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  CHAPTER V

  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 wascompelled to remain at home and watch over her. Russell had become a greatfavourite with his crusty employer, and, when the labours of the officewere ended, brought home such books as he needed, and spent his evenings instudy. His powers of application and endurance were extraordinary, and hisprogress was in the same ratio. As he became more and more absorbed inthese pursuits his reserve and taciturnity increased. His employer wasparticularly impressed by the fact that he never volunteered a remark onany subject, and rarely opened his lips except to ask some necessaryinformation in connection with his business. He comprehended Russell'scharacter, and quietly facilitated his progress. There was no sycophancy onthe part of the young man, no patronage on that of the employer.

  One afternoon Irene tapped lightly at the cottage-door, and entered thekitchen. Mrs. Aubrey sat in a low chair close to the fireplace, engaged inknitting; her smooth, neat calico dress and spotless linen collar told thatcareful hands tended her, and the soft auburn hair brushed over her templesshowed broad bands of grey as the evening sun shone on it. She turned herbrown, 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 herforehead.

  "I am glad to hear your voice, Irene; it has been a long time since youwere 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 areso 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 alwaysfeel better after being with you."

  Mrs. Aubrey had finished her knitting, and sat with her hands folded in herlap, the meek face more than usually serene, the sightless eyes directedtoward her visitor. Sunshine reflected the bare boards under the window,flashed on the tin vessels ranged on the shelves, and lingered like a haloaround Irene's head. Electra had been drawing at the table in the middle ofthe room, and now sat leaning on her hand watching the two at the fire.Presently Irene approached and began to examine the drawings, which werefragmentary, except one or two heads, and a sketch taken from the bankopposite the Falls. After some moments passed in looking over them, Ireneaddressed 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 wintersouth. Haven't you heard of him? Everybody is having portraits taken. He ispainting mine now--father would make me sit again, though he has a likenesswhich was painted four years ago. I am going down to-morrow for my lastsitting, 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 somecrayons I bought for you a week ago. Good-bye."

  The following day Miss Margaret accompanied her to the studio. As thecarriage 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 anextraordinary 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 knewyou associated with those people. I can't think of allowing that girl toenter this carriage. Drive on. I must really speak to Leonard about yourobstinacy in visiting at that----"

  "Stop, Andrew! If you don't choose to ride with Electra, Aunt Margaret, youmay 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 inthe walk and immediately joined her. Miss Margaret was thoroughly arousedand indignant, but thought it best to submit for the time, and when Ireneintroduced her friend she took no notice of her whatever, except by drawingherself up in one corner and lowering her veil. The girls talked during theremainder of the ride, and when they reached Mr. Clifton's door ran up thesteps together, totally unmindful of the august lady's ill humour.

  The artist was standing before an easel which held Irene's unfinishedportrait, and as he turned to greet his visitors, Electra saw that, thoughthin and pale, his face was one of rare beauty and benevolence. His brown,curling hair hung loosely about his shoulders, and an uncommonly long beardof the same silky texture descended almost to his waist. He shook handswith Irene, and looked inquiringly at her companion.

  "Mr. Clifton, this is Miss Electra Grey, whose drawings I mentioned to youlast week. I wish, if you please, you would examine some of them when youhave leisure."

  Electra looked for an instant into his large, clear grey eyes as he tookher drawings and said he would be glad to assist her, and knew thathenceforth the tangled path would be smoothed and widened. She stood at theback of his chair during the hour's sitting, and with peculiar interestwatched the strokes of his brush as the portrait grew under his practisedhand. When Irene rose, the orphan moved away and began to scrutinize thenumerous pictures scattered about the room. A great joy filled her heartand illumined her face, and she waited for the words of encouragement thatshe felt assured would be spoken. The artist looked over her sketchesslowly, carefully, and his eye went back to her brilliant countenance as ifto read there answers to ciphers which perplexed him. But yet more bafflingcryptography met him in the deep, flashing, appealing eyes, on the crimson,quivering lips, on the low, full brow, with its widely separated blackarches. 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 andtemples, as a professed phrenologist might preparatory to rendering achart.

  "Your sketches are very rough, very crude, but they also display greatpower of thought, some of them singular beauty of conception; and I seefrom your countenance that you are dissatisfied because the execution fallsso far short of the conception. Let me talk to you candidly; you haveuncommon talent, but the most exalted genius cannot dispense with laboriousstudy. Think well of all this."

  "I have thought of it; I am willing to work any number of years; I havedecided, and I am not to be frightened from my purpose. I am poor, I canbarely buy the necessary materials, much less the books, but I will be anartist yet. I have decided, sir; it is no new whim; it has been a brightdream 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 tome every day at ten o'clock, and I will instruct you. You shall have suchbooks as you need, and with perseverance you have nothing to fear."

  He went into the adjoining room, and returned with a small volume. As hegave it to her, with some directions concerning the contents, she caughthis 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 notunworthy 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 onhis 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, lookingquite insulted, while her niece was too much engrossed by other reflectionsto notice her. The latter spent the remainder of the morning in writing toHugh and correcting her French exercises, and when summoned to dinner sheentered the room expecting a storm. A glance sufficed to show her thatMiss Margaret had not yet spoken to her father, though it was evident
fromher countenance that she was about to make what she considered an importantrevelation. The meal passed, however, without any allusion to the subject,and, knowing what she had to expect, Irene immediately withdrew to thelibrary to give her aunt an opportunity of unburdening her mind. Thestruggle must come some time, and she longed to have it over as soon aspossible. She threw up the sash, seated herself on the broad cedarwindow-sill, and began to work out a sum in Algebra. Nearly a half-hourpassed; the slamming of the dining-room door was like the first line offoam, curling and whitening the sea when the tempest sweeps forward; herfather 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 yourobstinacy 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 willturn your aunt and me out of the house next, and invite that preciousAubrey crew to take possession. Your confounded stubbornness will ruin youyet. You deserve a good whipping, miss; I can hardly keep my hands off ofyou."

  He did not; rough hands seized her shoulder, jerked her from thewindow-sill, and shook her violently. Down fell book, slate, and pencilwith 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, saidin 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 tokeep 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 dutyto obey me."

  "I don't think it was, father, when you refused to give me any reason foravoiding Mrs. Aubrey or her family. They are unfortunate but honourablepeople; and, being very poor and afflicted, I felt sorry for them. I can'tsee how my going there occasionally harms you or me, or anybody else. Iknow very well that you dislike them, but you never told me why, and Icannot imagine any good reason for it. Father, if I love them why shouldnot 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! Ican match you, you perverse little wretch! I am going to send you to aboarding-school, do you hear that? send you where you will have no Aubreysto abet your obstinacy and disobedience, where that temper of yours can becurbed. 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 willtake you to New York, and keep you there till you are grown and learncommon sense. Now get out of my sight!"

  With a stamp of rage he pointed to the door. Hitherto she had stood quitestill, but now an expression of anguish passed swiftly over her face, andshe 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 shinesin heaven you will go as soon as your clothes can be made. Your aunt willhave you ready in a week. Don't open your mouth to me! I don't want to hearanother 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 adieuto 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 partingwords and assurances of unfading friendship and remembrance. The day ofdeparture dawned rainy, gloomy, and the wind sobbed and wailed down theavenue as Irene stood at her window, looking out on the lawn where her lifehad been passed. The breakfast-bell summoned her away, and, a half-hourafter, she saw the lofty columns of the old house fade from view, and knewthat many months, perhaps years, must elapse before the ancestral trees ofthe long avenue would wave again over the head of their young mistress. Herfather sat beside her, moody and silent, and, when the brick wall andarched iron gate vanished from her sight, she sank back in one corner, and,covering her face with her hands, smothered a groan and fought desperatelywith her voiceless anguish.