"THE SANCTIFIED DEVOTION AND FULL WORK"
The sunlight of a warm spring day flashed through the open window, and made
golden arabesque tracery on the walls, and portraits of the parlour at
Huntingdon Hill. The costly crimson damask curtains had long since been cut
into shirts for the soldiers, and transported to the army of Tennessee, and
air and sunshine entered unimpeded. Electra sat before her canvas in this
room, absorbed in the design which now engaged every thought. The witchery
of her profession had woven its spell about her, banishing for a time the
spectral past.
The extension of the Conscription statute had, several months before,
deprived Irene of a valued and trusty overseer; and to satisfy herself
concerning the character of his successor, and the condition of affairs at
home, she and her uncle had returned to W----, bringing Electra with them.
Irene was with Electra in the parlour.
"What progress are you making, Electra?"
"Very little. I shall not hurry myself; I intend that the execution shall
be equal to my ideal--and that ideal entirely worthy of the theme. I want
to lay my '_Modern Macaria_,' as the first offering of Southern art, upon
my country's altar, as a nucleus around which nobler and grander pictures,
from the hands of my countrymen and women, shall cluster."
"Electra, in order to effect this 'consummation devoutly to be wished,' it
is necessary that the primary branches of Art should be popularized, and
thrown open to the masses; and in order to open for them new avenues of
support, I have determined to establish in W---- a School of Design for
Women--similar in plan, though more extensive, than that founded some years
ago by Mrs. Peter of Philadelphia. The upper portion of the building will
be arranged for drawing classes, wood-engraving, and the various branches
of Design; and the lower, corresponding in size and general appearance, I
intend for a circulating library for our county. Over that School of Design
I want you to preside; your talents, your education, your devotion to your
Art fit you peculiarly for the position. The salary shall be such as to
compensate you for your services; and, when calmer days dawn upon us, we
may be able to secure some very valuable lecturers among our
gentlemen-artists. I have a large lot on the corner of Pine Street and
Huntingdon Avenue, opposite the court-house, which will be a fine location
for it, and I wish to appropriate it to this purpose. While you are
adorning the interior of the building, the walls of which are to contain
frescoes of some of the most impressive scenes of our Revolution, I will
embellish the grounds in front, and make them my special charge. I
understand the cultivation of flowers, though the gift of painting them is
denied me. Yesterday I sold my diamonds for a much larger amount than I
supposed they would command, and this sum, added to other funds now at my
disposal, will enable me to accomplish the scheme. Dr. Arnold and Uncle
Eric cordially approve my plan, will aid me very liberally, and as soon as
tranquillity is restored I shall succeed in erecting the building without
applying to any one else for assistance. When your picture is finished, I
wish you to make me a copy to be hung up in our School of Design, that the
students may be constantly reminded of the debt of gratitude we owe our
armies."
The canvas, which she leaned forward to inspect more closely, contained an
allegorical design representing, in the foreground, two female figures. One
stern, yet noble-featured, crowned with stars--triumph and exultation
flashing in the luminous eyes. Independence, crimson-mantled, grasping the
Confederate Banner of the Cross, whose victorious folds streamed above a
captured battery, where a Federal flag trailed in the dust. At her side
stood white-robed, angelic Peace with one hand over the touch-hole of the
cannon against which she leaned, and the other extended in benediction.
Vividly the faces contrasted--one all athrob with national pride, beaming
with brilliant destiny; the other wonderfully serene and holy. In the
distance, gleaming in the evening light which streamed from the West, tents
dotted a hill-side; and, intermediate between Peace and the glittering
tents, stretched a torn, stained battlefield, over which the roar and rush
of conflict had just swept, leaving mangled heaps of dead in attestation of
its fury.
"How many months do you suppose it will require to complete it?" asked
Irene, whose interest in the picture was scarcely inferior to that of its
creator.
"If I work steadily upon it, I can soon finish it; but if I go with you to
a Tennessee hospital, I must, of course, leave it here until the war ends.
After all, Irene, the joy of success does not equal that which attends the
patient working. Perhaps it is because 'anticipation is the purest part of
pleasure.' I love my work; no man or woman ever loved it better; and yet
there is a painful feeling of isolation, of loneliness, which steals over
me sometimes, and chills all my enthusiasm. It is so mournful to know that,
when the labour is ended, and a new chaplet encircles my brow, I shall have
no one but you to whom I can turn for sympathy in my triumph. If I feel
this so keenly now, how shall I bear it when the glow of life fades into
sober twilight shadows, and age creeps upon me?"
She threw down her brush and palette, and, turning towards her companion,
leaned her purplish head against her.
"Electra, it is very true that single women have trials for which a
thoughtless, happy world has little sympathy. But lonely lives are not
necessarily joyless; they should be, of all others, most useful.
"Remember that the woman who dares to live alone, and be sneered at, is
braver, and nobler, and better than she who escapes both in a loveless
marriage. It is true that you and I are very lonely, and yet our future
holds much that is bright. You have the profession you love so well, and
our new School of Design to engage your thoughts; and I a thousand claims
on my time and attention. I have Uncle Eric to take care of and to love,
and Dr. Arnold, who is growing quite infirm, has promised me that, as soon
as he can be spared from the hospitals, he will make his home with us. When
this storm of war has spent itself, your uncle's family will return from
Europe and reside here with you. Harvey, too, will come to W---- to
live--will probably take charge of Mr. Campbell's church--and we shall have
the pleasure and benefit of his constant counsel. If I could see you a
member of that church I should be better satisfied--and you would be
happier."
"I would join to-morrow, if thereby I could acquire your sublime faith, and
strength, and resignation. Oh, Irene! my friend and comforter! I want to
live differently in future. Once I was wedded to life and my
Art--pre-eminence in my profession, fame, was all that I cared to attain;
now I desire to spend my remaining years so that I may meet Russell beyond
the grave. His death broke the ties that bound me to this world; I live now
in hope of reunion in God's eternal kingdom. I have been selfish, and
careless, and complaining; but, oh! I want to do my whole duty henceforth.
Irene, my calm, sweet, patient guide, teach me to be more like you."
"Electra, take Christ for your model, instead of an erring human being like
yourself, constantly falling short of her own duty. With Harvey to direct
us, we ought to accomplish a world of good, here in sight of Russell's
grave."
The eyes of the artist went back to the stainless robes and seraphic face
of her pictured Peace in the loved "Modern Macaria," and, as she resumed
her work, her brow cleared, the countenance kindled as in days of yore,
bitter memories hushed their moans and fell asleep at the wizard touch of
her profession, and the stormy, stricken soul found balm and rest in
Heaven-appointed Labour.
Standing at the back of Electra's chair, with one hand resting on her
shoulder, Irene raised her holy violet eyes, and looked through the window
toward the cemetery, where glittered a tall marble shaft which the citizens
of W---- had erected over the last quiet resting-place of Russell Aubrey.
Sands of Time were drifting stealthily around the crumbling idols of the
morning of life, levelling and tenderly shrouding the Past, but sorrow left
its softening shadow on the orphan's countenance, and laid its chastening
finger about the lips which meekly murmured: "Thy will be done." The rays
of the setting sun gilded her mourning dress, gleamed in the white roses
that breathed their perfume in her rippling hair, and lingered like a
benediction on the placid pure face of the lonely woman who had survived
every earthly hope; and who, calmly fronting her Altars of Sacrifice, here
dedicated herself anew to the hallowed work of promoting the happiness and
gladdening the paths of all who journeyed with her down the chequered
aisles of Time.
_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_