 | CHAPTER XX. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
“To-whit — to-whoo!” Munin stretched
his broad gray wings, and, quitting the mantle-
piece, perched upon the top of the easel,
gazing down at the solitary artist, and uttering
all the while a subdued melancholy note
of complaint, as if to attract her attention.
She looked up, and held out her hand, coaxingly.
“Munin! Munin! what do you want? You
haunt me like my shadow. Poor pet, true to
your name, you pine for your master.”
The ruffled plumes smoothed themselves,
the plaint was hushed. He fluttered to her
shoulder, received her soft, caressing touches
with evident satisfaction, nestled his beak in
her shining hair, and, then, as if soothed and
contented, flitted to the open window. Resuming
her brush, Electra leaned forward and
continued her work. “Laborare est orare;”
if so, no more ardent devotee ever bowed at
the shrine of toil, bearing sacrificial offerings.
Thoughts, hopes, aspirations, memories, all
centered in the chosen profession; to its prosecution
she brought the strength and energy of
an indomitable will, the rich and varied resources
of a well-stored, brilliant intellect. It
was evident that she labored con amore, and
now the expectation of approaching triumph
lent additional eagerness to her manner. The
fingers trembled, the eyes sparkled unwontedly,
a deeper, richer crimson glowed on the
smooth cheeks, and the lips parted and closed
unconsciously. The tantalizing dreams of
childhood, beautiful but evanescent, had
gradually embodied themselves in a palpable,
tangible, glorious reality; and the radiant woman
exulted in the knowledge that she had
but to put forth her hand and grasp it. The
patient work of twelve months drew to a close;
the study of years bore its first fruit; the last
delicate yet quivering touch was given; she
threw down palette and brush, and, stepping
back, surveyed the canvas. The Exhibition
would open within two days, and this was to
be her contribution. A sad-eyed Cassandra,
with pallid, prescient, woe-struck features—an
over-mastering face, wherein the flickering
light of divination struggled feebly with the
human horror of the To-Come, whose hideous
mysteries were known only to the royal
prophetess. In mute and stern despair it
looked out from the canvas, a curious, anomalous
thing—cut adrift from human help, bereft
of aid from heaven—yet, in its doomed isolation,
scorning to ask the sympathy which its
extraordinary loveliness extorted from all who
saw it. The artist's pride in this, her first finished
creation, might well be pardoned, for
she was fully conscious that the cloud-region
of a painful novitiate lay far beneath her;
that henceforth she should never miss the
pressure of long-coveted chaplets from her
brow; that she should bask in the warm, fructifying
rays of public favor; and measureless
exultation flashed in her beautiful eyes. The
torch of Genius burned brightly, as, buoyant
and eager, she took her place in the great
the end? Would it light up the goal standing
upon the terminus of Time?
The door opened, and Russell came into the
studio. She was not expecting him; his sudden
appearance gave her no time to adjust
the chilling mask of pride, and all her uncontrolled
affection found eloquent language in
the joyful face.
“Russell! my own dear Russell!”
He drew his arm around her and kissed her
flushed cheek, and each looked at the other,
wondering at the changes which years had
wrought.
“Electra, you have certainly improved
more than any one I ever knew. You look
the impersonation of perfect health; it is
needless to ask how you are.” And again his
lips touched the beaming face pressed against
his shoulder. Her arms stole tremblingly
around his neck, past indifference was forgotten
in the joy of his presence, and she
murmured:
“I thought I should not see you before I
left America. I can not tell you what a
pleasure this surprise is to me. Oh, Russell!
I longed inexpressibly to be with you once
more. Thank you, a thousand times, for
coming to me at last.”
“Did you suppose that I intended to let
you put the Atlantic between us without
making an effort to see you again? Were
you unjust enough to believe that I had forgotten
the only relative whom I love? My
dear little skeptic, I have come to prove my
affection, and put yours to the test.”
He pressed her closer to his heart, but suddenly
she shrank from him, unclasped his arm,
and, wheeling two chairs to the window, said,
hurriedly:
“Sit down, and let me look at you. You
have grown so tall and commanding that I am
half-afraid of my own cousin. You are less
like aunt Amy than formerly.”
“Allow me to look at your painting first,
for it will soon be too dark to examine it.
This is the Cassandra of which you wrote
me.”
He stood before it for some moments in
silence, and she watched him with breathless
eagerness—for his opinion was of more value to
her than that of all the dilettanti and connoisseurs
who would soon inspect it. Gradually
his dark, cold face kindled, and she had her
reward.
“It is a masterly creation; a thing of wonderful
and imperishable beauty; it is a great
success—as such the world will receive it—and
hundreds will proclaim your triumph. I am
proud of it, and doubly proud of you.”
He held out his hand, and, as she put her
fingers in his, her head drooped, and hot tears
blinded her. Praise from the lips she loved
best stirred her womanly heart as the applause
of the public could never do; and, in after
years, when grief and loneliness oppressed
her, these precious words rang sweet and silvery
through the darkened chambers of her
soul, working miracles of comfort infinitely
beyond the potent spell of Indian O-U-M, or
mystic Agla. Without perceiving her emotion
he continued, with his eyes fixed on the picture:
“Some day you must make me a copy, and
I will hang it over the desk in my office,
where I can feast my eyes on its rare loveliness
and my ears with your praises, from all
who see it. How long have you been at work
upon it?”
“I can't recall the time when it first took
hold of my imagination; it paced by my side
when I was a child, brooded over me in my
troubled dreams, looked out from the pomp of
summer clouds and the dripping drab skies of
winter, floated on snow-flakes, and flashed in
thunder-storms; but I outlined it about a year
ago. For my Exhibition picture, I wavered
long between this and an unfinished Antigone;
but finally decided in favor of Cassandra.”
“And selected wisely. While in Europe I
saw, in a private house, an exquisite head of
the `Erythræan Sybil,' which somewhat resembles
your painting. The position is almost
identical — the nose, mouth, and chin very
similar; but the glory of this Cassandra is the
supernatural eyes, brimful of prescience. It
might afford matter for curious speculation,
however, and some time we will trace the subtle
law of association of ideas by which two
artists, separated by the Atlantic, and by centuries,
chanced, under totally different circumstances,
to portray similarly the two distinct
prophetesses who both foretold the doom
of Troy.”
“If such is the case, the world will be very
sceptical of the coincidence. I did not even
know that there was an `Erythræan Sybil,'
much less a picture of her; so much for ignorance!
The critics who knew that I did not
paint your portrait, simply because it was well
done, will swear that I stole the whole of my
Cassandra,” answered Electra, perplexed and
troubled.
“You need not look so rueful, and plough
your forehead with that heavy frown. In all
probability I am the only person in New York
who has seen the other picture; and, granting
the contrary, the resemblance might not be
detected. If you suffer it to annoy you I shall
be sorry that I mentioned it. Yet, I doubt not,
the withering charge of plagiarism has often
been hurled in the face of an honest worker,
quite as unjustly as it would be in your case.
Very startling coincidences sometimes occur
most innocently; but carping envy is a thrifty
plant, and flourishes on an astonishingly small
amount of soil.”
“Who painted that Sibyl?”
“It is not known positively. Travelling
detained some hours at a village, and employed
the delay in rambling about the suburbs.
Following a winding road it brought me to the
enclosure of a chateau, and I leaned on the
fence and admired the parterre, which was
uncommonly pretty. The owner happened
to be among his flower-beds, saw me, and, with
genuine French politeness and urbanity, insisted
that I should enter and rest myself
while he gathered me a bouquet of mignonette
and pinks. The afternoon was warm, and I
asked for a glass of water. He took me into
the house, and on the parlor wall hung this
picture. It riveted my attention, and flattered,
doubtless, by my evident admiration, he gave
me its history. His father had found it at a
picture-shop in Germany, I forget now exactly
where, and bought it for a Dolce, but doubted
its genuineness; and my host, who seemed
thoroughly au fait in Art matters, asserted
that it belonged to a much earlier school.
That is all that I or the owner know of it; so
dismiss the subject from your mind.”
“I shall not, I promise you. Give me minute
directions, and I will hunt up chateau, mignonette,
gentlemanly proprietor, Sibyl, and all.
Who knows but metempsychosis may be true
after all, and that the painter's soul possesses
me bodily, striving to portray the archetype
which haunted him in the last stage of existence?
According to Vaughan, the Portuguese
have a superstition that the soul of a man who
has died leaving some duty unfulfilled, or
promised work unfinished, is frequently known
to enter into another person, and, dislodging
for a time the rightful soul-occupant, impel
him unconsciously to complete what was lacking.”
“You are growing positively paganish,
Electra, from constant association with the
dead deities of classic ages, and I must reclaim
you. Come, sit down, and tell me something
of your life since the death of your friend,
Mr. Clifton.”
“Did you receive my last letter, giving an
account of Mrs. Clifton's death?”
“Yes; just as I stepped upon the platform
of the cars it was handed to me. I had heard
nothing from you for so long, that I thought
it was time to look after you.”
“You had started, then, before you knew
that I was going to Europe?”
“Yes.”
He could not understand the instantaneous
change which came over her countenance—
the illumination, followed as suddenly by
a smile, half compassionate, half bitter. She
pressed one hand to her heart, and said:
“Mrs. Clifton never seemed to realize her
son's death, though, after paralysis took place,
and she became speechless, I thought she recovered
her memory in some degree. She
survived him just four months, and, doubtless,
was saved much grief by her unconsciousness
of what had occurred. Poor old lady! she
suffered little for a year past, and died, I hope,
without pain. I have the consolation of knowing
that I did all that could be done to promote
her comfort. Russell, I would not live here
for any consideration; nothing but a sense of
duty has detained me this long. I promised
him that I would not forsake his mother.
But you can have no adequate conception of
the feeling of desolation which comes over me
when I sit here during the long evenings. He
seems watching me from picture-frames and
pedestals; his face, his pleading, patient, wan
face, haunts me perpetually. And yet I tried
to make him happy; God knows I did my
duty.”
She sprang up, and paced the room for some
moments, with her hands behind her, and
tears glittering on her cheeks. Pausing at
last on the rug, she pointed to a large square
object closely shrouded, and added:
“Yonder stands his last picture, unfinished.
The day he died he put a few feeble strokes
upon it, and bequeathed the completion of
the task to me. For several years he worked
occasionally on it, but much remains to be
done. It is the `Death of Socrates.' I have
not even looked at it since that night; I do not
intend to touch it until after I visit Italy; I
doubt whether my hand will ever be steady
enough to give the last strokes. Oh, Russell!
the olden time, the cottage days seem far, far
off to me now!”
Leaning against the mantle-piece, she dropped
her head on her hand, but when he appaoached
and stood at the opposite corner he
saw that the tears had dried.
“Neither of us has had a sunny life, Electra;
both have had numerous obstacles to contend
with; both have very bitter memories. Originally
there was a certain parallelism in our
characters, but with our growth grew the divergence.
You have preserved the nobler
part of your nature better than I; for my years
I am far older than you; none of the brightness
of my boyhood seems to linger about me.
Contact with the world is an indurating process;
I really did not know how hard I had
grown, until I felt my heart soften at sight of
you. I need you to keep the kindly charities
and gentle amenities of life before me, and,
therefore, I have come for you. But for my
poverty I never would have given you up so
long; I felt that it would be for your advantage,
in more than one respect, to remain with
Mr. Clifton until I had acquired my profession.
I knew that you would enjoy privileges
here which I could not give you in my
straightened circumstances. Things have
changed; Mr. Campbell has admitted me to
partnership; my success I consider an established
fact. Give up, for a season, this projected
tour of Europe; wait till I can go with you,
till I can take you; go back to W— with
me. You can continue your art-studies, if you
as here. You are ambitious, Electra; so am I,
let us work together.”
She raised her head and looked up at the
powerful, nobly-proportioned form, the grand,
kingly face, calm and colorless, the large,
searching black eyes, within whose baffling
depths lay all the mysteries of mesmerism,
and a spasm of pain seized her own features.
She shaded her brow, and answered:
“No, Russell; I could not entertain that
thought an instant.”
“Are you too proud to accept a home from
me?”
“Not too proud, exactly; but, as long as I
have health, I mean to make a support. I
will not burden you.”
“What bunglers you women are at logic!
The thought of living on my charity affrights
you, and yet you fly from me to the cold charity
of the world—for what else is fleeting, fickle
public favor — fitful public patronage or
praise?”
“Full value received for benefit rendered,
is not charity; beside, Russell, you, too, seek
and subsist upon this same fickle public
favor.”
“Partially, I grant you; but I ground my
claims far deeper than you; I strike down,
taking root in the substratum of selfishness.
Interest, individual interest, is the outpost of
which I am paid to be the sentinel; stern necessity
is my guardian angel, compelling all
men to see that my wages are inviolate. I
stand in the great brain-market place, and
deal with mankind in the normal, every-day
manifestations of avarice, selfishness, or hate;
profit and loss the theme — dollars or blood
the currency. M. Quetelet, one of the most
eminent statisticians of Europe, has proved
that, in a given population, a given number of
crimes will annually be committed; so you see
that, in this market, also, production keeps pace
with consumption, and legal counsel is necessitated.
On the contrary, you address yourself
to a class of emotions fluctuating and short-lived—common
to comparatively few—involving
no questions of utility—luxuries, not necessities.
Yours is a profession of contingencies;
not so mine; for injustice, duplicity,
theft, are every-day, settled certainties. A
man will give me one half of his estate to save
the other, which the chicane of his neighbor
threatens.”
“And if that villainous, avaricious neighbor
had employed you half an hour before the injured
man sought to engage your services?”
“Why, then, the lawyer next in his estimation
gets the case, and it is resolved into a
simple question of his superior adroitness,
acumen, and industry, or mine. The world is
hard upon lawyers, its faithful servants, and
holds them up as moral monsters to the very
children whose mouths their labor fills with
bread. An erroneous and most unjust im
pression prevails that a lawyer of ability,
plus extensive practice, equals Bacon, Jeffries,
Impoy or some other abnormal disgrace to
jurisprudence; whereas, the sole object of the
institution of law is to secure right, justice,
and truth. You are opening your lips to ask
if the last is not often wilfully suppressed?
Remember that even the Twelve found a
Judas among their number, and the provision
of counsel is to elicit truth, and all the truth,
on both sides. I bring testimony in defence
of all that is susceptible of proof in my client's
favor, and it is the business of the opposite
counsel to do likewise; if he neglects his duty,
or, through lack of intellect, suffers me to gain
the case, even against real justice, am I culpable?
I did my duty; he failed to defend his
cause, however righteous, and on his shoulders
rest the turpitude.”
“Ah, Russell! you have taken a diploma in
the school of sophistry.”
“I am content that you should think so,
since a recent great historian has decided that
the Sophists were a sadly maligned sect, and,
instead of becoming a synonyme of reproach,
merited the everlasting gratitude of mankind,
as the tireless public teachers of Greece—the
walking-school system of Athens in her imperial,
palmy days.”
“I never will believe that! I wish to
heaven archæologists would let the dust of
Athens rest, instead of ploughing it up periodically
with the sacrilegious shares of newfangled
theories.”
“And thereby exhuming the mouldering
bones of some of your favorite divinities, I
suppose? The literary philhellenism of the
present age, and especially its philologic tendency,
is fast hunting the classic spectres of
the heroic times into primeval shade. Old-fogyism
in literature is considered, I believe,
quite as unpardonable as in politics. Take
care how you handle the Sophists, for I hold
that they differed in but one respect from your
hero, Socrates.”
“You shall not insult his memory by any
such disgraceful association,” interrupted his
cousin.
“And that difference,” he continued, without
heeding her, “consists in the fact that
they taught for money, while he scorned to
accept remuneration. Sydney Smith maintains
that `Socrates invented common sense
two thousand years ago, as Ceres invented the
plough, and Bacchus intoxication.' I should
receive the dictum more readily if he had
pocketed the honest wages of his talents, instead
of deluding himself with the belief that
he was the heaven-appointed regenerator of
Athens, and making his labors purely eleemosynary,
to the possible detriment of his family.
Who knows but that, after all, Xantippe deserved
a place in martyrology, having been
driven to paroxysms of rage and desperation
by an empty purse, or wretched household
cosmopolitan mission; for it is a notorious fact
that men who essay to manage the opinions of
the world invariably neglect their domestic
affairs, and allow them to run to ruin.”
“Five years ago you would not have said
that, Russell, and I think it questionable
whether you believe it all now. I hold my
profession a nobler one than yours, and dispute
your predicate that it involves no utility.
Whatever tends to exalt, to purify, to ennoble,
is surely useful; and æsthetics, properly directed,
is one of the most powerful engines of
civilization. See what it wrought for Athens.”
“You mistake effect for cause. The freedom
of Athens was the lever which raised it to
such a pitch of glory; as a sequence, the arts
flourished and beauty was apotheosized. When
freedom perished the arts received their deathblow,
and, impotent to preserve the prosperity
of the city, shed a lingering halo around its
melancholy but majestic ruins. That æsthetics
and utility are synonymes, is an axiom
which might find acceptation in `Bensalem;'
but in this intensely practical, mechanical
epoch of human history, and this money-making
quarter of the globe, you must educate
the masses up to an entirely different level,
before you can expect them to receive it.”
“And, so far as my feeble influence extends,
or my limited ability will permit, I purpose to
become such a teacher. Do not laugh at me,
Russell, I beg of you.”
“I smile at the beautiful dream, rather than
the enthusiastic dreamer. So, doubtless,
dreamed Phidias, Praxiteles, and the Rhdian
Trio, and only a few time-corroded blocks of
marble remain in attestation. Cui bono?”
“Yours and mine!—for dead nations, and
for generations yet unborn, who shall gaze
upon their noble and imperishable monuments.
You are worse than Goth or Vandal, if you
can ignore their softening, spiritualizing influence
— for even they, rude and untutored,
bowed before their immortal beauty. What
has come over you, Russell, hardening your
nature, and sealing the sources of genial, genuine
appreciation?”
“The icy breath of experience, the crystalizing
touch of years. You must not be so severe
upon me, Electra; many a time, since we
parted, I have left my desk to watch a gorgeous
sunset, and for a few minutes fancy myself
once more leaning on the garden-gate of my
early home. I love beauty, but I subordinate
it to the practical utilities of life. I have little
time for æsthetic musings; I live among disenchanting
common-place realities. It is
woman's province and prerogative to gather
up the links of beauty, and bind them
as a garland round her home; to fill it with
the fragrance of dewy flowers, the golden
light of western skies, the low soothing strains
of music, which can chant all care to rest;
which will drown the clink of dollars and
cents, and lead a man's thoughts to purer,
loftier themes. Ah! there is no apocalypse
of joy and peace like a happy home, where a
woman of elegance and refinement goes to and
fro. This recalls the object of my visit. You
say, truly, that full value received for benefit
rendered is not charity; apply your principle,
come to W—, share my future, and
what fortune I may find assigned me. I have
bought the cottage, and intend to build a
handsome house there some day, where you,
and Mr. Campbell, and I can live peacefully.
You shall twine your æsthetic fancies all
about it, to make it picturesque enough to suit
your fastidious artistic taste. Come, and save
me from what you consider my worse than
vandalian proclivities. I came here simply
and solely in the hope of prevailing on you to
return with me. I make this request, not because
I think it will be expected of me, but for
more selfish reasons—because it is a matter
resting very near my heart.”
“Oh, Russell! you tempt me.”
“I wish to do so. My blood beats in your
veins; you are the only relative I value, and
were you indeed my sister, I should scarcely
love you more. With all a brother's interest,
why should I not claim a brother's right to
keep you with me, at least until you find your
Pylades, and give him a higher claim before
God and man? Electra, were I your brother
you would require no persuasion; why hesitate
now?”
She clasped her hands behind her, as if for
support in some fiery ordeal, and, gathering up
her strength, spoke rapidly, like one who fears
that resolution will fail before some necessary
sentence is pronounced.
“You are very kind and generous, Russell,
and for all that you have offered me I thank
you from the depths of a full heart. The
consciousness of your continued interest and
affection is inexpressibly precious; but my disposition
is too much like your own to suffer
me to sit down in idleness, while there is so
much to be done in the world. I, too, want
to earn a noble reputation, which will survive
long after I have been gathered to my fathers;
I want to accomplish some work, looking upon
which, my fellow-creatures will proclaim:
`That woman has not lived in vain; the world
is better and happier because she came and
labored in it.' I want my name carved, not
on monumental marble only, but upon the
living, throbbing heart of my age!—stamped
indelibly on the generation in which my lot is
cast. Perhaps I am too sanguine of success;
a grievous disappointment may await all my
ambitious hopes, but failure will come from
want of genius, not lack of persevering, patient
toil. Upon the threshold of my career,
facing the loneliness of coming years, I resign
that hope with which, like a golden thread,
most women embroider their future. I dedicate
myself, my life, unreservedly to Art.”
“You believe that you will be happier
among the marble and canvas of Italy than in
W— with me?”
“Yes; I shall be better satisfied there. All
my life it has gleamed afar off, a glorious land
of promise to my eager, longing spirit. From
childhood I have cherished the hope of reaching
it, and the fruition is near at hand. Italy!
bright Alma Mater of the art to which I consecrate
my years. Do you wonder that, like
a lonely child, I stretch out my arms toward
it? Yet my stay there will be but for a season.
I go to complete my studies, to make
myself a more perfect instrument for my noble
work, and then I shall come home—come, not
to New York, but to my own dear native
South, to W—, that I may labor under the
shadow of its lofty pines, and within hearing
of its murmuring river—dearer to me than
classic Arno, or immortal Tiber. I wrote you
that Mr. Clifton had left me a legacy, which,
judiciously invested, will defray my expenses
in Europe, where living is cheaper than in
this country. Mr. Young has taken charge of
the money for me, and has kindly offered to
attend to my remittances. Aunt Ruth's
friends, the Richardsons, consented to wait
for me until after the opening of the Exhibition
of the Academy of Design, and one week
from to-morrow we expect to sail.”
“What do you know of the family?”
“Nothing, except that the lady, who is an
old friend of my aunt, is threatened with consumption,
and has been advised to spend a
year or two in Florence. Aunt Ruth took me
to see her the other day; she seems intelligent
and agreeable, and, I dare say, I shall find her
kind and pleasant enough.”
“Since such is the programme you have
marked out, I trust that no disappointments
await you, and that all your bright dreams
may be realized. But, if it should prove
otherwise, and you grow weary of your art,
sick of isolation, and satiated with Italy, remember
that I shall welcome you home, and
gladly share with you all that I possess. You
are embarking in an experiment which thousands
have tried before you, and wrecked
happiness upon; but I have no right to control
your future, and certainly no desire to discourage
you. At all events, I hope our separation
will be brief.”
A short silence followed, broken at last by
Electra, who watched him keenly as she
spoke:
“Tell me something about Irene. Of course,
in a small town like W—, you must see
her frequently.”
“By no means. I think I have seen her
but three times since her childhood — once
riding with her father, then accidentally at
church, and again, a few evenings before I
left, at the graveyard, where she was dressing
a tombstone with flowers. There we exchanged
a few words for the first time, and
this reminds me that I am bearer of a message
yet undelivered. She inquired after you, and
desired me to tender you her love and best
wishes.”
He neither started nor changed color at
the mention of Irene's name, but straightened
himself, and buttoned to the throat the black
coat, which, from the warmth of the room, he
had partially loosened.
“Is she not a great belle?”
“I presume few women have been more admired
than she is. I hear much of her beauty,
and the sensation which it creates wherever
she goes; but the number of her suitors is
probably limited, from the fact that it is generally
known she is engaged to her cousin, young
Seymour.”
“I can not believe that she loves him.”
“Oh! that is not necessary to latter-day
matrimonial contracts; it is an obsolete clause,
not essential to legality, and utterly ignored.
She is bound, hand and foot, and her father
will immolate her on the altar of money.”
He smiled bitterly, and crossed his arms
over his chest.
“You mistake her character, Russell. I
know her better, and I tell you there is none
of the Iphigenia in her nature.”
“At least I do not mistake her father's, and
I pity the woman whose fate rests in his iron
grasp.”
“She holds hers in her own hands, small
and white though they are; and, so surely as
the stars shine above us, she will marry only
where she loves. She has all the will which
has rendered the name of her family proverbial.
I have her here in crayons; tell me what
you think of the likeness.”
She took down a portfolio and selected the
head of her quondam playmate, holding it
under the gas-light, and still scrutinizing her
cousin's countenance. He took it, and looked
gravely, earnestly, at the lovely features.
“It scarcely does her justice; I doubt whether
any portrait ever will. Beside, the expression
of her face has changed materially since
this was sketched. There is a harder outline
now about her mouth, less of dreaminess in
the eyes, more of cold hauteur in the whole
face. If you desire it, I can, in one line of
Tennyson, photograph her proud beauty, as I
saw her mounted on her favorite horse, the
week that I left home:”
“Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null!”
He laid the drawing back in the open portfolio,
crossed the room, and took up his hat.
“Where are you going, Russell? Can't you
spend the evening with me at aunt Ruth's?”
“No, thank you; I must go. There is to be
a great political meeting at Tammany Hall to-night,
and I am particularly anxious to attend.”
“What! are you, too, engaged in watching
the fermentation of the political vat?”
“Yes; I am most deeply interested; no true
juncture.”
“How long will you be in New York?”
“Since I can not persuade you to return
with me, my stay here will be shortened. One
of our courts meets soon, and, though Mr.
Campbell will be there to attend to the cases,
I want, if possible, to be present. I shall return
day after to-morrow. And now good-night; I
will see you early in the morning.”
The door closed behind him, and she remained
standing for some time just as he left her.
Slowly the folded hands shrank from each
other, and dropped nerveless to her side; the
bright glow in her cheeks, the dash of crimson
on her lips, faded from both; the whole face
relaxed into an expression of hopeless agony.
Lonely as Moses when he calmly climbed Nebo
to die, she bowed herself a despairing victim
upon the grim, flint-fronted altar of Necessity.
Curiously subtle and indomitable is woman's
heart, so often the jest of the flippant and
unthinking—the sneer of the unscrupulously
calculating, or mercilessly cynical. It had long
been no secret to this woman that she occupied
the third place in her cousin's affections—
was but a dweller of the vestibule. Her pride
had been tortured, her vanity sorely wounded;
yet, to-night, purified from all dross, love rose
invincible, triumphant, from the crucible of
long and severe trial—sublime in its isolation,
asking, expecting no return—
“Self-girded with torn strips of hope.”
Such is the love of a true woman. God
help all such, in this degenerate world of ours,
so cursed with shams and counterfeits.
Raising her tearless, shadowy eyes to the
woeful face of her Cassandra, Electra extended
her arms, and murmured:
“Alone henceforth! a pilgrim in foreign
lands! a solitary worker among strangers. So
be it! I am strong enough to work alone. So
be it!”
The flaming sword of the Angel of Destiny
waved her from the Eden of her girlish day-dreams,
and by its fiery gleam she read the
dim, dun future; saw all—
The set gray life, and apathetic end.”
| CHAPTER XX. Macaria, or, Altars of sacrifice | |