"Not a man of them but has heard his name called. The time of a man is
his own. The trumpet sounds, and though he were dead, yet shall he
live."
"And do you wait that sound? Then verily you may remain here safely, and
paint fine pictures of wounded men on awful battle-fields."
The artist looked at the woman. Did she speak to test his patience, or
his courage, or his loyalty? Gravely he answered, true to himself,
though baffled in his endeavor to read what she chose to conceal,--
"Once I took everything you said as if you were inspired, for I believed
you were. For years I have been accustomed to think of your approval,
and wait for it, and long for it; for I always knew you would finally
stand here in the midst of my work as the one thing that should prove to
me it was good. If you could only know what sort of value I have set on
the praise of critics while waiting for yours, you would deem me
ungrateful. But I knew you would come. You are here, then,--and I
perceive, though you do not say so, that I have not wasted time; often,
while I was painting that hero yonder, I said to myself, 'Better die
than hold on to life or self a moment after the voice calls!' Julia, it
has called!"
This was spoken quietly enough, but with the deep feeling that seeks
neither outlet nor consolation in sound. Having spoken, he went up to
his easel, cut away the canvas with long, even knife-strokes, set aside
the frame. He was ready. And now he waited further orders,--looking at
the woman who had accomplished so much.
She did not, by gesture or word, interrupt him; but when he stood
absolutely motionless and silent, as if more were to be said, and by
her, she evidently faltered.
"Give me the canvas," she said.
"Your trophy."
He gave it her with a smile.
"No; but if a trophy, worth more than could be told.
There's nobler work for you to do than painting pictures.
Atonement,--reconciliation,--sacrifice."
"Where? when? how?"
He put these questions with a distinctness that required answer.
"Your heart will tell you."
He _had_ his answer.
"And the portrait yonder, that will tell you. It is not hers, you will
say. But it is not mine, nor a vision, except as you have glorified her.
In spite of yourself, you are true. And in spite of herself, Sybella
believes in you."
"Such a collection of incoherent fragments from the lips of an artist
accustomed to treat of unities,--it is incomprehensible."