THE CLOSE OF THE VIGIL
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 outdoor 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
favourite 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_ mantel, 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. 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. Le Roy 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 humoured,
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 colours 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 masterpiece, 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. 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 laboured 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 Phaedo: "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.
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 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 dispatched 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 downstairs 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 favourite 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?"
"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 headstone. You have been faithful
and uncomplaining; you have been to me a light, a joy, and a glory! God
bless you, my pupil. 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. Two hours elapsed and there by the couch sat the motionless
watcher, noting the indescribable but unmistakable change creeping on. The
feeble, threadlike pulse fluttered irregularly, but the breathing became
easy and low as a babe's, and occasionally a gentle sigh heaved the chest.
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, and met
the solemn, fascinating eyes of Munin the owl, staring at her from the low
mantel. 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
grey 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.
The vigil was over, the burden was lifted from her shoulders, the weary
ministry here ended; and shrouding her face in her arms, the lonely woman
wept bitterly.