CHAPTER XIV
THE CLOSE OF THE VIGIL
The year that ensued proved a valuable school of patience, and taught theyoung artist a gentleness of tone and quietude of manner at variance withthe natural impetuosity of her character. Irksome beyond degree was thediscipline to which she subjected herself, but, with a fixedness of purposethat knew no wavering, she walked through the daily dreary routine, keepingher eyes upon the end that slowly but unmistakably approached. Inmid-summer Mr. Clifton removed, for a few weeks, to the Catskill, andoccasionally he rallied for a few hours, with a tenacity of strength almostmiraculous. During the still sunny afternoons hosts of gay visitors, summertourists, often paused in their excursions to watch the emaciated form ofthe painter leaning on the arm of his beautiful pupil, or reclining on alichen-carpeted knoll while she sketched the surrounding scenery. Increasedfeebleness prevented Mrs. Clifton from joining in these outdoor jaunts,and early in September, when it became apparent that her mind was rapidlysinking into imbecility, they returned to the city. Memory seemed to havedeserted its throne; she knew neither her son nor Electra, and the lastspark of intelligence manifested itself in a semi-recognition of herfavourite cat, which sprang to welcome her back as friendly hands bore herto the chamber she was to quit no more till death released the crushedspirit. A letter was found on the _atelier_ mantel, directed to Electra infamiliar characters, which she had not seen for months. Very quietly sheput it in her pocket, and in the solitude of her room broke the seal; foundthat Russell had returned during her absence, had spent a morning in thestudio looking over her work, and had gone South to establish himself inhis native town. Ah! the grievous, grievous disappointment. A bitter cryrolled from her lips, and the hands wrung each other despairingly; but anhour later she stood beside the artist with unruffled brow and a serenemouth, that bore no surface-token of the sorrow gnawing at her heart.Winter came on earlier than usual, with unwonted severity; and, week afterweek, Electra went continually from one sufferer to another, striving toalleviate pain, and to kindle a stray beam of sunshine in the darkenedmansion. Unremitted vigil set its pale, infallible signet on her face, butMr. Clifton either could not or would not see the painful alteration in herappearance; and when Mrs. Young remonstrated with her niece upon theruinous effects of this tedious confinement to the house, she only answeredsteadily: "I will nurse him so long as I have strength left to creep fromone room to another."
During Christmas week he grew alarmingly worse, and Dr. Le Roy counted thewaning life by hours; but on New Year's eve he declared himself almostwell, 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 largecushioned chair, smiling to find himself once more in the midst of histreasures. Turning back the velvet cuff from his attenuated wrist, helifted his flushed face toward the nurse, and said eagerly: "Uncover myeasel; make William draw it close to me; I have been idle long enough. Giveme my palette; I want to retouch the forehead of my hero. It needs a highlight."
"You are not strong enough to work. Wait till to-morrow."
"To-morrow! to-morrow! You have told me that fifty times. Wheel up theeasel, 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 thebrushes he required. Resting his feet upon the cross-beam, he leanedforward and gazed earnestly upon his masterpiece, the darling design whichhad haunted his brain for years. "Theta" he called this piece of canvas,which was a large square painting representing, in the foreground, thedeath of Socrates. The details of the picture were finished withpre-Raphaelite precision and minuteness--the sweep and folds of draperyabout the couch, the emptied hemlock cup--but the central figure of theMartyr lacked something, and to these last touches Mr. Clifton essayed toaddress himself. Slowly, feebly, the transparent hand wandered over thecanvas, and Electra heard with alarm the laboured breath that came pantingfrom his parted lips. She saw the unnatural sparkle in his sunken eyesalmost die out, then leap up again, like smouldering embers swept by asudden gust, and in the clear strong voice of other years, he repeated tohimself the very words of Plato's Phaedo: "For I have heard that it is rightto die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up."
Leaning back to note the effect of his touches, a shiver ran through hisframe, the brush fell from his tremulous fingers, and he lay motionless andexhausted.
Folding his hands like a helpless, tired child, he raised his eyes to hersand said brokenly--
"I bequeath it to you; finish my work. You understand me--you know what islacking; 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 havingarranged the pillows on the lounge, drew it close to the easel, andprevailed on him to lie down.
A servant was dispatched for Dr. Le Roy, but returned to say that adangerous case detained him elsewhere.
"Mr. Clifton, would you like to have your mother brought downstairs andplaced 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 bunchof sweet violets on his pillow, sat down at his side. His favourite spanielnestled at her feet, and occasionally threw up his head and gazed wistfullyat his master. Thus two hours passed, and as she rose to administer themedicine he waved it off, saying--
"Give me no more of it. I won't be drugged in my last hours. I won't havemy 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 limbswill 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 withme, and see me die?"
She would not trust herself to speak, but laid her hand in his and claspedit firmly. He smiled, and added--
"Will you promise to call no one? I want no eyes but yours to watch me as Idie. Let there be only you and me."
"I promise."
For some moments he lay motionless, but the intensity of his gaze made herrestless, and she shaded her face.
"Electra, my darling, your martyrdom draws to a close. I have beenmerciless in my exactions, I know; you are worn to a shadow, and your faceis sharp and haggard; but you will forgive me all, when the willows ofGreenwood trail their boughs across my headstone. You have been faithfuland uncomplaining; you have been to me a light, a joy, and a glory! Godbless you, my pupil. In my vest-pocket is the key of my writing-desk. Thereyou will find my will; take charge of it, and put it in Le Roy's hands assoon as possible. Give me some water."
She held the glass to his lips, and, as he sank back, a bright smile playedover his face.
"Ah, child! it is such a comfort to have you here--you are so inexpressiblydear to me."
She took his thin hands in hers, and hot tears fell upon them. Anintolerable weight crushed her heart, a half-defined, horrible dread, andshe asked, falteringly--
"Are you willing to die? Is your soul at peace with God? Have you any fearof 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 thesufferer. Two hours elapsed and there by the couch sat the motionlesswatcher, noting the indescribable but unm
istakable change creeping on. Thefeeble, threadlike pulse fluttered irregularly, but the breathing becameeasy 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 expressioncame into her large eyes as she glanced nervously round the room, and metthe solemn, fascinating eyes of Munin the owl, staring at her from the lowmantel. She caught her breath, and the deep silence was broken by themetallic tongue that dirged out "twelve." The last stroke of the bronzehammer echoed drearily; the old year lay stark and cold on its bier; Muninflapped his dusky wings with a long, sepulchral, blood-curdling hoot, andthe dying man opened his dim, failing eyes, and fixed them for the lasttime 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, thegrey eyes closed, and a smile throned itself on the parted lips. A slighttremor shook the limbs, a soft shuddering breath swept across the watcher'sface, and the "golden bowl" was shivered, the "silver cord" was loosed.
The vigil was over, the burden was lifted from her shoulders, the wearyministry here ended; and shrouding her face in her arms, the lonely womanwept bitterly.