Part 16 (1/2)
”This is unpropitious weather for you, Mr. Clifton.”
”Yes, this winter offers a dreary prospect.”
Resting her chin in her hands she raised her eyes, and said--
”Why do you not follow the doctor's advice? A winter South might restore you.”
He drew near, and, leaning his folded arms on the top of the easel, looked down into her face.
”There is only one condition upon which I could consent to go; that is in your hands. Will you accompany me?”
She understood it all in an instant, saw the new form in which the trial presented itself, and her soul sickened.
”Mr. Clifton, if I were your sister, or your child, I would gladly go; but as your pupil, I cannot.”
”As Electra Grey, certainly not; but as Electra Clifton you could go.”
”Electra Grey will be carved on my tombstone.”
”Then you decide my fate. I remain, and wait the slow approach of death.”
”No, before just Heaven! I take no such responsibility, nor shall you thrust it on me. You are a man, and must decide your destiny for yourself; I am a poor girl, having no claim upon, no power over you. It is your duty to preserve the life which G.o.d gave you, in the way prescribed by your physician, and I have no voice in the matter. It is your duty to go South, and it will be both weak and wicked to remain here under existing circ.u.mstances.”
”My life is centred in you; it is worthless, nay, a burden, separated from you.”
”Your life should be centred in something n.o.bler, better; in your duty, in your profession. It is suicidal to fold your hands listlessly, and look to me as you do.”
”All these things have I tried, and I am weary of the hollowness, weary of life, and the world. So long as I have your face here, I care not to cross my own threshold till friendly hands bear me out to my quiet resting-place under the willows of Greenwood. Electra, my darling, think me weak if you will, but bear with me a little longer, and then this, my shadow, shall flit from your young heart, leaving not even a memory to haunt you. Be patient! I will soon pa.s.s away to another, a more peaceful, blessed sphere.”
A melancholy smile lighted his fair waxen features, as waning, sickly suns.h.i.+ne in an autumn evening flickers over sculptured marble in a silent churchyard.
How she compa.s.sioned his great weakness, as he wiped away the moisture which, even on that cold day, glistened on his forehead.
”Oh! I beseech you to go to Cuba. Go, and get strong once more.”
”Nothing will ever help me now. Sunny skies and soft breezes bring no healing for me. I want to die here, in my home, where your hands will be about me; not among strangers in Cuba or Italy.”
He turned to the fire, and springing up, she left the room. The solemn silence of the house oppressed her; she put on her thickest wrappings, and took the street leading to the nearest park. A steel-grey sky, with slowly-trailing clouds, looked down on her, and the keen, chilly wind wafted a fine snow-powder in her face as she pressed against it. The trees were bare, and the sere gra.s.s grew h.o.a.ry as the first snow-flakes of the season came down softly and shroud-like. The walks were deserted, save where a hurrying form crossed from street to street, homeward bound; and Electra pa.s.sed slowly along, absorbed in thoughts colder than the frosting that gathered on shawl and bonnet. The face and figure of the painter glided spectrally before her at every step, and a mighty temptation followed at its heels. Why not strangle her heart? Why not marry him and bear his name, if, thereby, she could make his few remaining months of existence happy, and, by accompanying him South, prolong his life even for a few weeks? She shuddered at the suggestion, it would be such a miserable lot.
Faster fell the snow-flakes, cresting the waves of her hair like foam, and setting her teeth firmly, as if thereby locking the door against all compa.s.sionating compunctions. Electra left the park and turned into a cross-street, on which was situated an establishment where bouquets were kept for sale. The a.s.sortment was meagre at that late hour, but she selected a tiny bunch of delicate, fragrant, hot-house blossoms, and, s.h.i.+elding them with her shawl, hastened home. The studio was brilliant with gas-glare and warm with the breath of anthracite, but an aspect of dreariness, silence, and sorrow predominated. On the edge of the low scroll-sculptured mantel, supported at each corner by caryatides, perched a large tame grey owl, with clipped wings folded, and wide, solemn, oracular eyes fastened on the countenance of its beloved master.
With swift, noiseless steps Electra came to the red grate, and, after a moment, drew an ottoman close to the easy chair. Perhaps its occupant slept; perchance he wandered, with closed eyes, far down among the sombre, dank crypts of memory. She laid her cool fingers on his hand, and held the bouquet before him.
”My dear sir, here are your flowers; they are not as pretty as usual, but sweet enough to atone for lack of beauty.”
He fingered them caressingly, laid them against his hollow cheeks, and hid his lips among their fragrant petals, but the starry eyes were fixed on the features of the pupil.
”It is bitter weather out; did you brave it for these? Thank you, but don't expose yourself so in future. Two invalids in a house are quite enough. You are snow-crowned, little one; do you know it? The frosting gleams right, royally on that black hair of yours. Nay, child, don't brush it off; like all lovely things it fades rapidly, melts away like the dreams that flutter around a boy in the witchery of a long, still, sunny summer day.”
His thin hand nestled in her s.h.i.+ning hair, and she submitted to the touch in silence.