IRENE IS SENT AWAY
Weeks and months slipped away, and total darkness came down on the widow.
She groped with some difficulty from room to room, and Electra was
compelled to remain at home and watch over her. Russell had become a great
favourite with his crusty employer, and, when the labours of the office
were ended, brought home such books as he needed, and spent his evenings in
study. His powers of application and endurance were extraordinary, and his
progress was in the same ratio. As he became more and more absorbed in
these pursuits his reserve and taciturnity increased. His employer was
particularly impressed by the fact that he never volunteered a remark on
any subject, and rarely opened his lips except to ask some necessary
information in connection with his business. He comprehended Russell's
character, and quietly facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy on
the part of the young man, no patronage on that of the employer.
One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the cottage-door, and entered the
kitchen. Mrs. Aubrey sat in a low chair close to the fireplace, engaged in
knitting; her smooth, neat calico dress and spotless linen collar told that
careful hands tended her, and the soft auburn hair brushed over her temples
showed broad bands of grey as the evening sun shone on it. She turned her
brown, sightless eyes toward the door, and asked in a low voice--
"Who is it?"
"It is only me, Mrs. Aubrey."
Irene bent down, laid her two hands on the widow's, and kissed her
forehead.
"I am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it has been a long time since you
were here."
"Yes, a good many weeks, I know, but I could not come."
"Are you well? Your hands and face are cold."
"Yes, thank you, very well. I am always cold, I believe. Hugh says I am.
Here are some flowers from the greenhouse. I brought them because they are
so fragrant; and here, too, are a few oranges from the same place. Hush!
don't thank me, if you please. I wish I could come here oftener. I always
feel better after being with you."
Mrs. Aubrey had finished her knitting, and sat with her hands folded in her
lap, the meek face more than usually serene, the sightless eyes directed
toward her visitor. Sunshine reflected the bare boards under the window,
flashed on the tin vessels ranged on the shelves, and lingered like a halo
around Irene's head. Electra had been drawing at the table in the middle of
the room, and now sat leaning on her hand watching the two at the fire.
Presently Irene approached and began to examine the drawings, which were
fragmentary, except one or two heads, and a sketch taken from the bank
opposite the Falls. After some moments passed in looking over them, Irene
addressed the quiet little figure.
"Have you been to Mr. Clifton's studio?"
"No; who is he?"
"An artist from New York. His health is poor, and he is spending the winter
south. Haven't you heard of him? Everybody is having portraits taken. He is
painting mine now--father would make me sit again, though he has a likeness
which was painted four years ago. I am going down to-morrow for my last
sitting, and should like very much for you to go with me. Perhaps Mr.
Clifton can give you some valuable hints. Will you go?"
"With great pleasure."
"Then I will call for you a little before ten o'clock. Here are some
crayons I bought for you a week ago. Good-bye."
The following day Miss Margaret accompanied her to the studio. As the
carriage approached the cottage-gate, Irene directed the driver to stop.
"For what?" asked her aunt.
"Electra Grey is going with me; I promised to call for her. She has an
extraordinary talent for drawing, and I want to introduce her to Mr.
Clifton. Open the door, Andrew."
"Irene, are you deranged? Your father never would forgive you if he knew
you associated with those people. I can't think of allowing that girl to
enter this carriage. Drive on. I must really speak to Leonard about your
obstinacy in visiting at that----"
"Stop, Andrew! If you don't choose to ride with Electra, Aunt Margaret, you
may go on alone, for either she shall ride or I will walk with her."
Andrew opened the door, and she was stepping out, when Electra appeared in
the walk and immediately joined her. Miss Margaret was thoroughly aroused
and indignant, but thought it best to submit for the time, and when Irene
introduced her friend she took no notice of her whatever, except by drawing
herself up in one corner and lowering her veil. The girls talked during the
remainder of the ride, and when they reached Mr. Clifton's door ran up the
steps together, totally unmindful of the august lady's ill humour.
The artist was standing before an easel which held Irene's unfinished
portrait, and as he turned to greet his visitors, Electra saw that, though
thin and pale, his face was one of rare beauty and benevolence. His brown,
curling hair hung loosely about his shoulders, and an uncommonly long beard
of the same silky texture descended almost to his waist. He shook hands
with Irene, and looked inquiringly at her companion.
"Mr. Clifton, this is Miss Electra Grey, whose drawings I mentioned to you
last week. I wish, if you please, you would examine some of them when you
have leisure."
Electra looked for an instant into his large, clear grey eyes as he took
her drawings and said he would be glad to assist her, and knew that
henceforth the tangled path would be smoothed and widened. She stood at the
back of his chair during the hour's sitting, and with peculiar interest
watched the strokes of his brush as the portrait grew under his practised
hand. When Irene rose, the orphan moved away and began to scrutinize the
numerous pictures scattered about the room. A great joy filled her heart
and illumined her face, and she waited for the words of encouragement that
she felt assured would be spoken. The artist looked over her sketches
slowly, carefully, and his eye went back to her brilliant countenance as if
to read there answers to ciphers which perplexed him. But yet more baffling
cryptography met him in the deep, flashing, appealing eyes, on the crimson,
quivering lips, on the low, full brow, with its widely separated black
arches. Evidently the face possessed far more attraction than the drawings,
and he made her sit down beside him, and passed his hand over her head and
temples, as a professed phrenologist might preparatory to rendering a
chart.
"Your sketches are very rough, very crude, but they also display great
power of thought, some of them singular beauty of conception; and I see
from your countenance that you are dissatisfied because the execution falls
so far short of the conception. Let me talk to you candidly; you have
uncommon talent, but the most exalted genius cannot dispense with laborious
study. Think well of all this."
"I have thought of it; I am willing to work any number of years; I have
decided, and I am not to be frightened from my purpose. I am poor, I can
barely buy the necessary materials, much less the books, but I will be an
artist yet. I have decided, sir; it is no new whim; it has been a bright
dream to me all my life, and I am determined to realize it."
"Amen; so let it be, then. I shall remain here some weeks longer; come to
me every day at ten o'clock, and I will instruct you. You shall have such
books as you need, and with perseverance you have nothing to fear."
He went into the adjoining room, and returned with a small volume. As he
gave it to her, with some directions concerning the contents, she caught
his hand to her lips, saying hastily--
"My guardian angel certainly brought you here to spend the winter. Oh, sir!
I will prove my gratitude for your goodness by showing that I am not
unworthy of it. I thank you from the very depths of my glad heart."
As she released his hand and left the studio he found two bright drops on
his fingers, drops called forth by the most intense joy she had ever known.
Having some commission from her aunt, she did not re-enter the carriage,
and, after thanking Irene for her kindness, walked away.
The ride home was very silent. Miss Margaret sat stiff and icy, looking
quite insulted, while her niece was too much engrossed by other reflections
to notice her. The latter spent the remainder of the morning in writing to
Hugh and correcting her French exercises, and when summoned to dinner she
entered the room expecting a storm. A glance sufficed to show her that
Miss Margaret had not yet spoken to her father, though it was evident from
her countenance that she was about to make what she considered an important
revelation. The meal passed, however, without any allusion to the subject,
and, knowing what she had to expect, Irene immediately withdrew to the
library to give her aunt an opportunity of unburdening her mind. The
struggle must come some time, and she longed to have it over as soon as
possible. She threw up the sash, seated herself on the broad cedar
window-sill, and began to work out a sum in Algebra. Nearly a half-hour
passed; the slamming of the dining-room door was like the first line of
foam, curling and whitening the sea when the tempest sweeps forward; her
father stamped into the library, and the storm broke over her.
"Irene! didn't I positively order you to keep away from that Aubrey family?
What do you mean by setting me at defiance in this way, you wilful,
spoiled, hard-headed piece? Do you suppose I intend to put up with your
obstinacy all my life, and let you walk roughshod over me and my commands?
You have queened it long enough, my lady. If I don't rein you up, you will
turn your aunt and me out of the house next, and invite that precious
Aubrey crew to take possession. Your confounded stubbornness will ruin you
yet. You deserve a good whipping, miss; I can hardly keep my hands off of
you."
He did not; rough hands seized her shoulder, jerked her from the
window-sill, and shook her violently. Down fell book, slate, and pencil
with a crash; down swept the heavy hair, blinding her. She put it back,
folded her hands behind her as if for support, and, looking up at him, said
in a low, steady, yet grieved tone--
"I am very sorry you are angry with me, father."
"Devilish sorry, I dare say! Don't be hypocritical! Didn't I tell you to
keep away from those people? Don't stand there like a block of stone;
answer me!"
"Yes, sir; but I did not promise to do so. I am not hypocritical, father."
"You did not promise, indeed! What do I care for promises? It was your duty
to obey me."
"I don't think it was, father, when you refused to give me any reason for
avoiding Mrs. Aubrey or her family. They are unfortunate but honourable
people; and, being very poor and afflicted, I felt sorry for them. I can't
see how my going there occasionally harms you or me, or anybody else. I
know very well that you dislike them, but you never told me why, and I
cannot imagine any good reason for it. Father, if I love them why should
not I associate with them?"
"Because I say you shan't! you tormenting, headstrong little imp!"
"My father, that is no reason."
"Reason! I will put you where you will have no occasion for reasons. Oh! I
can match you, you perverse little wretch! I am going to send you to a
boarding-school, do you hear that? send you where you will have no Aubreys
to abet your obstinacy and disobedience, where that temper of yours can be
curbed. How will you relish getting up before day, kindling your own fire,
if you have any, making your own bed, and living on bread and water? I will
take you to New York, and keep you there till you are grown and learn
common sense. Now get out of my sight!"
With a stamp of rage he pointed to the door. Hitherto she had stood quite
still, but now an expression of anguish passed swiftly over her face, and
she put out her hands appealingly--
"Father! my father! don't send me away. Please let me stay at home."
"Not if I live long enough to take you. Just as certainly as the sun shines
in heaven you will go as soon as your clothes can be made. Your aunt will
have you ready in a week. Don't open your mouth to me! I don't want to hear
another word from you. Take yourself off."
She picked up her slate and book, and left the room.
The week which succeeded was wretched to the girl, for her father's
_surveillance_ prevented her from visiting the cottage, even to say adieu
to its inmates; and no alternative presented itself but to leave for them
(in the hands of Nellie, her devoted nurse) a note containing a few parting
words and assurances of unfading friendship and remembrance. The day of
departure dawned rainy, gloomy, and the wind sobbed and wailed down the
avenue as Irene stood at her window, looking out on the lawn where her life
had been passed. The breakfast-bell summoned her away, and, a half-hour
after, she saw the lofty columns of the old house fade from view, and knew
that many months, perhaps years, must elapse before the ancestral trees of
the long avenue would wave again over the head of their young mistress. Her
father sat beside her, moody and silent, and, when the brick wall and
arched iron gate vanished from her sight, she sank back in one corner, and,
covering her face with her hands, smothered a groan and fought desperately
with her voiceless anguish.