increased, and dangerous
symptoms returned. Several months after the
rejection of his suit, to which no allusion had
ever been made, Electra sat before her easel,
absorbed in work, while the master slowly
walked up and down the studio, wrapped in a
warm plaid shawl. Occasionally he paused
and looked over her shoulder, then resumed
his pace, offering no comment. It was not an
unusual occurrence for them to pass entire
mornings together without exchanging a word,
and to-day the silence had lasted more than
an hour. A prolonged fit of coughing finally
arrested her attention, and, glancing up, she
met his sad gaze.

“This is unpropitious weather for you, Mr.
Clifton.”

“Yes, this winter offers a dreary prospect.”

“There is the Doctor now, passing the window.
I will come back as soon as his visit is
over.” She rose hastily to quit the room, but
he detained her.

“Do not go—I wish you to remain, and finish
your work.”

Dr. Le Roy entered, and, after questioning
his patient, stood on the rug, warming his
fingers.

“The fact is, my dear fellow, this is not the
place for you. I sent you south four years
ago nearly, and saved your life; and, as I told
you last week, you will have to take that same
prescription again. It is folly to talk of spending
the winter here. I can do nothing for
you. You must go to Cuba, or to Italy. It is
of no use to try to deceive you, Harry; you
know, just as well as I do, that your case is getting
desperate, and change of climate is your
last hope. I have told you all this before.”

Electra laid down her pallotte, and listened
for the answer.

“I am sorry you think so, but I can't leave
New York.”

“Why not?”

“For various good reasons.”

“My dear fellow, is your life of any value?”

“A strange question, truly.”

“If it is, quit New York in thirty-six hours;
if not, remain, `for various good reasons.' Send
to my office for an anodyne. Better take my
advice. Good-day.”

Passing by the easel, he whispered:

“Use your influence; send him south.'
And then the two were again alone.

Resting her chin in her hands she raised
her eyes, and said:

“Why do you not follow the Doctor's advice?
A winter south might restore you.”

He drew near, and, leaning his folded arms
on the top of the easel, looked down into her
face.

“There is only one condition upon which I
could consent to go; that is in your hands.
Will you accompany me?”

She understood it all in an instant, saw the
new form in which the trial presented itself,
and her soul sickened.

“Mr. Clifton, if I were your sister, or your
child, I would gladly go; but, as your pupil, I
can not.”

“As Electra Grey, certainly not; but, as
Electra Clifton, you could go.”

“Electra Grey will be carved on my tombstone.”

“Then you decide my fate. I remain, and
wait the slow approach of death.”

“No, before just Heaven! I take no such
responsibility, nor shall you thrust it on me.
You are a man, and must decide your destiny
for yourself; I am a poor girl, having no claim
upon, no power over you. It is your duty to
preserve the life which God gave you, in the
way prescribed by your physician, and I have
no voice in the matter. It is your duty to go
south, and it will be both weak and wicked to
remain here under existing circumstances.”

“My life is centred in you; it is worthless,
nay, a burden, separated from you.”

“Your life should be centred in something
nobler, better; in your duty, in your profession.
It is suicidal to fold your hands listlessly,
and look to me, as you do.”

“All these things have I tried, and I am
weary of their hollowness, weary of life, and
the world. So long as I have your face here,
I care not to cross my own threshold till friendly
hands bear me out to my quiet resting
place under the willows of Greenwood.
Electra, my darling, think me weak if you
will, but bear with me a little while longer,
and then this, my shadow, shall flit from your
young heart, leaving not even a memory to
haunt you. Be patient! I will soon pass away,
to another, a more peaceful, blessed sphere.”

A melancholy smile lighted his fair waxen
features, as waning, sickly sunshine in an autumn
evening flickers over sculptured marble
in a silent church-yard.

How she compassionated his great weakness,

as he wiped away the moisture which,
even on that cold day, glistened on his forehead.

“Oh! I beseech you to go to Cuba. Go,
and get strong once more.”

“Nothing will ever help me now. Sunny
skies and soft breezes bring no healing for
me. I want to die here, in my home, where
your hands will be about me; not among
strangers, in Cuba or Italy.”

He turned to the fire, and, springing up, she
left the room. The solemn silence of the
house oppressed her; she put on her thickest
wrappings, and took the street leading to the
nearest park. A steel-gray sky, with slowly-trailing
clouds, looked down on her, and the
keen, chilly wind wafted a fine snow-powder
in her face as she pressed against it. The
trees were bare, and the sere grass grew hoary
as the first snow-flakes of the season came
down softly and shroud-like. The walks were
deserted, save where a hurrying form crossed
from street to street, homeward-bound; and
Electra passed slowly along, absorbed in
thoughts colder than the frosting that gathered
on shawl and bonnet. The face and figure
of the painter glided spectrally before her
at every step, and a mighty temptation followed
at its heels. Why not strangle her heart?
Why not marry him and bear his name, if,
thereby, she could make his few remaining
months of existence happy, and, by accompanying
him south, prolong his life even for a
few weeks? She shuddered at the suggestion,
it would be such a miserable lot. But
then the question arose: “Who told you that
your life was given for happiness? Do you
imagine your Maker set you on earth solely
to hunt your own enjoyment? Suppose duty
costs you pain and struggles; is it any the less
duty? Nay, is it not all the more urgent
duty?” She knew that she could return to
the artist, and, with one brief sentence, pour
the chrism of joy over his suffering soul; and her
great compassion, mild-eyed, soft-lipped, tender-hearted,
whispered: Why not? why not?

“Nature owns no man who is not a martyr
withal.” If this dictum possessed any value,
did it not point to her mission? She could
no longer shut her eyes and stumble on, for
right in her path stood an awful form, with
austere lip and fiery eye, demanding a parley,
defying all escape; and, calmly, she stood face
to face with her Sphinx, considering her riddle.
A young, motherless girl, without the
girding of a holy religion, a free, untamed soul,
yielding allegiance to no creed, hearkening
only to the dictates of her tempestuous nature,
now confronting the most ancient immemorial
Destroyer who haunts the highways of society
Self-immolation, or a poisoning of the spring
of joy in the heart of a fellow-creature? Was
duty a Moloch, clasping its scorching arms
around its devotees?—a Juggernaut, indeed,
whose iron wheels drank the life-blood of its
victims? “Will you see your benefactor sink
swiftly into an early grave, and, standing by
with folded arms, persuade yourself that it is
not your duty to attempt to save him, at all
hazards? Can nothing less than love ever
sanction marriage?” Such was the riddle
hurled before her, and, as she pondered, the
floodgates of her sorrow and jealousy were
once more lifted—the rush and roar of bitter
waters drowned, for a time, the accents of conscience
and of reason.

But out of these fierce asphaltic waves arose,
Aphrodite-like, a pure, radiant, heavenly
form—a child of all climes, conditions, and ages
—an immortal evangel; and, as the piercing,
sunny eyes of womanly intuition looked upon
the riddle, the stony lineaments of the Sphinx
melted into air. If womanly eyes rest on this
page the answer need not be traced here,
for in every true woman's heart the answer
is to be found engraved in God's own characters;
and, however the rubbish of ignoble motives
may accumulate, it can never obliterate
the divine handwriting. In the holiest oratory
of her nature is enshrined an infallible
talisman, an ægis, and she requires no other
panoply in the long struggle incident to trials
such as shook the stormy soul of the young artist.
Faster fell the snow-flakes, cresting the
waves of hair like foam, and, setting her teeth
firmly, as if thereby locking the door against
all compassionating compunctions, Electra left
the park and turned into a cross-street, on
which was situated an establishment where
bouquets were kept for sale. The assortment
was meagre at that late hour, but she selected
a tiny bunch of delicate, fragrant, hot-house
blossoms, and, shielding them with her shawl,
hastened home. The studio was brilliant with
gas-glare and warm with the breath of anthracite,
but an aspect of dreariness, silence, and
sorrow predominated. The figures in the
pictures shrank back in their frames, the statues
gleamed mournfully white and cold, and
the emaciated form and face of the painter,
thrown into bold relief by the dark green
lining of the easy chair, seemed to belong to
realms of death rather than life. On the edge
of the low scroll-sculptured mantle, supported
at each corner by caryatides, perched a large
tame gray owl, with clipped wings folded,
and wide, solemn, oracular eyes fastened
on the countenance of its beloved master.
A bronze clock, of exquisite workmanship, occupied
the centre, and represented the Angel
of Revelations “swearing by Him that liveth for
ever and ever, that Time should be no longer.”
One hand held the open book, the other a
hammer, which gave out the hours with clear
metallic ring; and along the base, just underneath
the silver dial-plate, were carved, in
German characters, the words of Richter:
“And an immeasurably extended hammer was
to strike the last hour of Time, and shiver the
universe asunder.”

With swift, noiseless steps Electra came to the
red grate, and, after a moment, drew an ottoman
close to the easy chair. Perhaps its occupant
slept; perchance he wandered, with
closed eyes, far down among the sombre, dank
crypts of memory. She laid her cool fingers
on his hand, and held the bouquet before him.

“My dear sir, here are your flowers; they
are not as pretty as usual, but sweet enough
to atone for lack of beauty.”

He fingered them caressingly, laid them
against his hollow cheeks, and hid his lips
among their fragrant petals, but the starry
eyes were fixed on the features of the pupil.

“It is bitter weather out; did you brave it
for these? Thank you, but don't expose
yourself so in future. Two invalids in a house
are quite enough. You are snow-crowned,
little one; do you know it? The frosting
gleams right royally on that black hair of
yours. Nay, child, don't brush it off; like all
lovely things it fades rapidly, melts away like
the dreams that flutter around a boy in the
witchery of a long, still, sunny summer day.”

His thin hand nestled in her shining hair,
and she submitted to the touch in silence.

“My dove soared away from this dreary
ark, and bathed her silver wings in the free
air of Heaven; returning but to bring me some
grateful memorial, an olive-branch, wherewith
to deck this gloomy ark of mine. Next
time she will soar farther, and find a more
tempting perch, and gladden Noah's eyes no
more.”

“If so, it will be because the high and dry
land of God beckons her; and when the deluge
is ended, she will be needed no longer.”

“For, then, Electra, Noah's haven of rest
will be the fair still fields of Eternity.”

In this semi-metaphoric strain he often indulged
of late, but she felt little inclination to
humor the whim, and, interlacing her slight
fingers, she answered, half impatiently:

“Your simile is all awry, sir. Most unfortunately,
I have nothing dove-like in my
nature.”

“Originally you had, but your character
has been warped.”

“By what, or whom?”

“Primarily, by unhappy extraneous circumstances,
influences if you will, which contributed
to a diseased development of two passions,
that now preponderate over all other elements
of your character.”

“A diagnosis which I will not accept.”

“A true one, nevertheless, my child.”

“Possibly; but we will waive a discussion
just now. I am, and always intend to be, true
to the nature which God gave me.”

“A dangerous dogma that. Electra, how
do you know that the `nature' you fondle and
plume yourself upon, emanated from your
Maker?”

“How do you know, sir, that God intended
that willows should droop, and trail their slen
der boughs earthward, while poplars, like
granite-shafts, shoot up, lifting their silver-shimmering
leaflets ever to the clouds? Who
fingered their germs, and directed their
course?”

“The analogy will not hold between the
vegetable kingdom and the moral and intellectual
spheres. Men and women are not cast
in particular moulds, bound by iron laws, and
labelled, like plants or brutes, Genus —,
Species —. Moreover, to man alone was
given free agency, even to the extent of
uprooting, crushing entirely the original impulses
implanted by God in the human heart
to act as motive power. I have known people
insane enough to pluck out the wheat, and
culture, into rank luxuriance, the tares in
their nature. Child, do you ever look ahead
to the coming harvest-time?”

“If I do, it contents me to know that each
soul binds up its own sheaves.”

“No; angels are reapers, and make up the
account for the Lord of the harvest.”

“I don't believe that. No third party has
any voice in that last, long reckoning. God
and the creature only see the balance-sheet.”

She rose, and, leaning against the mantle,
put out her hand to caress the solemn-eyed
solitary pet of the studio. How he came to be
the solace and companion of the artist she had
never been told, but knew that a strange fellowship
linked the gray old favorite with the
master, and wondered at the almost human
expression with which it sometimes looked
from its lofty pedestal upon the languid
movements of the painter. “Munin” was
the name he ever recognized and answered
to, and, when she one day repeated it to herself,
puzzling over its significance, Mr. Clifton
told her that it meant “memory,” in Scandinavian
lore, and belonged to one of the favorite
birds of Odin. It was one of his many strange
whims, fostered by life-long researches among
the mythologies of the Old World; and Electra
struggled to overcome the undefinable sensation
of awe and repulsion which crept over
her whenever she met that fascinating stare
fixed upon her. As little love had the bird for
her, and, though occasionally it settled upon the
cross-beam of her easel, and watched the slow
motion of her brush, they seemed to shrink
from each other. Now, as her soft hand
touched his feathers, they rumpled, bristled,
and he flitted to the artist's knee, uttering a
hoarse, prolonged, most melancholy hote, as
the master caressed him.

“Why are not you and Munin better
friends?”

“Because I am not wise enough, or evil-boding
in `appearance, or sufficiently owlish to
suit him, I suppose. He chills my blood sometimes,
when I come here, in twilight, before
the gas is lighted. I would almost as soon
confront Medusa.”

She took from the curious oval mosaic table

a new book containing her mark, and reseated
herself. As she did so, Munin flapped his
dusky wings and disappeared through the door
opening into the hall, and, shading her face
with one hand, she read aloud a passage
heavily underlined by a pencil.

“`But this poor, miserable Me! Is this, then,
all the book I have got to read about God in?'
Yes, truly so. No other book, nor fragment
of book, than that will you ever find—no velvet-bound
missal, nor frankincensed manuscript;
nothing hieroglyphic nor cuneiform;
papyrus and pyramid are alike silent on this
matter; nothing in the clouds above, nor in the
earth beneath. That flesh-bound volume is the
only revelation that is, that was, or that can
be. In that is the image of God painted; in
that is the law of God written; in that is the
promise of God revealed. Know thyself; for
through thyself only thou canst know God.
Through the glass darkly; but, except through
the glass, in no wise. A tremulous crystal,
waved as water, poured out upon the ground;
you may defile it, despise it, pollute it at your
pleasure, and at your peril; for on the peace
of those weak waves must all the heaven you
shall ever gain be first seen, and through such
purity as you can win for those dark waves
must all the light of the risen Sun of Brightness
be bent down by faint refraction. Cleanse
them, and calm them, as you love your life.”

“Mr. Clifton, this epitomizes my creed.
There is nothing new in it; I grant you it is old
as the Delphian inscription. Two thousand
years ago Socrates preached it in the Agora
at Athens. Now it shakes off its Greek apparel,
and comes to this generation encumbered
in loosely-fitting English garments—immemorial
Truth peering through modern masks.”

He regarded her with an expression of sorrowful
tenderness, and his hand trembled as he
placed it upon her head.

“This darling creed, this infallible egotism
of yours, will fail you in the day of fierce trial.
Pagan that you are, I know not what is to
become of you. Oh, Electra! if you would
only be warned in time.”

The warmth of the room had vermilioned
her cheeks, and the long black lashes failed to
veil in any degree the flash of the eyes she
raised to his face. Removing the hand from
her head, she took it in both hers, and a cold,
dauntless smile wreathed her lips.

“Be easy on my account. I am not afraid
of my future. Why should I be? God built
an arsenal in every soul before he launched it
on the stormy sea of Time, and the key to mine
is Will! I am young and healthy; the rich
purple blood bubbles through my veins like
Chian wine; and, with my heritage of poverty
and obscurity, I look fortune's favorites in the
eye, and dare them to retard or crush me. A
vast caravan of mighty souls, `Whose distant
footsteps echo down the corridors of Time,'
have gone before me; and step by step I tramp
after. What woman has done, woman may
do; a glorious sisterhood of artists beckon
me on; what Elizabeth Cheron, Sibylla Merian,
Angelica Kauffman, Elizabeth Le Brun,
Felicie Fauveau, and Rosa Bonheur have
achieved, I also will accomplish, or die in the
effort. These travelled no royal road to immortality,
but rugged, thorny paths; and who
shall stay my feet? Afar off gleams my resting
place, but ambition scourges me unflaggingly
on. Do not worry about my future; I
will take care of it, and of myself.”

“And when, after years of toil, you win
fame, even fame enough to satisfy your large
expectations, what then? Whither will you
look for happiness?”

“I will grapple fame to my empty heart,
as women do other idols.”

“It will freeze you, my dear child. Remember
the mournful verdict which Dante
gave the world through the lips of Oderigi:

“And, Electra, that chill blast will wail
through your lonely heart, chanting a requiem
over the trampled, dead hopes that might have
garlanded your life. Be warned, oh! daughter
of Agamemnon!

“At all events, I will risk it. Thank God!
whatever other faults I confess to, there is no
taint of cowardice in my soul.”

She rose, and stood a moment on the rug,
looking into the red net-work of coals, then
turned to leave him, saying:

“I must go to your mother now, and presently
I will bring your tea.”

“You need not trouble. I can go to the
dining-room to-night.”

“It is no trouble; it gives me great pleasure
to do something for your comfort; and I know
you always enjoy your supper more when
you have it here.”

As she closed the door, he pressed his face
against the morocco lining and groaned unconsciously,
and large glittering tears, creeping
from beneath the trembling lashes, hid
themselves in the curling brown beard.

To see that Mrs. Clifton's supper suited her,
and then to read aloud to her for half an hour
from the worn family bible, was part of the
daily routine which Electra permitted nothing
to interrupt. On this occasion she found the
old lady seated, as usual, before the fire, her
crutches leaning against the chair, and her
favorite cat curled on the carpet at her feet.
Most tenderly did the aged cripple love her

son's protegée, and the wrinkled sallow face
lighted up with a smile of pleasure at her entrance.

“I thought it was about time for you to
come to me. Sit down, dear, and touch the
bell for Kate. How is Harry?”

“No stronger, I am afraid. You know this
is very bad weather for him.”

“Yes; when he came up to-day I thought
he looked more feeble than I had ever seen
him; and, as I sit here and listen to his hollow
cough, every sound seems a stab at my heart.”
She rocked herself to and fro for a moment,
and added, mournfully:

“Ah, child! it is so hard to see my youngest
boy going down to the grave before me.
The last of five, I hoped he would survive me,
but consumption is a terrible thing; it took my
husband first, then, in quick succession, my
other children, and now Harry, my darling,
my youngest, is the last prey.”

Anxious to divert her mind, Electra adroitly
changed the conversation, and, when she rose
to say good-night, sometime after, had the satisfaction
of knowing that the old lady had
fallen asleep. It was in vain that she arranged
several tempting dishes on the table beside
the painter, and coaxed him to partake of
them; he received but a cup of tea from her
hand, and motioned the remainder away. As
the servant removed the tray he looked up at
his pupil, and said:

“Please wheel the lounge nearer to the
grate; I am too tired to sit up to-night.”

She complied at once, shook up the pillow,
and, as he laid his head upon it, she spread
his heavy plaid shawl over him.

“Now, sir, what shall I read this evening?”

“Arcana Cœlestia,” if you please.”

She took up the volume, and began at the
place he designated; and, as she read on and
on, her rich flexible voice rose and fell upon
the air like waves of melody. One of her
hands chanced to hang over the arm of the
chair, and as she sat near the lounge, thin
hot fingers twined about it, drew it caressingly
to the pillow, and held it tightly. Her first
impulse was to withdraw it, and an expression
of annoyance crossed her features; but, on
second thought, she suffered her fingers to rest
passively in his. Now and then, as she turned
a leaf, she met his luminous eyes fastened upon
her; but after a time the quick breathing attracted
her attention, and, looking down, she
saw that he, too, was sleeping. She closed the
book and remained quiet, fearful of disturbing
him; and as she studied the weary, fevered
face, noting the march of disease, the sorrowful
drooping of the mouth, so indicative of
grievous disappointment, a new and holy tenderness
awoke in her heart. It was a feeling
analogous to that of a mother for a suffering
child, who can be soothed only by her presence
and caresses—an affection not unfrequently
kindled in haughty natures by the entire de
pendence of a weaker one. Blended with
this was a remorseful consciousness of the
coldness with which she had persistently rejected,
repulsed every manifestation of his
devoted love; and, winding her fingers through
his long hair, she vowed an atonement for the
past in increased gentleness for the remainder
of his waning life. As she bent over him,
wearing her compassion in her face, he opened
his eyes and looked at her.

“How long have I slept?”

“Nearly an hour. How do you feel since
your nap?”

He made no reply, and she put her hand on
his forehead. The countenance lighted, and
he said, slowly:

“Ah! yes, press your cool soft little palm
on my brow. It seems to still the throbbing
in my temples.”

“It is late, Mr. Clifton, and I must leave
you. William looked in, a few minutes since,
to say that the fire burned in your room, but I
would not wake you. I will send him to you.
Good-night.”

She leaned down voluntarily and kissed
him, and, with a quick movement, he folded her
to his heart an instant, then released her,
murmuring, huskily:

“God bless you, Electra, and reward you for
your patient endurance. Good-night, my
precious child.”

She went to her own room, all unconscious
of the burst of emotion which shook the feeble
frame of the painter, long after she had laid
her head on her pillow in the sound slumber
of healthful youth.