Chapter V (11)

A devotion of this sort commended itself especially to our young convert. She made choice of the new order of the Sacred Heart, and after eleven years' delay finally entered it at Metz in 1826. She made her vows in 1828 at Rome, and remained there until she was ordered to France in 1834 and made general secretary of the congregation. In 1839 she was chosen assistant mother, and appointed to visit the houses of the Sacred Heart in America, and to found some new ones. Her correspondence during this period with her mother is now before me, and will show, far better than any words of mine, not only her piety, but the serenity of her soul and that love of country and kindred, which religion, far from extinguishing, can alone purify by carrying it beyond the narrow boundaries of this life. Like those austere Christians whose lives Count de Montalembert has written, she kept a large place in her heart for love and friendship, and clung ardently to those natural ties which she did not feel called upon to break when she gave herself to God.

I shall then leave Madame Elizabeth to speak in her own words; and in so doing, it seems to me that I am fulfilling the wish of Madame Swetchine, who wrote thus to Father Gagarin (ii. 360): "There are many details respecting her life which might be found and authenticated, and I am convinced that many interesting particulars might be obtained from her correspondence during her two journeys in America."

NEW YORK, Sept. 1, 1840.

MY DEAREST MAMMA,--I arrived at New York a few hours ago, after a
voyage of forty-five days. Our voyage, thank God, was a good one,
despite thirty-two days of contrary winds. We had neither storms nor
rough weather; the trip was a long one, that is all. Having two
priests with us, we had mass often; you may imagine what a
consolation it was to us. I was sea-sick only one week; after that,
so well that I passed a great part of my time in drawing.

"I am here for only four days; at least I trust that the business
which I have to transact with the bishop will not keep me longer.
Then I shall go with my seven companions and a worthy priest who has
us in charge, to St. Louis in the state of Missouri, 2,000 versts
from New York. They say that we shall reach there in twelve days; by
this reckoning we shall arrive at our first house about the 20th of
September. I believe that I shall die of joy when I get there; for
here in the midst of the world, though surrounded by excellent
people, who show us a thousand attentions, I am like a fish out of
water. I will write to you as soon as I reach St. Louis. I cannot
remain with our family of the Sacred Heart there more than a
fortnight, for I must then visit two other establishments not far
distant. I shall return to St. Louis, and leave there about the
middle of November for our house at St. Michael, near New Orleans,
which is 1,500 versts from St. Louis. After a few days' rest I shall
then go to our house at Grand Coteau, also in Louisiana; and after
staying there three weeks I shall return to pass the winter at St.
Michael. I hope to do well there, for the climate is warmer than
that of Rome. In the spring I shall make another visitation of the
houses in Missouri, and then go back to New York to begin the
foundation {310} of a new establishment there. So you see I shall
not be very long in any one place.

"What a consolation it will be for me if I find a letter from you at
St. Louis! I am impatient for news of you and my brothers. How did
they take the news of my departure for America? With indifference
perhaps; but they are far from being indifferent to me. God knows
what wishes I form for them, and how sweet it is to me to be able to
offer up for them the fatigues and petty sufferings which divine
Providence sends us. When you write to my brothers do not fail to
remember me to them, for, they are dearer to me than ever in our
Lord.

"I was in hopes of finding our relative in America; but he is dead.
He died universally regretted. Everybody looked upon him as a saint.
I will make it a point to obtain his works and send them to you."

"St. Louis, Nov. 9, 1840.

"I have had the consolation of receiving your letter dated the 15th
of July. Write to me now at St. Louis, at the _Academy_ of the
Ladies of the Sacred Heart, for so they call here those religious
houses which receive pupils as boarders. For my part, I am
determined to send you this letter at once, because I am afraid that
Paris will be turned topsy-turvy by the remains of Bonaparte, which
are to be removed thither in the month of November.

"It is too true that our 'American uncle' is dead. You may suppose
how deeply I regret it. He was not a bishop; only a simple
missionary. He invariably refused all dignities, and devoted himself
for more than forty years to the missions, in which he displayed a
zeal worthy of an apostle. He died at the age of seventy-two, like a
saint as he had lived, having given himself to God since his
seventeenth year. The whole country in which he preached the gospel
weeps for him as for a father. His memory is revered in America
among Protestants as well as Catholics. I have been shown an article
about him in the _Gazette_: it gives his whole history, and it would
be impossible to write a more touching eulogy of him. I have some of
his works; they are excellent.

"I expected that my departure for America would have but little
effect upon my brothers. Our good Lord permits it to be so, and we
must wish whatever he wishes. A day will come, I trust, when their
hearts will be touched. Let us wait and pray, and suffer with more
fervor than ever. Remember me to them and to my aunts. Beg for me
the light of the Holy Ghost: I need it sorely, for my post is a very
difficult one."

"ST. MICHAEL, Dec. 6, 1840.,

"Here I am, near New Orleans; but I shall soon start on another
journey, and not be at rest again before the month of June. I am now
in the land of the sugar-cane; it is very nice to eat, or rather to
suck. As if I brought the cold with me in all my travels, I had
scarcely arrived here when bitter cold weather set in, and the ice
was as thick as a good fat finger. The weather has moderated since
then--to my great satisfaction, for I have not enough of the spirit
of mortification to bear cold very well. I begin to believe that
there is not a single warm country under the sun, and that the
reputation of those lands that are called so is not well-founded.

"I send you only these few words, that you may not be uneasy about
me; for I have no leisure. Remember me to my brothers. Bless me, and
believe, dear mamma, in my tender and respectful attachment."

"ST. MICHAEL, Feb. 28, 1841.

"I leave this place on the 15th of March, and shall be in St. Louis
for the feast of the Annunciation. I shall remain three weeks at
three of our houses in Missouri, and then go to Cincinnati and
Philadelphia; so I hope to be in New York by the beginning of May.
Do not fear on my {311} account the dangers of railroads and
steamboats. Those who are sent on a mission are under the special
protection of divine Providence. I have never met with the slightest
accident; and this constant journeying about has moreover rid me of
my fever. I am perfectly well. I rise every morning at twenty
minutes after four; I fast and abstain; and nothing hurts me. So
don't be uneasy about me. I think I shall stay in New York until
November, if God opposes no obstacle to my doing so; I shall then
make a last visit to our houses in Louisiana and Missouri, and sail
for Europe probably during the summer of 1842. In fifteen months I
shall be afloat again on the great ocean. I hope Alexander will not
be off again before that, so that I may have the consolation of
seeing him once more. He is the only one of my brothers whom I may
never see again, and he was my Benjamin. Tell them I do not forget
them in my prayers, and I wish they would also remember me before
God: that will come some day, I hope. Pray have some masses said for
me; I have great need of them. If you only knew what it was to hold
such an office as mine! The responsibility is enough to make one
tremble."

"LOUISIANA, March 29, 1841.

"Before starting on my journey I must send you a few lines. It is a
little before my accustomed time for writing; but I shall be nearly
two months on the route before reaching New York, and I am afraid I
shall have no opportunity of writing except on my arrival in that
city, and after my return here. So do not be anxious on account of
my future silence: it will not be a sign of anything bad. I am
better than ever. Make your mind at rest about my health. Our Lord
gives me astonishing strength. Fatigue has no effect upon me."

"NEW YORK, May 15, 1841.

"I arrived here without accident, and take comfort in thinking that
I shall be stationary now until October. Since I left Rome I have
not been six weeks at a time in any one place. I am about founding
an establishment here, and the task is no easy one, in any point of
view. The expenses to be incurred are enormous, and our resources,
to say the best of them, are very moderate. So I have begged our
mother-general to allow the 200 francs which you were so good as to
send us for postage, to be devoted to the first expenses of the
chapel.

"You have no idea how deeply our 'relative' is regretted here. He
was universally loved and respected. People look upon me with favor,
because I bear the same name."

"NEW YORK, June 20, 1841.

"The climate of New York is very disagreeable. It was so cold
yesterday that even with a woollen coverlid I had hard work to keep
warm through the night. It is not cold two days in succession. The
temperature varies even between morning and evening--that is, when it
is not continually raining. I believe after all that the climate of
St. Petersburg is the best. Oar summers at least are superb, and we
have long days; but here it is hardly light, this time of year, at
half after four in the morning, and by half after seven in the
evening we need lamps. In fact, you must go to a cold climate if you
want to keep warm and to see well!

"I have had an agreeable surprise here, and you would never guess
what it is. It is to have _klioukva_ [Footnote 73 ] to eat nearly
every day; it is the first time I have seen them since I left
Russia. This is absurd, I know, but I cannot tell you what pleasure
it gave me.

[Footnote 73: Cranberries. ]

"New York is an immense city; it has nearly 400,000 inhabitants, and
is as noisy as Paris. There are some 80,000 Catholics and only eight
churches, but religion is making progress. The next time I write to
you, it will be from our house of the Sacred {312} Heart. I am
burning with impatience to be in it; for though we are extremely
comfortable with the good Sisters of Charity, who are truly sisters
to us, we nevertheless long to be at home, where we can live in
conformity to our rule and customs.

"What news of my brothers? How happy I shall be when you can tell me
that all is well with them! I would give a thousand lives for that.
The day and hour of God will come; let us be patient and pray. Say a
thousand affectionate things to them for me."

"NEW YORK, Aug. 2, 1841.

"I dare say you will be pleased to learn, dear mamma, that I have
just opened a little mission among the Indian savages in Missouri,
300 miles beyond St. Louis. Four of our community have been
established there. The population consists of 900 Indians, all
converted by the Jesuits. Thanks be to God, his kingdom is extending
itself, and what it loses on one side through the wiles of the
enemy, it gains on another.

"I never let a month pass without writing to you, despite my many
occupations, because I know your anxiety; but do not distress
yourself. I am, if possible, but too well, in every respect. Our
houses here are like those in Europe; while within doors we never
could suspect that we had been transplanted into the new world (that
used to be). Don't be afraid about crocodiles. The country abounds
in them, as it does in snakes; but nobody thinks of them, and I have
never even seen one. Several, however, have been pointed out to me;
but as my eyes were cast down, I saw nothing."

"NEW YORK, Sept. 13, 1841.

"Our establishment is well under way; the house is finished, and we
have already twelve pupils. I have no doubt their number will
increase next month to twenty, and perhaps more, for there have been
already at least forty applications. Beside this, I have just
established a mission among the Potawatamie Indians in the Indian
Territory. There is a population of 3,000 Indians in the place where
our ladies are, 1,000 of whom are fervent Catholics; the others are
pagans, but to some extent civilized. We have there already a school
of fifty little girls, and a great many women come to learn from us
how to work.

"I shall leave New York and pass the winter in Louisiana. I am quite
well--better than in Europe; but I am over-burdened with work. You
may readily believe it when I tell you that beside governing this
house, and my province, which comprises seven houses, I have had to
paint three large pictures for the chapel, and to finish them in six
weeks. At last, thank God, they are done, and our chapel is really
charming. What a pity that you cannot come and hear mass in it!"

"_En route_, between St. Michael and Grand Coteau, Dec. 4, 1841.

"From a tavern on the banks of the Mississippi I write to wish you
and all the family a happy New Year! I pray devoutly that it may be
fertile in graces and divine blessings; everything else is
superfluous and valueless, and therefore unnecessary. I have
travelled a good deal since I wrote you from Harrisburg, Penn. I am
now going to our house at Grand Coteau, where I shall stay about
five weeks; then I shall spend an equal time at St. Michael. This
will bring me to the end of February; after which I shall start for
St. Louis, and visit our other establishments in Missouri, including
our new mission among the Potawatamie savages. Don't let the word
'savages' frighten you. They won't eat me; for they are more than
civilized. One thousand of them are Catholics, in the place to which
I have sent our sisters, who are only four in number, and have a
school which succeeds admirably. Our good savages are so fervent
that they come every day to church at half-past five in the morning.
They say their prayers, meditate for half an hour, and then hear
mass, {313} during which they sing canticles in their savage
fashion. After mass one of the Indians teaches the catechism to
about thirty little boys and a like number of girls; that over, they
go off to their respective employments, and about six in the evening
they come back to the church to say their prayers together. It was
the Jesuits who converted this tribe, and they are still doing a
vast amount of good out there. I shall probably go there in April;
it will be a three-weeks' journey. After that I mean to return to
New York, and probably about the 1st of June I shall sail for Havre.
So there you have my route; you see that I lead the life of a
regular courier more than ever. But fortunately, to one who has the
happiness of being a religious, all things are indifferent, provided
they are in accordance with holy obedience. I am very much afraid I
shall miss some of your letters, for they must follow me at a
gallopping pace or they will not overtake me.

"Assure yourself, my dear mamma, that Russia is not the coldest
country in the world. The so-called burning Louisiana is colder.
From the 25th to the 30th of November we had hard frosts which
chilled us through and through. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I have a
pleasant recollection that in November at St. Petersburg we have
more rain than frost. In a word, now that I have tried, so to speak,
all climates, I am firmly persuaded that there is not a warm country
on the face of the earth, and I have resigned myself to look for
pleasant and eternal warmth only in the next world.

"What news of my brothers and my sisters-in-law? Are they as great
vagabonds as I? Ah, if their hearts and minds could only be composed
and settled in God alone! It will come, some day or other; we must
hope, even against all hope. Our Lord is the master of hearts, and
he wills from all eternity that these hearts shall be wholly his. A
touch of his grace will soften those of my brothers; the day of
illusions will pass away, and we shall sing eternally with them that
God is good and his mercies are unspeakable. A thousand kisses, dear
mamma; bless your dutiful and grateful daughter
ELIZABETH."

In 1842 Madame Elizabeth went to Rome to give an account of her fruitful mission to her superiors. I have before me a last letter of hers, written to her mother, whom she had just lost at St. Petersburg almost at the same hour in which her eldest brother died in Paris in the bosom of the Catholic Church.

"I confess to you," she says, "that for several months past, I have
continually felt impelled to make a sacrifice of my life for my
brothers. Perhaps you will think this presumptuous on my part, so I
will explain myself. When I am making my preparation for death,
according to custom, the thought often comes into my mind to offer
the sacrifice of my life in advance, and to beseech our Lord to
accept it, as well as all the sufferings I may have to undergo,
especially at that terrible moment when the soul is separated from
the body, in order that I may obtain the conversion of my brothers.
I have asked permission to transfer to them all the merit which, by
God's grace, I may acquire through resignation or suffering--not only
in my last sickness, but even during the period of life which yet
remains to me--so that, accumulating no more merits by way of
satisfaction for my own sins, I may have, for my part, purgatory
without any alleviation; for in that place of propitiation and peace
I can no longer be of any use to them. I hope our Lord will grant my
request: all I know is that since that time my habitual gladness of
heart is increased a hundred-fold, and that I think of death with
unspeakable consolation."

This sacrifice, which reminds one of a similar incident in the life of St. Vincent de Paul, [Footnote 74] seems to have been {314} accepted by God. Returning to America in 1843, Madame Elizabeth had not time to enjoy the fruits of her labors. She was attacked at St. Michael by the yellow fever, and there fell asleep in the Lord on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, saying: "I do not fear death; I long for it, if it is God's will." [Footnote 75]

[Footnote 74: One day, moved with compassion at the state of an
unfortunate priest, a doctor of theology, who had lost his faith,
because he had ceased to study the science of divinity, St. Vincent
de Paul besought God to restore to this man the liveliness of his
faith, offering to take up himself, if necessary, the burden which
this poor brother was unable to bear. His prayer was heard at once,
and for four years this great saint remained as it were deprived of
that faith which was nevertheless his life. "Do you know how he
passed through this trial?" says an admirable master of the
spiritual life. "He passed through it by becoming St. Vincent de
Paul; that is to say, all that this name signifies."--GRATRY, _Les
Sources_, p. 82.]

[Footnote 75: Writing from Lyons to Bishop Hughes in September,
1842, Madame Galitzm said: "I avail myself of this opportunity to
write a few lines, although detained in my bed with the fever for
upward of three weeks. My health is in a poor state, and if I go on
as I did these two months, there is more prospect for me to go to
heaven next year than to return to America." The letter is in
English, which she wrote with apparent ease and considerable
approach to purity. ED. CATH. WORLD. ]

"What more glorious title of nobility," says Monseigneur the Duke d'Aumale, "than to count saints and martyrs among one's ancestors?" My object is not so much to lay claim to this distinction, as to show, for the honor of my country, the part which some of her children have taken in the genesis of civilization and Catholicism in America. And this ambition will perhaps seem excusable to those who admit that every gift of God ought to be an object of our most religious care.

----

From The Month.

THE STOLEN SKETCH.

I was sitting in the National Gallery, copying one of Murillo's glorious little beggar-boys. A tube of color fell from my box and rolled out upon the floor. A gentleman passing picked it up, and restored it to me. I thanked him; and then he lingered some minutes by my chair, watching my work and giving me some useful hints with the air of a person who thoroughly understands the art. I was striving to be an artist, struggling through difficult uphill labor. I was not acquainted with any one of the profession. I had no one to give me counsel. Those few friendly words of advice from a stranger fell on my ear like so many pearls, and I gathered them gratefully and stored them fast in memory's richest jewel-casket.

After that he seemed to take an interest in my progress, gave me valuable lessons, and occasionally lent me colors or brushes. I wondered at myself for conversing with him fearlessly, for I was usually shy of strangers; but his manner was so quiet and easy, his tone so deferential, and he spoke so well on the subjects which interested me most, that I forgot to be nervous, and listened and answered with delight. He was copying a picture quite near to me, and I felt humbled when returning to my own effort after glancing at his masterly work. But he cheered me with kind words of encouragement, which had a different effect upon me from my mother's fond admiration and Hessie's eloquent praises. It was so new to be told to expect success by one whose words might be hailed as a prophecy. I grew to look forward with increased interest to my long day's work in the gallery, and to think the place lonely when the kind artist {315} was not there. Before my picture was finished I felt that I had gained a friend.

One afternoon on leaving the gallery I was dismayed to find that it rained heavily. Quite unprepared for the wet, I yet shrank from the expense of a cab. While standing irresolute upon the steps, I presently saw my artist friend at my side. He shot open his umbrella, and remarked on the unpleasant change in the weather. Perhaps he saw my distress in my face, for he asked me how far I had to go. He also was going to Kensington, he said, and begged permission to shelter me. I was obliged to accept his offer, for it was getting late. It was one of those evenings so dreaded by women who are forced to walk alone in London, when the light fades quickly out, and darkness drops suddenly upon the city.

Tying my thick veil over my face, and wondering at myself, I took his arm and walked by his side through the twilight streets. I thought of a time long ago when I used to get upon tiptoe to clasp my father's arm, he laughing at my childish pride, while we sauntered up and down the old garden at home, far away. Never, since that dear arm had been draped in the shroud, had my hand rested on a man's sleeve. Memory kept vexing me sorely; and I, who seldom cried, swallowed tears behind my veil and went along in silence. Still I liked the walk. As we passed on, sliding easily through those rough crowds which at other times I dreaded so much, I felt keenly how good it is to be taken care of. I seemed to be moving along in a dream. Even when it began to thunder, and lightning flashed across our eyes, the storm could not rouse me from my reverie. I felt no fear, stoutly protected as I was.

II.

When we reached my home, a violent gust of rain made my friend step inside the open doorway. I asked him to come into the parlor till the shower should lighten; and he did so. My mother sat by the fender in her armchair, the fire burned blithely, the tea-things were on the table. The room looked very cosy after the stormy streets.

My mother received the unexpected visitor cordially. She had heard of his kindness to me before. Hessie came in with the bread and butter, in her brown housefrock, with her bright curls a little tossed, and her blue eyes wondering wide at sight of a stranger. My mother asked him to stay for tea, and I went upstairs to take off my bonnet.

Never before had I felt so anxious to have my hair neat, and to find an immaculate collar and cuffs. My hands trembled as I tied my apron and drew on my slippers. This was always to me a pleasant hour, when my return made Hessie and my mother glad, when I got refreshingly purified from the stains and odor of paint, and when we all had tea together. To-night a certain excitement mingled with my usual quiet thankful satisfaction.

I hurried down to the parlor. Hessie was filling the cups, and Edward Vance (our new friend) was talking pleasantly to my mother. He looked up as I came in, and when I reached my seat a sensation of gladness was tingling from my heart's core to my finger-ends. My mother took my hand and fondled it in hers, and thanked him for his kindness to her "good child." I felt that he could not but sympathize with my dear, sick, uncomplaining mother, and I somehow felt it sweet that she should give me that little word of praise while speaking to him. After tea Hessie played us dreamy melodies from Mozart in the firelight, and I sat by mother's side tracing pictures in the burning coals.

After that first evening Edward Vance often came to our house. At these times our conversation was chiefly upon art-subjects. Hessie and my mother were deeply interested in them for my sake; I, for their own, and for {316} the hopes which were entwined about them.

I thought him an ambitious man, one whose whole soul was bent upon success. I liked him for it. I thought, "The noblest man is he who concentrates all his powers upon one worthy aim, and wins a laurel-crown from his fellow-men as the reward of his stead-fastness." Yet he seemed often troubled when we asked him about his own works.

A remark I overheard one day in the gallery puzzled me. Some one said, "Vance? Oh, yes! he's a clever copyist--a determined plodder; but he originates nothing." I don't know that I had any right to be indignant; but I was. That very evening I asked him to show us some of his designs. His face got a dark troubled look upon it, and he evaded the promise.

Meantime he took a keen interest in my work. He taught me how to finish my etchings more delicately, and his remarks on my compositions were always most useful. His suggestions were peculiarly happy. The drawing was ever enhanced in strength or beauty by his advice. His ideas were just and true; his taste daintily critical. This convinced me that the remark overheard in the gallery was made either in ignorance or ill-nature; or perhaps that there were more artists called Vance than one.

He came often now, very often. I ceased to feel angry at myself for starting when his knock came. Many small things, too trivial to be mentioned, filled my life with a delicious calm, and breathed a rose-colored atmosphere around me. Everything in my inner and outer world had undergone a change. I grew subject to idle fits at my work; but then the suspended energy came back with such a rush of power, almost like inspiration, that I accomplished far more than I ever had done in the former quiet days when there was little sunshine to be had, and I thought I had been born to live contentedly under a cloud all my life. Art seemed glorified a thousandfold in my eyes. The galleries had looked to me before like dim treasuries of phantom beauty, shadowy regions of romance and perfection, through the gates of which I might peer, though the key was not mine. Now they teemed with a ripe meaning; the meaning which many glorious souls that once breathed and wrought on this earth have woven into their creations;--a meaning which unlocked for me the world of love, and gave me long bright visions of its beautiful vistas.

My mother looked from Edward Vance to me, and from me to him; and I knew her thought. It sweetened yet more that food of happiness on which I lived. Something said to me, "You may meet his eye fearlessly, place your hand frankly in his clasp, follow his feet gladly."

One evening after he had gone my mother stroked my head lying on her knee.

"You are very happy, Grace?" she said.

"I am, mother," I whispered.

"Ah! your life is set to music, my love," she murmured; "the old tune."

III.

Never was one sister so proud of another as I of Hessie. She was only seventeen, three years younger than I, and I felt almost a motherly love for her. She was slight and fair, and childish both in face and disposition. I gloried in her beauty; her head reminded me of Raffaelle's angels. I thought that one day I should paint a picture with Hessie for my model--a picture which should win the love and admiration of all who gazed. One leisure time, in the midst of my happiness, I suddenly resolved to commence the work. I chose a scene from our favorite poem of _Enid_--the part where the mother goes to her daughter's chamber, bearing Geraint's message, and finds

{317}

'Half disarrayed, as to her rest, the girl,
Whom first she kissed on either cheek, and then
On either shining shoulder laid a hand,
And kept her off, and gazed into her face,
And told her all their converse in the hall,
Proving her heart. But never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground,
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
Across the face of Enid, hearing her;
While slowly falling, as a scale that falls
When weight is added only grain by grain,
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast.
Nor did she lift an eye, nor speak a word,
Rapt in the fear, and in the wonder of it."

I made a sketch. Never had I been so happy in any attempt. My own mother, worn, sad, dignified--I gave her face and form to the poet's conception of Enid's mother. And Hessie made a very lovely Enid, with the white drapery clinging to her round shoulders, and her golden head drooped. I wrought out all the accessories with scrupulous care--the shadowy old tower-chamber; the open window, and the dim drifts of cloud beyond; the stirring tapestry; the lamp upon the table, flinging its yellow light on the rich faded dress of the mother and on Enid's glistening hair.

I toiled at the sketch almost as if I had meant to make it a finished picture. It was large. I lavished labor upon it with a passionate energy. I never wearied of conjuring up ideas of beauty, to lay them in luxurious profusion under my brush. I gloried in the work of my hands; and yet I felt impatient when others praised it. I burned to show them what the finished picture should prove to be. This sketch, much as I prized it as an earnest of future success, I held only as the shadow of that which must one day live in perfection on the canvas. So I raved in my dreams.

I had resolved not to speak of it to Edward Vance till I had completed the sketch. I had Hessie's promise not to show it, not to tell him. I worked at it daily, not feeling that I worked, but only that I lived--only that my soul was accomplishing its appointed task of creation; that it breathed in its element, revelled in its God-given power; that it was uttering that which should stir many other souls with a myriad blessed inspirations, long after the worn body had refused to shelter it longer, and eternity had summoned it from the world of endeavor to that rest which, in the fever of its earnestness, it knew not yet how to appreciate.

And Hessie stood for me, patient day after day.

"But never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground,
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
Across the face of Enid, hearing her."

I read aloud the passage again and again, that Hessie might feel it as well as I. And truly, as I worked, the color on Hessie's cheek changed and changed under my eyes, till I forgot my purpose in wondering at her. One day, while I laid down my brush questioning her, she burst into tears, and sobbed in childish impetuous distress. She would not answer my anxious questions; she shunned my sympathy.

But that night, before I slept, I had my little sister's secret. She worshipped Edward Vance as simple childish natures worship heroes whom they exalt to the rank of gods.

IV.

I had no more joy, no more heart to work. I laid my sketch in my portfolio, and said that it was finished, and that I should not commence the picture at present. I could not work looking at Hessie's changed face.

What should I do? How should I restore happiness to my little sister? This was the question which haunted me. Night or day it would give me no peace. I could not rest at home. I undertook a work once more at the National Gallery, and stayed away all day. Often I sat for hours, and did nothing, thinking with painful pertinacity of that one question, "How should I restore happiness to my little sister?" Edward Vance had never asked me to be his wife. Perhaps Hessie did not guess that I had believed and hoped that he would. My mother--but then a mother's eye will see where others are blind.

I sat in my deserted corner of the gallery, dropping tears into my lap, {318} and pondering my question. If my mother were dead, if I were married, how lonely would not Hessie be in her misery! But if Hessie were a happy wife, why, I could support myself and live in peace and independence, blessed with congenial occupation, solaced by the love and joy of my art. "Edward Vance must never ask me to be his wife." I repeated the words again and again, till the resolve burnt itself into my heart.

"I believe that he has loved me, that he loves me now; but I can so wrap myself up in my work, so seem to forget him in my art, that I shall cease to be loveable; and then he must, he will, perceive Hessie's affection, and take her to his heart. He cannot help it, beautiful and fresh and simple as she is." So I looked at her face as she lay dreaming, sullen and grieved like a vexed child, even in sleep; and I vowed to carry out my strange resolve--to crush my love for Edward, to destroy his for me, to link the two dear ones together, and go on my life alone, with no comforter but God and my toil. It was but a short time since I had contemplated such a prospect with calm content; and why could I not forget all that had lately been, and return to my serene quiet? I said it should be so.

But in this I assumed a power over my own destiny and the destinies of others which none but God had a right to sway, and he had entered it against me in the great book of good and evil. He had planted in my heart a natural affection, and laid at my feet a treasure of happiness. I had stretched forth my hand to uproot that beautiful flower which should have borne me joy. I had turned aside from the rich gift, and thought to sweep it from my path. I had vowed to do evil, that good might come of it; and a mighty hand was already extended to punish my presumption.

V.

In pursuance of my resolve, I absented myself from home as much as possible, leaving Hessie to entertain Edward Vance when he came. I did not intend to quarrel with him--I could not have done that; but I wanted him to see more of Hessie and less of me. I had so much faith in her superior beauty and loveableness, that in the morbid frame of mind into which I had fretted myself, I believed my object would soon be accomplished.

I had succeeded in obtaining some tuitions; and between the time which they occupied and the hours spent in the galleries, I was very little at home. My mother looked at me uneasily; but I smiled and deceived her with pleasant words. On coming home late, I sometimes heard that Mr. Vance had been there; my mother always told me--Hessie never. I longed to lay my head on my mother's knee and say, "Did he ask for me?" but the voice never would come.

Sometimes he came, as of old, to spend the whole evening. I would not notice how he bore my altered ways. I sat all the time apart by the window, seemingly absorbed, puzzling out some difficult design, or working up some careful etching. I did not ask his advice; I did not claim his sympathy with my occupation. I sat wrapped up within myself, grave and ungenial, while he lingered by Hessie at the piano, and asked her to play her soft airs again. And all the time I sat staring from my paper into the little patch of garden under the window, twining my sorrow about the old solitary tree, building my unhealthy purpose into the dull wall of discolored brick, which shut us and our troubles from our neighbors. I sat listening to the plaintive tunes with which so many associations were inwoven, hearing Hessie's musical prattle--she was always gay while he stayed--and Edward's rich voice and pleasant laugh, contrasting with them as a deep wave breaks in among the echoes of a rippling creek. I sat and listened in silence, while all my life {319} rebelled in every vein and pulse at the false part I acted.

But it was too late now to retract. Though every day proved to me that the task I had undertaken was too difficult, the step had been made and could not be retraced. I had lifted my burden, and I must bear it even to the end. I had no doubt from Hessie's shy happy face that at least my object must be attained, whatever it might cost myself.

I had never shown Edward Vance the dear sketch for which I had once so keenly coveted his approval. So absorbed had I lately been in other thoughts, that it lay by forgotten. One evening my mother desired Hessie to bring it out and show it to him. I seldom looked at him, but for a moment I now glanced at his face. His eyelids flickered, and a strange expression passed over his countenance. It was admiration, surprise, and something else--I knew not what; something strange and unpleasant. The admiration, I jealously believed, was for Hessie's face in its downcast beauty. He gazed at it long, but put it aside with a few cold words of commendation. I felt, with an intolerable pang, that even so he had put me aside, and thought no more about me. But at different times afterward I saw him glance to where the sketch lay.

That night my mother kept me with her after Hessie had gone to bed. She questioned me anxiously; asked me if I had quarrelled with Edward Vance. I said, "No, mother, why should we quarrel?"

By-and-by she said, "Grace, can it be that he has not asked you to be his wife?"

I answered quickly, "Oh, no; it is Hessie whom he loves."

My mother looked puzzled and grieved, though I smiled in her face.

VI.

One evening I came home and found Hessie dull and out of humor. My mother told me that Mr. Vance had called and mentioned that he was about to leave town for some weeks. He had left his regards for me. I knew by Hessie's face that he had said nothing to make her happy during his absence.

Some evenings after, I found my mother sitting alone in the parlor, and on going upstairs Hessie curled up on our bed with her face in the pillows. I so loved this little sister, that I could not endure to see her grieve without sharing her vexation. So I sat down by her side and drew her head upon my shoulder. Sitting thus I coaxed her trouble from her. She had been out walking, and had met Edward Vance in Kensington. He had seen her. He had pretended not to see her. He had avoided her.

At first this seemed so very unlikely, I jested with her, laughed at her, said she must have been mistaken. He had been delayed in London, and had not recognized her. But Hessie declared vehemently that he had purposely avoided her, and cried as though her heart would break.

Then I said: "Hessie, if he be a person to behave so, we need neither of us trouble ourselves about him. We lived before we knew him, and I dare say we shall get on very well now that he has gone." But Hessie only stared and turned her face from me. She could not understand such a view of the case. She thought I did not feel for her.

After that the weeks passed drearily. We heard no news of Edward Vance; but he had not left London, for I saw him once in the street. I told Hessie, for I thought it right to rouse her a little rudely from the despondent state into which she had fallen. I tried, gently but decidedly, to make her understand that we had looked on as a steadfast friend one who for some reason had been tired of us, and made an excuse to drop our acquaintance; and that she would be doing serious injury to her self-respect did she give him one more thought.

For myself I mused much upon his {320} strange conduct. It remained an enigma to me. A dull listlessness hung upon me, which was more terrible than physical pain. I spent the days at home, because I could not leave Hessie to mope her life away, and damp my mother's spirits with her sad face. So I had not even the obligation of going out to daily work to stimulate me to healthful action. Now, indeed, was my life weary and burdensome for one dark space, which, thank God and his gift of strong energy, was not of vast compass. So long as we sacrifice ourselves for those we love, whether in reality or in imagination, something sublime in the idea of our purpose--whether that purpose be mistaken or not--is yet a rock to lean on in the weakest hour of anguish. But when our eyes are opened, and we see that we have only dragged others as well as ourselves deeper into misery, then indeed it is hard to "suffer and be strong."

VII.

I had done nothing of late--nothing, although I had toiled incessantly; for I did not dignify with the name of "work" the soulless mechanical drudgery which had kept me from home during the past months. My spirit had grovelled in a state of prostration, stripped of its wings and its wand of power. I now knelt and cried: "Give, oh, give me back my creative impulse!"

I had never since looked at the beloved sketch. I longed now to draw it forth, and commence the picture while I stayed at home. But Hessie shuddered when I spoke of it, and looked so terrified, pleading that she could not stand for me, that I gave up the idea for the time. I thought she had distressing memories connected with it, and I tried to rid her of them by speaking cheerfully of how successful I expected the picture to be, and what pleasure we should have in working at it. I regretted bitterly that I had not commenced it long before, just after I had made the sketch. I should then, perhaps, have had it finished in time for the Exhibition drawing near. But that was impossible now. I must wait in patience for another year. I did not at that time even look between the leaves of the portfolio. Though I thought it right to talk briskly and cheerily about it for both our sakes, I had sickening associations with that work of my short, brilliant day of happiness which Hessie, with all her childish grieving, could hardly have comprehended.

I allowed some time to pass, and at last I thought Hessie's whim had been indulged long enough. She must learn how to meet a shock and outlive it. I did not like the idea of having ghosts in the house-- skeletons of unhealthy sentiment hidden away in unapproachable chambers. The shadow should be hunted from its corner into the light. The sketch must grow into a picture, which a new aspect of things must despoil of all stinging associations.

I went to seek the sketch; but the sketch was gone. I sought it in every part of the house; but to no purpose. It had quite disappeared. I mentioned the strange circumstance to my mother in Hessie's presence, and Hessie suddenly left the room. Then it struck me for the first time that my sister had either destroyed it (which I could hardly believe), or that some accident had happened to it in her hands. I observed that she never alluded to it, never inquired if I had found it. I did not question her about it. Indeed I felt too much vexed to speak of it. I grieved more for its loss than I had believed it remained in me to grieve at any fresh trial. I loved it as we do love the creation on which we have lavished the most precious riches of our mind, on which we have spent our toil, in which we have conquered difficulty, striven and achieved, struggled and triumphed. I should have loved it all my life, hanging in my own chamber, if no one might ever see it but myself; and borne my {321} sorrows with a better spirit, and tasted keener joys, while thanking God that I had been permitted to call it into existence. I gloried too much in the work of my own hands, and I was punished.

Never since have I tasted that vivid sense of delight in any achievement of my own. I have worked as zealously, and more successfully, but it has been with a humbler heart. And looking backward, I now believe that it was my inner happiness which haloed my creation with a beauty that was half in my own glad eyes.

VIII.

The succeeding few months were quiet, in the dullest sense of the word. Strive as I would, the sunshine had gone from our home. Hessie was no longer the bright Hessie of old days.

I tried to forget my dear sketch of "Enid," and made several attempts to paint some other picture; but the Exhibition drew near, and I had nothing done.

One bright May morning I read in the newspaper an account of the Academy Exhibition. The list of artists and their works stirred me with a strange trouble. Tears rose in my eyes and blotted out the words. I spread the paper on the table before me, pressed my temples with my fingers, and travelled slowly through the criticisms and praises which occupied some columns. Why was there no work of mine mentioned there? Why had I lost my time so miserably during the past months? And questioning myself thus, I was conscious of two sins upon my own head. The first was in glorying in and worshipping the creation of my own labor: the second, in exalting myself upon an imaginary pinnacle of heroism by a fancied self-sacrifice, and having brought deeper trouble upon the sister whose happiness I thought to compass. I wept the choking tears out of my throat and read on.

Something dazzled my eyes for a moment, and brought the blood to my forehead. A picture was mentioned with enthusiastic praise; a picture by E. Vance. It was called "Enid," and was interpreted by a quotation from the poem; my passage--the subject of my lost sketch! A strange idea glanced across my mind. I half smiled at it and put it away. But all day I was restless; and that evening I proposed to Hessie an expedition early next morning to see the pictures. My mother longed to go with us; but as she could not, I promised to bring home a catalogue, and describe each painting to the best of my memory.

With a feverish haste I sought out the picture of "Enid" by E. Vance. Was I dreaming? I passed my hand across my eyes as though some imaginary scene had come between me and the canvas. I did not feel Hessie's hand dropping from my arm. I stood transfixed, grasping the catalogue, and staring at the picture before me.

It was my "Enid." My own in form, attitude, tint, and expression. It was the "Enid" of my dreams realized; the "Enid" of my labor wrought to completion; the "Enid" of my lost sketch ennobled, perfected, glorified.

My work on which I had lavished my love and toil was there, and it was not mine.

Another, a more skilled, a subtler hand, had brought out its meaning with delicate appreciation, ripened its original purpose, enriched the subdued depths of its coloring, etherealized the whole by the purest finish. But that hand had robbed me, with cruel cowardly deliberation. It had stolen my mellow fruit; taken my sweetest rose and planted it in a strange garden. I felt the wrong heavy and sore upon me. I resented it fiercely. I could not endure to look at the admiring faces around me. I turned away sick and trembling, while the blood pulsed indignantly in my throat and beat painfully at my temples.