The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 77, March, 1864

When she had ended the song, she had indeed ended. Not one note more. Closing the piano, she walked about the room, looking at his pictures one after another, pausing long before some, but the silence in which she made the circuit was unbroken.

At last she came to the last-painted picture, where a soldier lay dying, with glory on his face, victory in his eyes. Beside this she remained.

"There's many a realization of that dream," she said.

The words seemed to sting the artist as though she had said instead, "Here's one who is in no danger of realizing it."

"I thought," said he, "I might one day prove for myself the emotions attributed to that soldier."

She hesitated before answering. A vision rose before her,—a vision of fields covered with the slain, unburied dead. Here the paths of honor were cut short by the grave. She looked at Adam von Gelhorn. Here was no warrior except for courage, no knight but for chivalry. Yet how proudly his eyes met hers! What was this glance that seemed suddenly to fall upon her from some unbroken, awful height? It was a great thing to say, with the knowledge that came with that glance,—

"Do you no longer think so? Patriotism has its tests. This war will be long enough to sift enthusiasms."

Humbly he answered,—

"I wait my time."

Then, urged on by two motives, distinct, yet confluent, and so all-powerful,—

"Strange army, Adam, if all the soldiers waited for it."

He answered her as mildly as before, but with quite as deep assurance,—

"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."

So the painter began; but he ended,—

"When I come back from battle, I will think of what you say. I do believe in my own integrity as firmly as I trust my loyalty."

There was a rare gentleness in the man's voice that seemed to say that mists were rising to envelop the summits of the mountains, and he looked forth, not to the bald heights, but along the purple heather-reaches, where any human feet might walk, finding pleasant paths, fair flowers, cool shades, and blessed reflections of heaven.

V

The rector of St. Peter's sat in the vestry-room, which he used for his study, when there came an interruption to the even tenor of his orthodox thinking.

Whoever sought him did so with a determination that carried the various doors between him and the study, and at last came the knock, of which he sat in momentary dread. It expressed the outsider so imperatively, that the minister at once laid aside his pen, and opened the door. And, alas! it was Saturday, p. m.,—Easter at hand!

He should have been glad, of course, of the cordial hand-grasp with which his stanch supporter, Gerald Deane, saluted him; but he had been interrupted in necessary work, and his face betrayed him. It told unqualified surprise, that, at such an hour, he had the honor of a visit from the warden.

The warden, however, was absorbed in his own business to an extent that prevented him from seeing what the minister's mood might be. He began to speak the moment he had thrown himself into the arm-chair opposite Mr. Muir.

"Do you know," said he, "what sort of person we've got here in our organist?"

Indignant was the speaker's voice, and indignant were his eyes; he spoke quick, breathed hard, showed all the signs of violent emotion.

The minister's bland face had a puzzled expression, as he answered,—

"A first-rate musician, Deane,—and a lady. That's about the extent of my information."

"A Rebel! and the wife of a Rebel!" was Deane's wrathful answer.

Hitherto, what had he not said or done in the way of supporting the organist?

"A Rebel?" exclaimed the minister, thrown suddenly off his guard.

He might have heard calumny uttered against one under his tender care by the way that single word burst from him.

"The wife of a Rebel general, and a spy!"

Deane's voice made one think of the Inquisition, and of inevitable forfeitures, unfailing executions of unrelenting judgments.

"For a spy, she makes poor use of her advantages," said the minister. "She's never anywhere, that I can learn, except in the church and her own room."

"I dare say anybody will believe that whom she chooses to have believe it. How do you or I know what she is? or where? or what she does? We're not the kind of men for her to take into confidence. She is evidently shrewd enough to see that it wouldn't be safe to tamper with us! But we must get rid of her, or we shall have the organ demolished and the church about our ears. Let the mob once suspect that we employ a spy here to do our music for us, and see what our chance would be! There's no use asking for proof. There's a young man in my storehouse, a contraband, who recognized her somewhere in the street this morning, and he says she is the wife of the Rebel General Edgar; and if it's true, and there's no question about that, I say she ought to be arrested."

"Pooh! pooh!"—the minister was thrown off his guard, and failed to estimate aright the kind of patriotism he bluffed off with so little ceremony;—"the negro"–

"Negro! face as white as mine, Sir! Well, yes, negro, I suppose,—slave, any way,—do you want him summoned in here? Do you want to see him? He gives his testimony intelligently enough. Or shall we send for Mrs. Edgar? For it's high time she were thrown on her own resources, instead of being maintained at our expense for the benefit of the enemy."