University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

The year that ensued proved a valuable
school of patience, and taught the young artist
a gentleness of tone and quietude of manner
at variance with the natural impetuosity
of her character. Irksome beyond degree
was the discipline to which she subjected herself,
but, with a fixedness of purpose that knew
no wavering, she walked through the daily
dreary routine, keeping her eyes upon the end
that slowly but unmistakably approached. In
mid-summer Mr. Clifton removed, for a few
weeks, to the Catskill, and occasionally he
rallied for a few hours, with a tenacity of
strength almost miraculous. During the still
sunny afternoons hosts of gay visitors, summer
tourists, often paused in their excursions
to watch the emaciated form of the painter
leaning on the arm of his beautiful pupil, or
reclining on a lichen-carpeted knoll while she
sketched the surrounding scenery. Increased
feebleness prevented Mrs. Clifton from joining
in these out-door jaunts, and early in September,
when it became apparent that her mind
was rapidly sinking into imbecility, they returned

to the city. Memory seemed to have
deserted its throne; she knew neither her son
nor Electra, and the last spark of intelligence
manifested itself in a semi-recognition of her
favorite cat, which sprang to welcome her
back as friendly hands bore her to the chamber
she was to quit no more till death released
the crushed spirit. A letter was found on the
atelier mantle, directed to Electra in familiar
characters, which she had not seen for months.
Very quietly she put it in her pocket, and in
the solitude of her room broke the seal; found
that Russell had returned during her absence,
had spent a morning in the studio looking over
her work, and had gone south to establish
himself in his native town. Ah! the grievous,
grievous disappointment. A bitter cry rolled
from her lips, and the hands wrung each other
despairingly; but an hour later she stood beside
the artist, with unruffled brow and a
serene mouth, that bore no surface-token of the
sorrow gnawing at her heart. Winter came
on earlier than usual, with unwonted severity;
and, week after week, Electra went continually
from one sufferer to another, striving to
alleviate pain, and to kindle a stray beam of
sunshine in the darkened mansion. As one
living thing in a charnel-house she flitted from
room to room, sometimes shrinking from her
own shadow, that glided before her on the
polished wall as she went up and down stairs
in the dead of night. Unremitted vigil set its
pale, infallible signet on her face, but Mr. Clifton
either could not or would not see the painful
alteration in her appearance; and when
Mrs. Young remonstrated with her niece upon
the ruinous effects of this tedious confinement
to the house, she only answered, steadily: “I
will nurse him so long as I have strength left
to creep from one room to another.”

During Christmas week he grew alarmingly
worse, and Dr. LeRoy counted the waning life
by hours; but on New Year's eve he declared
himself almost well, and insisted on being
carried to the studio. The whim was humored,
and, wrapped in his silken robe de chambre,
he was seated in his large cushioned chair,
smiling to find himself once more in the midst
of his treasures. Turning back the velvet
cuff from his attenuated wrist, he lifted his
flushed face toward the nurse, and said, eagerly:
“Uncover my easel; make William draw
it close to me; I have been idle long enough.
Give me my palette; I want to retouch the
forehead of my hero. It needs a high light.”

“You are not strong enough to work. Wait
till to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! to-morrow! You have told
me that fifty times. Wheel up the easel, I
say. The spell is upon me, and work I will.”

It was the `ruling passion strong in death,'
and Electra acquiesced, arranging the colors
on the palette as he directed, and selecting
the brushes he required. Resting his feet
upon the cross-beam, he leaned forward and
gazed earnestly upon his master-piece, the
darling design which had haunted his brain
for years. “Theta” he called this piece of
canvas, which was a large square painting
representing, in the foreground, the death of
Socrates. Around the reclining form of the
philosopher clustered Apollodorus, Cebes,
Simmias, and Crito, and through the window
of the prison came the last slanting, quivering
ray of the setting sun, showing the street
beyond, where, against the stone wall, near a
gleaming guardian Hermes, huddled a mournful
group—Xantippe and her weeping children.
The details of the picture were finished with
pre-Raphaelite precision and minuteness—the
sweep and folds of drapery about the couch,
the emptied hemlock cup—but the central
figure of the Martyr lacked something, and to
these last touches Mr. Clifton essayed to address
himself. Slowly, feebly, the transparent
hand wandered over the canvas, and Electra
heard with alarm the labored breath that
came panting from his parted lips. She saw
the unnatural sparkle in his sunken eyes
almost die out, then leap up again, like smouldering
embers swept by a sudden gust, and, in
the clear strong voice of other years, he repeated
to himself the very words of Plato's
Phædo: “For I have heard that it is right to
die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and
bear up.”

Leaning back to note the effect of his
touches, a shiver ran through his frame, the
brush fell from his tremulous fingers, and he
lay motionless and exhausted.

Electra threw up the sash, that the wintry
air might revive him; and as the red glare of
declining day streamed down from the sky-light
upon the group, she looked from the easy
chair to the canvas, and mutely questioned:
“Which is most thanatoid—painter or painted?”

Folding his hands like a helpless, tired child,
he raised his eyes to hers and said, brokenly:

“I bequeath it to you; finish my work.
You understand me—you know what is lacking;
finish my `Theta,' and tell the world I died
at work upon it. Oh! for a fraction of my old
strength! One hour more to complete my Socrates!
Just one hour! I would ask no more.”

She tried to persuade him to return to his
own room, but he obstinately refused, and
when she insisted, he answered, pleadingly:
“No, no; let me stay here. Do let me be quiet
here. I hate that gloomy, tomb-like room.”

She gave him a powerful cordial which the
physician had left, and having arranged the
pillows on the lounge, drew it close to the
easel, and prevailed on him to lie down.

A servant was despatched for Dr. Le Roy,
but returned to say that a dangerous case detained
him elsewhere.

“Mr. Clifton, would you like to have your
mother brought down stairs and placed beside
you for a while?”

“No; I want nobody but you. Sit down
here close to me, and keep quiet.”

She lowered the heavy curtains, shaded the
gas-globe, and, placing a bunch of sweet violets
on his pillow, sat down at his side. His favorite
spaniel nestled at her feet, and occasionally
threw up his head and gazed wistfully at
his master. Thus two hours passed, and as
she rose to administer the medicine he waved
it off, saying:

“Give me no more of it. I won't be drugged
in my last hours. I won't have my intellect
clouded by opiates. Throw it into the
fire, and let me rest.”

“Oh, sir! can I do nothing for you?”

“Yes; read to me. Your voice lulls me.
Read me that letter of Iamblichus to Agathocles,
which I marked last summer.”

She read it, and, without questioning, laid
the book aside and took up a volume of Jacob
Behmen, of which he was very fond, selecting,
here and there, passages designated by pencil
marks. He had long revelled among the echoless
abysses of dim, medieval mystical lore, and,
strange as it may appear, the quaint old books
preserved their spell and riveted the wandering
mind, even on the verge of dissolution.
She knew that Cornelius-Agrippa, Theophrastus
Paracelsus, and Swedenborg held
singular mastery over him; but she shrank
from all these now, as though they had been
bound in flames, and a yearning to comfort
him from the sacred lips of Jewish prophets
and apostles took possession of her. Passages
which she had read to her blind aunt came
back to her now, ringing trumpet-toned in her
ears, and she rose to bring a bible from Mrs.
Clifton's room.

“Where are you going?”

“To your mother's room, for a moment
only. I want a book which I left there.”

“Sit still. Do not leave me, I beg of you.”
He drew her back to the seat, and after a
short silence said, slowly:

“Electra, are you afraid of death?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know that I am dying?”

“I have seen you as ill several times before.”

“You are a brave, strong-hearted child;
glazed eyes and stiffened limbs will not
frighten you. I have but few hours to live;
put your hand in mine, and promise me that
you will sit here till my soul quits its clay
prison. Will you watch with me the death of
the year? Are you afraid to stay with me,
and see me die?”

She would not trust herself to speak, but
laid her hand in his and clasped it firmly. He
smiled, and added:

“Will you promise to call no one? I want
no eyes but yours to watch me as I die. Let
there be only you and me.”

“I promise.”

For some moments he lay motionless, but
the intensity of his gaze made her restless,
and she shaded her face.

“Electra, my darling, your martyrdom
draws to a close. I have been merciless in my
exactions, I know; you are worn to a shadow,
and your face is sharp and haggard; but you
will forgive me all, when the willows of Greenwood
trail their boughs across my head-stone.
You have been faithful and uncomplaining;
you have been to me a light, a joy, and a
glory! God bless you, my pupil. There was
a time when, looking at the future that
stretched before you, I shuddered on your account.
Since then I have learned to know
you better; I feel assured your nature will be
equal to its trials. You can conquer difficulties,
and, better still, you can work and live
alone; you can conquer your own heart. I
am passing to a higher, purer, happier sphere;
but my spirit will hover constantly around
you here, in the midst of your work, overlooking
you continually, as in the days that have
gone by. I have one request to make of
you, and unhesitatingly I make it: remain in
this house, and watch over my poor mother's
last hours as you watched over and cheered
mine. It is a heavy burden to lay upon you;
but you have patiently borne as heavy, and I
have no fear that you will desert her when
the last of her sons sleep under marble. She
will never know that I have gone before her
till we meet in another world. In my vest-pocket
is the key of my writing-desk. There
you will find my will; take charge of it, and
put it in Le Roy's hands as soon as possible.
Give me some water.”

She held the glass to his lips, and, as he sank
back, a bright smile played over his face.

“Ah, child! it is such a comfort to have you
here—you are so inexpressibly dear to me.”

She took his thin hands in hers, and hot
tears fell upon them. An intolerable weight
crushed her heart, a half-defined, horrible
dread, and she asked, falteringly:

“Are you willing to die? Is your soul at
peace with God? Have you any fear of Eternity?”

“None, my child, none.”

“Would you like to have Mr. Bailey come
and pray for you?”

“I want no one now but you.”

A long silence ensued, broken only by the
heavily drawn breath of the sufferer. The
memory of her aunt's tranquil death haunted
the girl, and, finally, the desire to direct his
thoughts to God triumphed over every other
feeling. She sank on her knees beside the
lounge, and a passionate prayer leaped from
her pale lips. She had not prayed for nearly
four years, and the petition went up to God
framed in strange, incoherent language — a
plaintive cry to the Father to release, painlessly,
a struggling human soul. His fingers clung
spasmodically to hers, and soon after the head
sank on his chest, and she saw that he slept.

The glistering cortege of constellations moved
solemnly on in their eternal march through
the fields of heaven, and in mid-sky hung a
moon, of almost supernatural brightness, glaring
down through the sky-light like an inquisitorial
eye. Two hours elapsed; the measured
melancholy tick of the clock marked the expiring
moments of the old year; the red coals
of the grate put on their robe of ashes; the
gas-light burned dimly, and flickered now and
then as the wind surged through the partially
opened window; and there by the couch sat
the motionless watcher, noting the indescribable
but unmistakable change creeping on, like
the shadow which slowly-sailing summer clouds
cast down upon green meadows or flowery
hill-sides, darkening the landscape. The feeble,
thread-like pulse fluttered irregularly, but
the breathing became easy and low as a babe's,
and occasionally a gentle sigh heaved the
chest. Once his lips had moved, and she
caught the indistinct words — “Discreet degrees,”
—, “influx —,” “type-creature.”
She knew that the end was at hand,
and a strained, frightened expression came
into her large eyes as she glanced nervously
round the room, weird and awful in its gloomy
surroundings. The damp masses of hair clung
to her temples, and she felt heavy drops gathering
on her forehead, as in that glance she
met the solemn fascinating eyes of Munin
staring at her from the low mantle. She
caught her breath, and the deep silence was
broken by the metallic tongue that dirged out
“twelve.” The last stroke of the bronze
hammer echoed drearily; the old year lay stark
and cold on its bier; Munin flapped his dusky
wings with a long, sepulchral, blood-curdling
hoot, and the dying man opened his dim, failing
eyes, and fixed them for the last time on
his pupil.

“Electra, my darling.”

“My dear master, I am here.”

She lifted his head to her bosom, nestled her
fingers into his cold palm, and leaned her
cheek against his brow. Pressing his face
close to hers, the gray eyes closed, and a smile
throned itself on the parted lips. A slight
tremor shook the limbs, a soft shuddering
breath swept across the watcher's face, and
the “golden-bowl” was shivered, the “silver
cord” was loosed.

She sat there till the iciness of the rigid
form chilled her, then laid the head tenderly
down on its pillow, and walked to the mantle-piece.
The Angel of Time lifted the hammer
and struck “one;” and as she glanced accidentally
at the inscription on the base, she
remembered a favorite quotation which it had
often called from the cold lips of the dead
painter:

The seed-time had ended; the calm field of
eternity stretched before him now; the fruits
of the harvest were required at his hands.
Were they full of ripe golden sheaves, or —.
She shrank from her own questioning, and
looked over her shoulder at the dreamless,
smiling sleeper.

The vigil was over, the burden was lifted
from her shoulders, the weary ministry here
ended; and, shrounding her face in her arms,
the lonely woman wept bitterly.