University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Youth is hopeful, beautifully hopeful, and
fresh, pure hearts rebound from sorrow with
wonderful elasticity. When clouds lower and
the way seems dark and tangled hope flies
forward, pioneer-like, to clear away all obstacles.
Huge barriers frowned between Electra
and the heights she strained every nerve to
reach, but never for an instant did she doubt
the success of the struggle. Like Orpheus
seeking Eurydice, to look back was fearful
and hazardous; and fixing her eyes steadily
on the future, she allowed herself no haunting
foreboding.

What human powers can endure and accomplish
is to be measured only by the necessity
which goads, and all herculean trophies
are won by desperate needs. The laws which
govern our moral and intellectual natures are
as rigid and inevitable in their operation as
those whose workings we constantly trace in
the physical world; of which truth the history
of nations and memoirs of great men furnish
innumerable exemplifications. Consequently,
it is both unjust and illogical to judge of the
probability of this or that event or series of
events, or the naturalness of this or that character,
whether in authenticated history or fictitious
works, without a thorough acquaintance
with all antecedents, and the various relations
surrounding the actor. Reader, as you walk
side by side with these whose lives I am narrating,
bear this in mind—the silver-winged
pigeons that flash in and out of the venerable
trees shading the old homestead, and coo and
flutter amid the rainbow spray of the fountain,
would droop, shiver, and die on bald, awful
Alpine pinnacles, where in the fierce howl
and scourging of tempests eaglets wheel in
triumph, and scream defiantly; and tender pet
lambs, coaxed into flowery, luxuriant meadows,
would soon make their graves in the
murderous snow over which young chamois
bleat and skip in wild glee, fearless as the
everlasting hills.

Day after day Electra toiled over her work;
the delicate frame learned its destiny, sighed
at its future, but grew strong; and complaining
nerves, catching some of her iron resolve,
endured patiently—became finally thoroughly
inured to their arduous duties. Her aunt
constantly claimed her attention for the various
little offices so grateful to an invalid, but
by an extraordinary alchemy she contrived to
convert every interruption into an occasion
of profit. If lending her arm to support the
drooping form in a short walk around the
little garden, she would describe the varying
tints of sky, as the clouds shifted their gorgeous
curtains of purple and scarlet and gold,
until thoroughly familiarized with the varied
chameleon hues and strange, grotesque outlines
traced by every rift. Nature was a
vast storehouse of matchless, unapproachable
beauty to that eager, thirsty soul—a boundless
studio, filled with wonderful creations, open to
her at all times—in the rosy, opaline flush of
morning, the blazing splendor of full-orbed
noon, the silver gray of twilight, peopled with
dusky phantoms, weird and shifting as Fata-Morgana—the
still sublimity, the solemn, sacred
witchery of star-crowned, immemorial
Night. She answered the first hoarse call of
thunder by stationing herself at the window to
watch the stormy panorama sweep over the
heavens; and not Ruysdael, nor Vandervelde,
nor Turner ever gazed with more intense delight
on the hurrying masses of vapor than that
fragile girl, as she stood with the forked lightning
glaring luridly over her upturned, enraptured
face. Favored ones of fortune lean
against marble pillars in royal museums, to
study the imperishable works of earth's grandest
old artists; but she lived in a cosmopolitan
temple, whose skyey frescos were fresh from
the hands of Jehovah himself. 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
that 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, 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 any one. 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 her short shining
hair, and mused for a moment as if laying
conflicting emotions in the balance. She heard
his deep, labored 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 can not 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?”

“Give me ten minutes to think,” she answered
shiveringly. He turned away and
walked up and down the floor, taking care
to conceal his face. She sat down before a
table and dropped her forehead in her palms.
What slight things often shape human destiny;
how little people realize the consequences
of seemingly trivial words, looks, or
actions? The day before Electra would unhesitatingly
have declined this proposition;
but only that morning, as she passed Russell's
door before breakfast, she saw him with
Irene's farewell note in his hand; saw him
press his lips hastily to the signature. Her
jealous heart was on fire; the consciousness
of his love for another rendered her reckless
and indescribably miserable. In this mood
she reflected; Mr. Clifton seemed to have
become warmly attached to her, and could
help her to attain the eminence she had in
view; she was poor, why not accept his generous
offer? Russell would not miss her —
would not care whether she left him or remained.
If she were far away, at least she
would not be tormented by his coldness and
indifference. The future (barring her ambitious
dreams) was dim, joyless; she had to
earn a support, she scorned to be dependent
on her cousin, fame lured her on. Yes, she
would go. Mr. Clifton took out his watch
and paused beside her:

“Ten minutes have passed; 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 can not go with you just
now, for at present I can not, ought not, to
leave my aunt. Helpless as she is, it would
be cruel, ungrateful, to desert her; but things
can not 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 always. Most gratefully will I
accept your generous offer so soon as I feel
that I can do so.”

He stooped, and touched her forehead with
his lips.

“My dear Electra, I will shield you from
trials and difficulties; I will prize you above
everything on earth; I know you are making

a great sacrifice to be with me; I know how
hard it is for you to leave home and relatives.
But, my child, your aunt has only a short
time to live; she is failing very fast, and your
duty to her will not keep you here long. 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-by,
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 what 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. The battle of life must
be fought, and if one begins skirmishing in
the cradle, tactics are soon learned, and the
conflict ends more speedily. But Electra
had also conned another lesson: to lock her
troubles in her own heart, voicing no complaint,
and when she sought her aunt, and
read aloud the favorite chapters in the Bible,
or led her up and down the garden-walk,
talking of various things, telling of the growth
of pet plants, there was no indication whatever
of any unusual strife or extraordinary
occurrence. Russell knew that a change had
come over his cousin, but was too constantly
engaged, too entirely absorbed by his studies,
to ask or analyze 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
on 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. There, in a low chair close to the
pillow, sat Electra reading, talking, exerting
herself to the utmost to cheer the widow.
She filled the thin fingers with dewy roses,
and expatiated on the glories of the outer
world, while the thoughts of the invalid wan
dered to the approaching shores of another
realm, and she thanked God that though thick
folds of darkness shrouded earth, the veil
dropped from her soul and the spiritual vision
grew clear and piercing. If faith and resignation
could be taught like music or arithmetic,
then had Electra learned the grandest
truths of Christianity; but it is a mournful
fact that the bloody seal of Experience must
stamp the lesson ere deep thinkers or strong
natures receive it, and as she watched that
precious life fade, like the purple light of
summer in evening skies, the only feeling she
knew was that of grief for the impending
loss—undefined apprehension of coming isolation.
If Mrs. Aubrey could have seen the
countenance which bent over her pillow, her
serene soul would have been painfully disturbed.
She felt hot tears fall on her hands
and cheeks, and knew that the lips which
pressed hers often trembled; but this seemed
natural enough under the circumstances, and
she sank quietly down to the edge of the
tomb ignorant of the sorrows that racked the
girl's heart. 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. She told him how the promises
of the Saviour had supported and cheered
her in times of great need, and implored him
to dedicate his energies, his talents, his life, to
the service of his Maker. 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. Not
a sound broke the stillness save the occasional
chirp of a cricket, and a shy mouse crept
twice across the floor, wondering at the
silence, fixing its twinkling bright eyes on
the motionless figures. 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. Life is
at best a struggle, and such perfect repose as
greeted him is found only when the marble
hands of Death transfer the soul to its guardian
angel. 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 long, fierce
ordeal had ended, the flames died out, and
from smouldering ashes the purified spirit
that had toiled and fainted not, that had been
faithful to the end, patiently bearing many
crosses, heard the voice of the Great Shepherd,
and soared joyfully to the pearly gates
of the Everlasting Home. 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.

Night folded her starry curtains around the
earth; darkness settled on river and hill and
valley. It was late September; autumn
winds rose, eager for their work of death,
and rushed rudely through the forests, shaking
the sturdy primeval monarchs in token of
their mission and mastery; and shivering
leaves rustled down before them, drifting into
tiny grave-like hillocks. Gradually the stars
caught the contagious gloom, and shrank behind
the cloud-skirts sweeping the cold sky.
It was a solemn, melancholy night, full of
dreary phantoms, presaging a dark, dismal
morrow. Amy Aubrey's still form reposed on
the draped table in the kitchen, and the fitful
candle-light showed only a dim, rigid outline
of white linen. Mr. Campbell and his wife
sat together in the next room, and the two
young mourners were left in the silence of the
kitchen. Russell sat at the open window,
near the table; his head leaned on his hand,
tearless, mute, still as his mother. At the opposite
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-gray
hurrying clouds as the reckless winds parted
their wan folds. The stony face of her merciless
destiny seemed to frown down at her,
cold, grim, Sphinx-like. Hitherto she had
walked with loved ones; now a vast sepulchre
yawned to receive them; a tomb of clay for
the quiet sleeper, one of perhaps final separation
for Russell, and over this last hideous
chasm Hope hovered with drooping wings.
To leave him was like inurning her heart and
all the joy she had ever known; and then, to
crown her agony, a thousand Furies hissed
“Irene will come back, and loving her he will
forget that you toil among strangers.”

She crushed her fingers against each other
and stifled a groan, while the chilling voice of
Destiny added: “trample out this weakness,
your path and his here separate widely; you
are nothing to him, go to work earnestly, and
cease repining.” She shrank away from the
window, and approached her cousin. For two
hours he had not changed his position; as far
as she knew, had not moved a muscle. She
sat down at his feet and crossed her arms over
his knees; he took no notice of her.

“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, so 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 any one else.”

His eyes were fixed on the shrouded table,
and he answered without looking at her:

“No, Electra, you must go to Mrs. Harden;
she seems anxious to have you; and as for
being dependent on charity, you never shall
be, so long as I live. You will merely reside
under her roof, and shall not cost her a cent;
leave this with me.”

“I can not leave it with any body; I must
depend upon myself. I have thought a great
deal about it, and my resolution is not to be
shaken. You have been very kind to me,
Russell, all my life; and only God knows how
I love and thank you. But I will not accept
your hard earnings in future; I should be miserable
unless at work, and I tell you I must
and will go to Mr. Clifton.”

He looked at her now, surprised and pained.

“What is the matter with you, Electra?
Have I not sorrows enough, that you must try
to add another by your obstinacy? What
would she think of you?”

He rose, and laid his hand on the pure
smooth brow of the dead.

“There is nothing new the matter with me.
I have determined to go; nobody has any
right to control me, and it is worse than useless
for you to oppose me. We have but little
time to spend together, do not let us quarrel
here in her presence. Let there be peace between
us in these last hours. Oh, Russell! it
is hard enough to part, even in love and kindness;
do not add painful contention.”

“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.

Back to a deserted home, whence the crown
of joy has been borne. What a hideous rack
stands at the hearth-stone whereon merciless
memory stretches the bereaved ones. In hours
such as this, we cry out fiercely: “The sun of
our life has gone down in starless, everlasting
night; earth has no more glory, no more
bloom or fragrance for us; the voices of gleeful
children, the carol of summer birds, take
the mournful measure of a dirge. We hug
this great grief to our hearts; we hold our
darling dead continually before us, and refuse
to be glad again.” We forget that Prometheus
has passed from the world. Time bears
precious healing on its broad pinions; folds
its arms compassionately about us as a pitying
father; softly binds up the jagged wounds,
drugs memory, and though the poisonous sting
is occasionally thrust forth, she soon relapses
into stupor. So in the infinite mercy of our
God, close at the heels of Azrael, follow the
winged hours laden, like Sisters of Charity,
with balm for the people.

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 gate-post 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-by.
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. Toil stretches before me like a
sandy desert, but I shall cross it safely; and
then, Electra, my dear cousin, we shall be
parted no more. I should feel far better satisfied
if you were with Mrs. Harden, but you

determined otherwise, and, as you told me a
few days ago, I have no right to control you.
Write to me often, and believe that I shall do
all that a brother could for you. Mr. Colton
is waiting; good-by, 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, wont you say good-by?”

She leaned out till her cheek touched his,
and in a hoarse tone uttered the fluttering
words:

“Oh, Russell! Russell! good-by! May
God have mercy on me!”

And the stage rolled swiftly on; men
laughed, talked, and smoked; an October sun
filled the sky with glory, and gilded the trees
on the road-side; flame-colored leaves flashed
in the air as the wind tossed them before it;
the deep, continual thunder of the foaming
falls rose soothingly from the river banks, and
a wretched human thing pressed her bloodless
face against the morocco lining of the coach,
and stared down, mute and tearless, into the
wide grave of her all—