The prospect of pursuing artistic studies at home was not brilliant,
as one may imagine when I mention that Psyche's father was a painfully
prosaic man, wrapt in flannel, so to speak; for his woollen mills left
him no time for anything but sleep, food, and newspapers. Mrs. Dean
was one of those exasperating women who pervade their mansions like
a domestic steam-engine one week and take to their sofas the next,
absorbed by fidgets and foot-stoves, shawls and lamentations. There
were three riotous and robust young brothers, whom it is unnecessary
to describe except by stating that they were _boys_ in the broadest
sense of that delightful word. There was a feeble little sister, whose
patient, suffering face demanded constant love and care to mitigate
the weariness of a life of pain. And last, but not least by any means,
there were two Irish ladies, who, with the best intentions imaginable,
produced a universal state of topsy-turviness when left to themselves
for a moment.
But being very much in earnest about doing her duty, not because it
_was_ her duty, but as a means toward an end, Psyche fell to work with
a will, hoping to serve both masters at once. So she might have done,
perhaps, if flesh and blood had been as plastic as clay, but the live
models were so exacting in their demands upon her time and strength,
that the poor statues went to the wall. Sculpture and sewing, calls
and crayons, Ruskin and receipt-books, didn't work well together, and
poor Psyche found duties and desires desperately antagonistic. Take a
day as a sample.
"The washing and ironing are well over, thank goodness, mother quiet,
the boys out of the way, and May comfortable, so I'll indulge myself
in a blissful day after my own heart," Psyche said, as she shut
herself into her little studio, and prepared to enjoy a few hours of
hard study and happy day-dreams.
With a book on her lap, and her own round white arm going through all
manner of queer evolutions, she was placidly repeating, "Deltoides,
Biceps, Triceps, Pronator, Supinator, Palmanis, Flexor carpi
ulnaris--"
"Here's Flexis what-you-call-ums for you," interrupted a voice, which
began in a shrill falsetto and ended in a gruff bass, as a flushed,
dusty, long-legged boy burst in, with a bleeding hand obligingly
extended for inspection.
"Mercy on us, Harry! what have you done to yourself now? Split your
fingers with a cricket-ball again?" cried Psyche, as her arms went up
and her book went down.
"I just thrashed one of the fellows because he got mad and said father
was going to fail."
"O Harry, is he?"
"Of course he isn't! It's hard times for every one, but father will
pull through all right. No use to try and explain it all; girls can't
understand business; so you just tie me up, and don't worry," was the
characteristic reply of the young man, who, being three years her
junior, of course treated the weaker vessel with lordly condescension.
"What a dreadful wound! I hope nothing is broken, for I haven't
studied the hand much yet, and may do mischief doing it up," said
Psyche, examining the great grimy paw with tender solicitude.
"Much good your biceps, and deltoids, and things do you, if you can't
right up a little cut like that," squeaked the ungrateful hero.
"I'm not going to be a surgeon, thank heaven; I intend to make
perfect hands and arms, not mend damaged ones," retorted Psyche, in a
dignified tone, somewhat marred by a great piece of court-plaster on
her tongue.
"I should say a surgeon could improve _that_ perfect thing, if he
didn't die a-laughing before he began," growled Harry, pointing with
a scornful grin at a clay arm humpy with muscles, all carefully
developed in the wrong places.
"Don't sneer, Hal, for you don't know anything about it. Wait a few
years and see if you're not proud of me."
"Sculp away and do something, then I'll hurrah for your mud-pies
like a good one;" with which cheering promise the youth left, having
effectually disturbed his sister's peaceful mood.
Anxious thoughts of her father rendered "biceps, deltoids, and things"
uninteresting, and hoping to compose her mind, she took up The Old
Painters and went on with the story of Claude Lorraine. She had just
reached the tender scene where,--
"Calista gazed with enthusiasm, while she looked like a being of
heaven rather than earth. 'My friend,' she cried, 'I read in thy
picture thy immortality!' As she spoke, her head sunk upon his bosom,
and it was several moments before Claude perceived that he supported a
lifeless form."
"How sweet!" said Psyche, with a romantic sigh.
"Faith, and swate it is, thin!" echoed Katy, whose red head had just
appeared round the half opened door. "It's gingy-bread I'm making the
day, miss, and will I be puttin' purlash or sallyrathis into it, if ye
plase?"
"Purlash, by all means," returned the girl, keeping her countenance,
fearing to enrage Katy by a laugh; for the angry passions of the
red-haired one rose more quickly than her bread.
As she departed with alacrity to add a spoonful of starch and a pinch
of whiting to her cake, Psyche, feeling better for her story and her
smile, put on her bib and paper cap and fell to work on the deformed
arm. An hour of bliss, then came a ring at the door-bell, followed by
Biddy to announce callers, and add that as "the mistress was in her
bed, miss must go and take care of 'em." Whereat "miss" cast down her
tools in despair, threw her cap one way, her bib another, and went in
to her guests with anything but a rapturous welcome.
Dinner being accomplished after much rushing up and down stairs with
trays and messages for Mrs. Dean, Psyche fled again to her studio,
ordering no one to approach under pain of a scolding. All went well
till, going in search of something, she found her little sister
sitting on the floor with her cheek against the studio door.
"I didn't mean to be naughty, Sy, but mother is asleep, and the boys
all gone, so I just came to be near you; it's so lonely everywhere,"
she said, apologetically, as she lifted up the heavy head that always
ached.
"The boys are very thoughtless. Come in and stay with me; you are such
a mouse you won't disturb me. Wouldn't you like to play be a model and
let me draw your arm, and tell you all about the nice little bones and
muscles?" asked Psyche, who had the fever very strong upon her just
then.
May didn't look as if the proposed amusement overwhelmed her with
delight, but meekly consented to be perched upon a high stool with
one arm propped up by a dropsical plaster cherub, while Psyche drew
busily, feeling that duty and pleasure were being delightfully
combined.
"Can't you hold your arm still, child? It shakes so I can't get it
right," she said, rather impatiently.
"No, it will tremble 'cause it's weak. I try hard, Sy, but there
doesn't seem to be much strongness in me lately."
"That's better; keep it so a few minutes and I'll be done," cried the
artist, forgetting that a few minutes may seem ages.
"My arm is so thin you can see the bunches nicely,--can't you?"
"Yes, dear."
Psyche glanced up at the wasted limb, and when she drew again there
was a blur before her eyes for a minute.
"I wish I was as fat as this white boy; but I get thinner every day
somehow, and pretty soon there won't be any of me left but my little
bones," said the child, looking at the winged cherub with sorrowful
envy.
"Don't, my darling; don't say that," cried Psyche, dropping her work
with a sudden pang at her heart. "I'm a sinful, selfish girl to keep
you here! you're weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens,
and pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the boys."
The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche's neck, and the tired
face brightened beautifully as the child exclaimed, with grateful
delight,--
"Oh, I'd like it very much! I wanted to go dreadfully; but everybody
is so busy all the time. I don't want to play, Sy; but just to lie on
the grass with my head in your lap while you tell stories and draw me
pretty things as you used to."
The studio was deserted all that afternoon, for Psyche sat in the
orchard drawing squirrels on the wall, pert robins hopping by,
buttercups and mosses, elves and angels; while May lay contentedly
enjoying sun and air, sisterly care, and the "pretty things" she loved
so well. Psyche did not find the task a hard one; for this time her
heart was in it, and if she needed any reward she surely found it; for
the little face on her knee lost its weary look, and the peace and
beauty of nature soothed her own troubled spirit, cheered her heart,
and did her more good than hours of solitary study.
Finding, much to her own surprise, that her fancy was teeming with
lovely conceits, she did hope for a quiet evening. But mother wanted a
bit of gossip, father must have his papers read to him, the boys had
lessons and rips and grievances to be attended to, May's lullaby could
not be forgotten, and the maids had to be looked after, lest burly
"cousins" should be hidden in the boiler, or lucifer matches among
the shavings. So Psyche's day ended, leaving her very tired, rather
discouraged, and almost heart-sick with the shadow of a coming sorrow.
All summer she did her best, but accomplished very little, as she
thought; yet this was the teaching she most needed, and in time she
came to see it. In the autumn May died, whispering, with her arms
about her sister's neck,--
"You make me so happy, Sy, I wouldn't mind the pain if I could stay a
little longer. But if I can't, good-by, dear, good-by."
Her last look and word and kiss were all for Psyche, who felt then
with grateful tears that her summer had not been wasted; for the smile
upon the little dead face was more to her than any marble perfection
her hands could have carved.
In the solemn pause which death makes in every family, Psyche said,
with the sweet self-forgetfulness of a strong yet tender nature,--
"I must not think of myself, but try to comfort them;" and with this
resolution she gave herself heart and soul to duty, never thinking of
reward.
A busy, anxious, humdrum winter, for, as Harry said, "it was hard
times for every one." Mr. Dean grew gray with the weight of business
cares about which he never spoke; Mrs. Dean, laboring under the
delusion that an invalid was a necessary appendage to the family,
installed herself in the place the child's death left vacant, and the
boys needed much comforting, for the poor lads never knew how much
they loved "the baby" till the little chair stood empty. All turned to
Sy for help and consolation, and her strength seemed to increase with
the demand upon it. Patience and cheerfulness, courage and skill came
at her call like good fairies who had bided their time. Housekeeping
ceased to be hateful, and peace reigned in parlor and kitchen while
Mrs. Dean, shrouded in shawls, read Hahnemann's Lesser Writings on her
sofa. Mr. Dean sometimes forgot his mills when a bright face came
to meet him, a gentle hand smoothed the wrinkles out of his anxious
forehead, and a daughterly heart sympathized with all his cares. The
boys found home very pleasant with Sy always there ready to "lend a
hand," whether it was to make fancy ties, help conjugate "a confounded
verb," pull candy, or sing sweetly in the twilight when all thought of
little May and grew quiet.
The studio door remained locked till her brothers begged Psyche to
open it and make a bust of the child. A flush of joy swept over her
face at the request, and her patient eyes grew bright and eager, as
a thirsty traveller's might at the sight or sound of water. Then it
faded as she shook her head, saying with a regretful sigh, "I'm afraid
I've lost the little skill I ever had."
But she tried, and with great wonder and delight discovered that she
could work as she had never done before. She thought the newly found
power lay in her longing to see the little face again; for it grew
like magic under her loving hands, while every tender memory, sweet
thought, and devout hope she had ever cherished, seemed to lend their
aid. But when it was done and welcomed with tears and smiles, and
praise more precious than any the world could give, then Psyche said
within herself, like one who saw light at last,--
"He was right; doing one's duty _is_ the way to feed heart, soul, and
imagination; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can
work well."