MASTER AND PUPIL
Day after day Electra toiled over her work. The rapidity of her progress
astonished Mr. Clifton. He questioned her concerning the processes she
employed in some of her curious combinations, but the fragmentary,
abstracted nature of her conversation during the hours of instruction gave
him little satisfactory information. His interest in her increased, until
finally it became absorbing, and he gave her all the time she could spare
from home. The eagerness with which she listened to his directions, the
facility with which she applied his rules, fully repaid him; and from day
to day he postponed his return to the North, reluctant to leave his
indefatigable pupil. Now and then the time of departure was fixed, but ere
it arrived he wavered and procrastinated.
Electra knew that his stay had been prolonged beyond his original
intention, and she dreaded the hour when she should be deprived of his aid
and advice. Though their acquaintance had been so short, a strangely strong
feeling had grown up in her heart toward him; a feeling of clinging
tenderness, blended with earnest and undying gratitude. She knew that he
understood her character and appreciated her struggles, and it soothed her
fierce, proud heart, in some degree to receive from him those tokens of
constant remembrance which she so yearned to have from Russell. She felt,
too, that she was not regarded as a stranger by the artist; she could see
his sad eyes brighten at her entrance, and detect the tremor in his hand
and voice when he spoke of going home. His health had improved, and the
heat of summer had come; why did he linger? His evenings were often spent
at the cottage, and even Mrs. Aubrey learned to smile at the sound of his
step.
One morning, as Electra finished her lesson and rose to go, he said slowly,
as if watching the effect of his words--
"This is the last hour I can give you. In two days I return to New York.
Letters of importance came this morning; I have waited here too long
already."
"Are you in earnest this time?"
"I am; it is absolutely necessary that I should return home."
"Mr. Clifton, what shall I do without you?"
"Suppose you had never seen me?"
"Then I should not have had to lose you. Oh, sir! I need you very much."
"Electra, child, you will conquer your difficulties without assistance from
anyone. You have nothing to fear."
"Yes, I know I shall conquer at last, but the way would be so much easier
if you were only with me. I shall miss you more than I can tell you."
He passed his hand over his short shining hair, and mused for a moment as
if laying conflicting emotions in the balance. She heard his deep, laboured
breathing, and saw the working of the muscles in his pale face; when he
spoke his voice was husky--
"You are right; you need me, and I want you always with me; we must not be
parted. Electra, I say we shall not. Come to me, put your hands in
mine--promise me that you will be my child, my pupil. I will take you to my
mother, and we need never be separated. You require aid, such as cannot be
had here; in New York you shall have all that you want. Will you come with
me?"
He held her hands in a vice-like grasp, and looked pleadingly into her
astonished countenance. A mist gathered before her, and she closed her
eyes.
"Electra, will you come?"
She raised her bloodless face, stamped with stern resolve, and ere the
words were pronounced he read his answer in the defiant gleam of her eyes,
in the hard, curved lines of the mouth.
"Mr. Clifton, I cannot go with you just now, for at present I cannot, ought
not, to leave my aunt. Helpless as she is, it would be cruel, ungrateful to
desert her; but things cannot continue this way much longer, and I promise
you that as soon as I can I will go to you. I want to be with you; I want
somebody to care for me, and I know you will be a kind friend to me always.
Most gratefully will I accept your generous offer as soon as I feel that I
can do so."
He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips.
"My dear Electra, you are right to remain with her, but when she needs you
no more I shall expect you to come to me in New York. Meantime, I shall
write to you frequently, and supply you with such books and materials as
you require. My pupil, I long to have you in my own home. Remember, no
matter what happens, you have promised yourself to me."
"I shall not forget;" but he saw her shudder.
"Shall I speak to your aunt about this matter before I go?"
"No, it would only distress her; leave it all with me. It is late, and I
must go. Good-bye, sir."
He promised to see her again before his departure, and she walked home with
her head bowed and a sharp continual pain gnawing at her heart.
In the calm, peaceful years of ordinary childhood the soul matures slowly;
but a volcanic nature like Electra's, subjected to galling trials, rapidly
hardens, and answers every stroke with the metallic ring of age. Keen
susceptibility to joy or pain taught her early that less impressive
characters are years in learning, and it was lamentably true that while yet
a mere girl, she suffered as acutely as a woman. Russell knew that a change
had come over his cousin, but was too constantly engaged, too entirely
absorbed by his studies, to ask or analyse the cause. She never watched at
the gate for him now, never sprang with outstretched arms to meet him,
never hung over the back of his chair and caressed his hands as formerly.
When not waiting upon her aunt, she was as intent upon her books as he, and
though invariably kind and unselfish in her conduct toward him, she was
evidently constrained in his presence. As the summer wore on, Mrs. Aubrey's
health failed rapidly, and she was confined to her couch. One morning when
Mr. Campbell, the pastor, had spent some time in the sick-room praying with
the sufferer and administering the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, Electra
followed him to the door, leaving Russell with his mother. The gentle
pastor took her hand kindly, and looked at her with filling eyes.
"You think my aunt is worse?"
"Yes, my child. I think that very soon she will be with her God. She will
scarcely survive till night----"
She turned abruptly from him and threw herself down across the foot of the
bed, burying her face in her arms. Russell sat with his mother's hands in
his, while she turned her brown eyes toward him, and exhorted him to commit
himself and his future to the hands of a merciful God. Electra was not
forgotten; she advised her to go to a cousin of her mother, residing in
Virginia. Long before she had written to this lady, informing her of her
own feebleness and of the girl's helpless condition; and a kind answer had
been returned, cordially inviting the orphan to share her home, to become
an inmate of her house. Russell could take her to these relatives as soon
as possible. To all this no reply was made, and, a few moments later, when
Russell kissed her tenderly and raised her pillow, she said faintly--
"If I could look upon your face once more, my son, it would not be hard to
die. Let me see you in heaven, my dear, dear boy." These were the last
words, and soon after a stupor fell upon her. Hour after hour passed; Mrs.
Campbell came and sat beside the bed, and the three remained silent, now
and then lifting bowed heads to look at the sleeper. The autumn day died
slowly as the widow, and when the clock dirged out the sunset hour Russell
rose, and, putting back the window curtains, stooped and laid his face
close to his mother's. No pulsation stirred the folds over the heart, or
the soft bands of hair on the blue-veined temples; the still mouth had
breathed its last sigh, and the meek brown eyes had opened in eternity.
The day bore her away on its wings, and as Russell touched the icy cheek a
despairing cry rolled through the silent cottage--
"Oh, mother! my own precious dead mother!"
Falling on his knees, he laid his head on her pillow, and when kind
friendly hands bore her into the adjoining room, he knelt there still,
unconscious of what passed, knowing only that the keenest of many blows had
fallen, that the last and bitterest vial of sorrows had been emptied.
At the window stood Electra, pressing her face against the frame, looking
out into the moaning, struggling night, striving to read the mystic
characters dimly traced on the ash-grey hurrying clouds as the reckless
winds parted their wan folds. She shrank away from the window, and
approached her cousin.
"Oh, Russell! say something to me, or I shall die."
It was the last wail she ever suffered to escape her in his presence. He
raised his head and put his hand on her forehead, but the trembling lips
refused their office, and as she looked up at him tears rolled slowly down
and fell on her cheek. She would have given worlds to mingle her tears with
his, but no moisture came to her burning eyes; and there these two, soon to
separate, passed the remaining hours of that long wretched night of
watching. The stormy day lifted her pale, mournful face at last, and with
it came the dreary patter and sobbing of autumn rain, making it doubly
harrowing to commit the precious form to its long, last resting-place.
Electra stood up beside her cousin and folded her arms together.
"Russell, I am not going to that cousin in Virginia. I could owe my bread
and clothes to you, but not to her. She has children, and I do not intend
to live on her charity. I know you, and I must part; the sooner the better.
I would not be willing to burden you a day longer. I am going to fit
myself to work profitably. Mr. Clifton offered me a home in his house, said
his mother was lonely, and would be rejoiced to have me; that letter which
I received last week contained one from her, also urging me to come; and,
Russell, I am going to New York to study with him as long as I need
instruction. I did not tell aunt of this, because I knew it would grieve
her to think that I would be thrown with strangers; and having fully
determined to take this step, thought it best not to distress her by any
allusion to it. You know it is my own affair, and I can decide it better
than anyone else."
"So you prefer utter strangers to your relatives and friends?"
"Ties of blood are not the strongest; strangers step in to aid where
relatives sometimes stand aloof, and watch a fatal struggle. Remember
Irene; who is nearer to you, she or your grandfather? Such a friend Mr.
Clifton is to me, and go to him I will at all hazards. Drop the subject, if
you please."
He looked at her an instant, then turned once more to his mother's face,
and his cousin left them together.
The day was so inclement that only Mr. and Mrs. Campbell and Russell's
employer attended the funeral. These few followed the gentle sleeper, and
laid her down to rest till the star of eternity dawns; and the storm
chanted a long, thrilling requiem as the wet mound rose above the coffin.
The kind-hearted pastor and his wife urged the orphans to remove to their
house for a few days at least, until the future could be mapped; but they
preferred to meet and battle at once with the spectre which they knew stood
waiting in the desolate cottage. At midnight a heavy sleep fell on Russell,
who had thrown himself upon his mother's couch; and, softly spreading a
shawl over him, Electra sat down by the dying fire on the kitchen hearth,
and looked her future in the face. A few days sufficed to prepare for her
journey; and a gentleman from New York, who had met her cousin in Mr.
Campbell's office, consented to take charge of her, and commit her to Mr.
Clifton's hands. The scanty furniture was sent to an auction-room, and a
piece of board nailed to the gatepost announced that the cottage was for
rent. Russell decided to take his meals at a boarding-house, and occupy a
small room over the office, which Mr. Campbell had placed at his disposal.
On the same day, the cousins bade adieu to the only spot they had called
"home" for many years; and as Russell locked the door and joined Electra,
his melancholy face expressed, far better than words could have done, the
pain it cost him to quit the house where his idolized mother had lived,
suffered and died. Mr. Colton was waiting for Electra at the hotel, whither
the stage had been driven for passengers; and as she drew near and saw her
trunk among others piled on top, she stopped and grasped Russell's hand
between both hers. A livid paleness settled on her face, while her wild
black eyes fastened on his features. She might never see him again; he was
far dearer to her than her life; how could she bear to leave him, to put
hundreds of miles between that face and her own? An icy hand clutched her
heart as she gazed into his deep, sad, beautiful eyes. His feeling for her
was a steady, serene affection, such as brothers have for dear young
sisters, and to give her up now filled him with genuine, earnest sorrow.
"Electra, it is very hard to tell you good-bye. You are all I have left,
and I shall be desolate indeed when you are away. But the separation will
not be long, I trust; in a few years we shall be able to have another home;
and where my home is, yours must always be. Write to me often, and believe
that I shall do all that a brother could for you. Mr. Colton is waiting;
good-bye, darling."
He bent down to kiss her, and the strained, tortured look that greeted him
he never forgot. She put her arms around his neck, and clung to him like a
shivering weed driven by rough winds against a stone wall. He removed her
clasping arms, and led her to Mr. Colton; but as the latter offered to
assist her into the stage, she drew back, that Russell might perform that
office. While he almost lifted her to a seat, her fingers refused to
release his, and he was forced to disengage them. Other passengers entered,
and the door was closed. Russell stood near the window, and said gently,
pitying her suffering--
"Electra, won't you say good-bye?"
She leaned out till her cheek touched his, and in a hoarse tone uttered the
fluttering words--
"Oh, Russell, Russell! good-bye! May God have mercy on me!"