University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

A halo seems to linger around the haunts
of Genius, as though the outer physical world
shaped itself in likeness to the Ideal, and at
the door of Mr. Clifton's studio, crude, matter-of-fact
utilitarians should have “put off their
shoes from their feet” before treading precincts
sacred to Art. It was a long, lofty,
narrow room, with a grate at one end, and
two windows at the other, opening on the
street. The walls were stained of a pale olive
hue, and the floor was covered with a carpet
of green, embroidered with orange sheaves of
wheat. In color, the morocco-cushioned
chairs and sofas matched it well, and from
the broad, massive cornice over the windows
—cornice representing writhing serpents in
clusters of oak leaves—folds of golden-flowered
brocatel hung stiff and stately to the floor.
The ceiling rose dome-like in the centre, and
here a skylight poured down a flood of radiance
on sunny days, and furnished a faint
tattoo when rain-drops rattled over its panes.
Crowded as the most ancient catacombs of
Thebes was this atelier, but with a trifle less
ghostly tenants. Plaster statues loomed up in
the corners, brouze busts and marble statuettes
crowned mantle and sundry tables and wooden
pedestals; quaint antique vases of china,
crystal, alabaster, terra-cotta, and wood dark
as ebony with age and polished like glass,
stood here and there in a sort of well-established
regular irregularity, as if snatched from
the ashy shroud of Herculaneum and put
down hastily in the first convenient place.
An Etruscan vase, time and lichen-stained,
was made the base for an unframed piece of
canvas, which leaned back against the wall;
and another, whose handles were Medusa-heads,
and before which, doubtless, some
Italian maiden, in the palmy days of Rome,
had stood twining the feathery sprays of blossoms
whose intoxicating perfume might still
linger in its marble depths, was now the desecrated
receptacle of a meerschaum and
riding-whip. The walls were tapestried with
paintings of all sizes, many richly framed, one
or two covered with glass, and so dark as to
pass, without close examination, for a faithful
representation of Pharaoh's ninth plague;
some lying helplessly on the olive back-ground,
others leaning from the wall at an acute angle,
looking threatening, as if fiery souls had entered
and stirred up the figures—among which
Deïanira, bending forward with jealous rage
to scan the lovely Jole, destined to prove the
Atè of her house. Where a few feet of pale
green would have peered forth between large
pictures, crayon sketches were suspended;

and on the top of more than one carved frame
perched stuffed birds of gorgeous tropical
hues, a mimic aviary, motionless and silent as
if Perseus had stepped into a choral throng
and held up the Gorgon's head. In the centre
of the room, under the skylight, stood the
artist's easel, holding an unfinished picture,
and over its face was drawn a piece of black
silk. Farther off was another easel, smaller,
and here was the dim outline of a female
head traced by the fair, slender fingers of a
tyro. It was late October; a feeble flame
flickered in the grate; on the rug crouched an
English spaniel, creeping closer as the heat
died out and the waning light of day gradually
receded, leaving the room dusky, save
where a slanting line of yellow quivered down
from the roof and gilt the folds of black silk.
At one of the windows stood Electra, half
concealed by the heavy green and gold drapery,
one dimpled hand clinging to the curtains,
the other pressed against the panes, as
she watched the forms hurrying along the
street below. The gas was already lighted
on the crowded highways of the great city,
and the lamp just beneath the window glared
up like an electric eye. She was dressed in
half-mourning, in sober gray, with a black
crape collar at the throat. “There is no exquisite
beauty without some strangeness in
the proportions,” says Baron Verulam; and
the strangeness of Electra's countenance certainly
lay in the unusual width between the
eye-brows. Whatever significance learned
phrenologists or physiognomists attach to this
peculiarity, at all events it imparted piquancy
to the features that I am striving to show you
by that flaming gas-light. Her watching attitude
denoted anxiety, and the bloom on her
cheek had faded, leaving the whole face colorless.
The lower lip was drawn under and
held hard and tight by the pearly teeth, while
the wide-strained eyes—

searched every face that passed the window.
“That hope deferred maketh the heart sick,”
she stood there in attestation; yet it was not
passive sorrow printed on her countenance—
rather the momentary, breathless exhaustion
of a wild bird beating out its life in useless
conflict with the unyielding wires of its cage.
The dying hope, the despairing dread, in that
fair young face, beggars language, and as the
minutes crept by the words burst from her
lips: “Will he never, never come!”

For three weeks she had received no letter
from Russell; he was remarkably punctual,
and this long, unprecedented interval filled
her, at first, with vague uneasiness, which
grew finally into horrible foreboding. For
ten days she had stood at this hour, at the
same window, waiting for Mr. Clifton's return
from the post-office. Ten times the words
“No letter” had fallen, like the voice of doom,
on her throbbing heart. “No letter!”—she
heard it in feverish dreams, and fled continually
from its hissing. Only those who have
known what it is to stake their hopes on a
sheet of letter-paper; to wake at dawn, counting
the hours, till the mail is due, working
diligently to murder time till that hour rolls
round; to send a messenger, in hot haste, to
watch the clock, giving him just so many
minutes to go and come; to listen for the
sound of returning steps, to meet him at the
door with outstretched hands, and receive
—“no letter;” only those who have writhed
on this rack know the crushing thought with
which they pressed cold hands to aching
hearts; “another twenty-four hours to be endured
before the next mail comes in; what
shall I do till then?” These are the trials
that plough wrinkles in smooth girlish brows;
that harden the outline of soft rosy lips; that
sicken the weary soul, and teach women
deception. Electra knew that Mr. Clifton
watched her narrowly, suspiciously; and behind
the mask of gay rapid words, and ringing
mirthless laughter, she tried to hide her
suffering. Ah! God pity all who live from
day to day hanging upon the brittle thread of
hope. On this eleventh day suspense reached
its acme, and time seemed to have locked its
wheels to lengthen her torture. Mr. Clifton
had been absent longer than usual; most unwillingly
we are sometimes grand inquisitors,
loitering by the way when waiting hearts are
secretly, silently dropping blood. At last an
omnibus stopped, and Mr. Clifton stepped
out, with a bundle of papers under his arm.
Closer pressed the pallid face against the glass;
firmer grew the grasp of the icy fingers on the
brocatel; she had no strength to meet him. He
closed the door, hung up his hat, and looked
into the studio; no fire in the grate, no light
in the gas-globes—everything cold and dark
save the reflection on that front window.

“Electra!”

“I am here.”

“No letter.”

She stood motionless a moment; but the
brick walls opposite, the trees, the lamp-posts
spun round, like maple leaves in an autumn
gale.

“My owlet! why don't you have a light and
some fire?”

He stumbled toward her, and put his hand
on her shoulder, but she shrank away, and,
lighting the gas, rang for coal.

“There is something terrible the matter;
Russell is either ill or dead. I must go to him.”

“Nonsense! sheer nonsense; he is busy,
that is all. Your cousin has forgotten you for
the time; after a while he will write. You
are too exacting; young men sometimes find
constant, regular correspondence a bore; a
letter every week is too much to expect of
him. Don't be childish, Electra.”

As she noticed the frown on his face, a dark
suspicion seized her; “perhaps he had intercepted
her letters.” Could he stoop to such
an artifice?

“Electra, I would try to divert my mind.
After all, his letters are short, and, I should
judge, rather unsatisfactory.”

“What do you know of the length or contents
of his letters?”

“I know they are brief, because I occasionally
see them open in your hand; I judge that
they are unsatisfactory from the cloud on your
face whenever they come. But I have no
disposition to contest the value of his correspondence
with you. That article on chiaro-scuro
has arrived at last; if you feel inclined,
you can begin it at once.”

Chiaro-scuro, forsooth! Mockery! She
had quite chiaro-scuro enough, and to spare;
but the smile on the artist's lips stung her,
and, without a word, she took a seat at his
side and began to read. Page after page was
turned, technicalities slipped through her lips,
but she understood as little of the essay as if
the language had been Sancrit instead of
Saxon; for, like the deep, undying murmur of
the restless sea, there rang in her ears, “No
letter! no letter!” As she finished the pamphlet
and threw it on the table, her hands
dropped listlessly in her lap. Mr. Clifton was
trying to read her countenance, and, impatient
of his scrutiny, she rose to seek her own
room. Just then the door-bell rang sharply;
she supposed it was some brother-artist coming
to spend an hour, and turned to go.

“Wait a minute; I want to —;” he paused,
for at that instant she heard a voice which, even
amid the din of Shinar, would have been unmistakable
to her, and, breaking from him, she
sprang to the threshold and met her cousin.

“Oh, Russell! I thought you had forgotten
me.”

“What put such a ridiculous thought into
your head? My last letter must have prepared
you to expect me.”

“What letter? I have had none for three
weeks.”

“One in which I mentioned Mr. Campbell's
foreign appointment, and the position of secretary
which he tendered me. Electra, let
me speak to Mr. Clifton.”

As he advanced and greeted the artist she
heard a quick, snapping sound, and saw the
beautiful Bohemian glass paper-cutter her
guardian had been using lying, shivered to
atoms, on the rug. The fluted handle was
crushed in his fingers, and drops of blood oozed
over the left hand. Ere she could allude to
it he thrust his hand into his pocket and desired
Russell to be seated.

“This is a pleasure totally unexpected.
What is the appointment of which you spoke?”

“Mr. Campbell has been appointed Minister
to —, and sails next week. I am surprised
that you have not heard of it from the
public journals; many of them have spoken of
it, and warmly commended the selection. I
accompany him in the capacity of secretary,
and shall, meanwhile, prosecute my studies
under his direction.”

The gray, glittering eyes of the artist sought
those of his pupil, and for an instant hers
quailed; but, rallying, she looked fully, steadfastly
at him, resolved to play out the game,
scorning to bare her heart to his scrutiny.
She had fancied that Russell's affection had
prompted this visit; now it was apparent that
he came to New York to take a steamer, not
to see her; to put the stormy Atlantic between
them. The foaming draught which she had
snatched to her lips so eagerly, so joyfully,
was turning to hemlock as she tasted; and
though she silently put the cup from her, it was
done smilingly; there were no wry faces, no
gestures of disgust.

“New York certainly agrees with you, Electra;
you have grown and improved very much
since you came North. I never saw such color
in your cheeks before; I can scarcely believe
that you are the same fragile child I put into
the stage one year ago. This reconciles me
to having given you up to Mr. Clifton; he is a
better guardian than I could have been. But
tell me something more about these new relatives
you spoke of having found here.”

Mr. Clifton left the room, and the two sat
side by side for an hour, talking of the gloomy
past, the flitting present, the uncertain future.
Leaning back in his chair, with his eyes fixed
on the grate, Russell said, gravely:

“There is now nothing to impede my successful
career; obstacles are rapidly melting
away; every day brings me nearer the goal I
long since set before me. In two years at
farthest, perhaps earlier, I shall return and
begin the practice of law. Once admitted, I
ask no more. Then, and not till then, I hope
to save you from the necessity of labor; in the
interim, Mr. Clifton will prove a noble and
generous friend; and believe me, my cousin,
the thought of leaving you so long is the only
thing which will mar the pleasure of my European
sojourn.”

The words were kind enough, but the tone
was indifferent, and the countenance showed
her that their approaching separation disquieted
him little. She thought of the sleepless
nights and wretched days she had passed
waiting for a letter from that tall, reserved,
cold cousin, and her features relaxed in a derisive
smile at the folly of her all-absorbing
love. Raising his eyes accidentally he caught
the smile, wondered what there was to call it
forth in the plans which he had just laid before
her, and, meeting his glance of surprise, she
said, carelessly:

“Are you not going to see Irene before you
sail?”

His cheek flushed as he rose, straightened
himself, and answered:

“A strange question, truly, from one who
knows me as well as you do. Call to see a
girl whose father sent her from home solely to
prevent her from associating with my family?
Through what sort of metamorphosis do you
suppose that I have passed, that every spark
of self-respect has been crushed out of me?”

“Her father's tyranny and selfishness can
never nullify her noble and affectionate remembrance
of Aunt Amy in the hour of her
need.”

“And when I am able to repay her every
cent we owe her, then, and not till then, I
wish to see her. Things shall change; mens
cuiusque is est quisque; and the day will come
when Mr. Huntingdon may not think it degrading
for his daughter to acknowledge my
acquaintance on the street.”

A brief silence ensued, Russell drew on his
gloves, and finally said, hesitatingly:

“Dr. Arnold told me she had suffered very
much from a fall.”

“Yes; for a long time she was confined to
her room.”

“Has she recovered entirely?”

“Entirely. She grows more beautiful day
by day.”

Perhaps he wished to hear more concerning
her, but she would not gratify him, and,
soon after, he took up his hat.

“Mr. Clifton has a spare room, Russell; why
can't you stay with us while you are in New
York?”

“Thank you; but Mr. Campbell will expect
me at the hotel; I shall be needed, too, as he
has many letters to write. I will see you to-morrow,
and indeed every day while I remain
in the city.”

“Then pay your visits in the morning, for I
want to take your portrait with my own hands.
Give me a sitting as early as possible.”

“Very well; look for me to-morrow. Good-night.”

The week that followed was one of strangely-mingled
sorrows and joys; in after years it
served as a prominent land-mark to which she
looked back and dated sad changes in her
heart. Irene remained ignorant of Russell's
presence in the city, and at last the day
dawned on which the vessel was to sail. At
the breakfast table Mr. Clifton noticed the
colorlessness of his pupil's face, but kindly abstained
from any allusion to it. He saw that,
contrary to habit, she drank a cup of coffee,
and, arresting her arm as she requested his
mother to give her a second, he said, gently:

“My dear child, where did you suddenly find
such Turkish tastes? I thought you disliked
coffee?”

“I take it now as medicine. My head aches
horribly.”

“Then let me prescribe for you. We will
go down to the steamer with Russell, and afterward
take a long ride to Greenwood, if you
like.”

“He said he would call here at ten o'clock
to bid us farewell.”

“N'importe. The carriage will be ready,
and we will accompany him.”

At the appointed hour they repaired to the
vessel, and, looking at its huge sides, Electra
coveted even a deck passage; envied the
meanest who hurried about, making all things
ready for departure. The last bell rang;
people crowded down on the planks; Russell
hastened back to the carriage and took the
nerveless gloved hand.

“I will write as early as possible; don't be
uneasy about me; no accident has ever happened
on this line. I am glad I leave you
with such a friend as Mr. Clifton. Good-by,
cousin; it will not be very long before we meet
again.”

He kissed the passive lips, shook hands with
the artist, and sprang on board just as the
planks were withdrawn. The vessel moved
majestically on its way; friends on shore waved
handkerchiefs to friends departing, and hands
were kissed and hats lifted, and then the
crowd slowly dispersed—for steamers sail every
week, and people become accustomed to the
spectacle. But to-day it was freighted with
the last fond hope of a deep and passionate
nature; and as Electra gazed on the line of
foam whitening the dull surface of the water,
the short-lived billows and deep hollows between
seemed newly-made graves, whose
hungry jaws had closed for ever over the one
bright lingering hope which she had hugged
to her heart.

“Are you ready to go now?” asked Mr.
Clifton.

“Yes, ready, quite ready—for Greenwood.”

She spoke in a tone which had lost its liquid
music, and with a wintry smile that fled over
the ashy face, lending the features no light,
no warmth.

He tried to divert her mind by calling attention
to various things of interest, but the
utter exhaustion of her position and the monosyllabic
character of her replies soon discouraged
him. Both felt relieved when the
carriage stopped before the studio, and as he
led her up the steps he said, affectionately:

“I am afraid my prescription has not cured
your head.”

“No, sir; but I thank you most sincerely
for the kind effort you have made to relieve
me. I shall be better to-morrow. Good-by,
till then.”

“Stay, my child. Come into the studio, and
let me read something light and pleasant to
you.”

“Not for the universe! The sight of a book
would give me brain-fever, I verily believe.”

She tried unavailingly to shake off his hand.

“Why do you shrink from me, my pupil?”

“Because I am sick, weary; and you watch
me so, that I get restless and nervous. Do
let me go! I want to sleep.”

An impatient stamp emphasized the words,
and, as he relaxed his clasp of her fingers, she
hastened to her room, and locked the door to
prevent all intrusion. Taking off her bonnet,
she drew the heavy shawl closely around her
shoulders and threw herself across the foot of
the bed, burying her face in her hands lest
the bare walls should prove witnesses of her
agony. Six hours later she lay there still,
with pale fingers pressed to burning, dry eyelids.

Oh, bigotry of human nature! By what
high commission, by what royal patent, do
men and women essay to judge of fellow-men
and sister-women by one stern, inexorable
standard, unyielding as the measure of Damastes?
The variety of emotional and intellectual
types is even greater than the physical,
and, as the ages roll, we need other criteria.
Who shall dare lay finger on fellow-creature
and audaciously proclaim: “I have gone down
among the volcanic chambers of this soul and
groped in its adytum, amid the dust and ruins
of its overturned altars and crumbling idols;
have fathomed its mysteries, and will tell you,
by infallible plummet, the depths thereof.”
There are sealed cells, where, veiled from
scrutiny and sacred as Eleusinia, burns the
God-given shechinah of the human soul. As
the myriad shells that tessellate old ocean's
pavements, as the vast army of innumerable
clouds which ceaselessly shift their coloring
and their forms at the presto of wizard winds;
as the leaves of the forest that bud and wane
in the flush of summer or the howl of wintry
storms, so we differ one from another. Linnæus
and Jussien, with microscopic aid, have
classified and christened; but now and then
new varieties startle modern savans, and so
likewise new types stalk among men and women,
whose elements will neither be lopped
off nor elongated to meet the established
measure.