The first impulse of Ellison after this tender appeal from his wife, was to throw open to her the whole truth in regard to his circumstances. But an instant’s reflection caused him to shrink back from the exposure. Pride drew around him a mantle of concealment, while his heart became faint with the bare imagination of Clara’s discovering that he had, too evidently, been won more by her supposed wealth than her virtues.
“It’s a little matter, not worth troubling you about,” was his evasive reply.
“If it trouble you, let it trouble me. To share the pressure will make it lighter for both. Come, Alfred! Let us have no concealments. Do not fear my ability to stand by your side under any circumstances. When I gave you my heart, it was with no selfish feeling. I loved you purely and tenderly, and was prepared to go with you through the world amid good or evil report, joy or sorrow, health or sickness, prosperity or adversity. I promised not only with my lips but in my inmost spirit, that I would be to you all that a wife could or should be. Meet me then freely and fully. Let us begin without a concealment, and go through life as if we possessed but one mind and heart.”
While Clara was speaking thus, Ellison partly shaded his face and tried to think to some right conclusion. But the more he thought, the more embarrassed did he feel, and the more entire became the confusion of his ideas. At length, finding it impossible to avoid uttering at least a portion of the truth, and perceiving that the truth must soon become known, he concluded to make at least some allusion to the embarrassment under which he was laboring. Suffering from a most oppressive sense of humiliation, he said —
“Clara, there is one thing that troubles me, and as you urge me to speak of what is in my mind, I don’t see that I can with justice conceal it any longer. I find myself not only disappointed in my expectations, but seriously embarrassed in consequence.”
The young man paused, while an expression of pain went over his face, which was reflected in that of his wife. He saw this, and read it as the effect a glimpse of the real truth had produced on her mind.
“Go on. Speak plainly, Alfred. Am I not your wife?” said Clara, tenderly and encouragingly.
“In a word, then, Clara, I have not, since our marriage, obtained a single new sitter, nor received an order for a picture of any kind.”
“And is that all!” exclaimed the young wife, while a light went over her face.
“Little as it may seem to you,” said Ellison in reply to this, “it is a matter of great trouble to me. In my ability as a painter lies my only claim upon the world. I have no fortune but in my talents and skill, and if these find not employment, I am poor and helpless indeed.”