ANXIETY

It was late October; a feeble flame flickered in the grate; on the rug crouched an English spaniel, creeping closer as the heat died out and the waning light of day gradually receded, leaving the room dusky, save where a slanting line of yellow quivered down from the roof and gilt the folds of black silk. At one of the windows stood Electra, half concealed by the heavy green and gold drapery, one dimpled hand clinging to the curtains, the other pressed against the panes, as she watched the forms hurrying along the street below.

For three weeks she had received no letter from Russell; he was remarkably punctual, and this long, unprecedented interval filled her, at first, with vague uneasiness, which grew finally into horrible foreboding. For ten days she had stood at this hour, at the same window, waiting for Mr. Clifton's return from the post-office. Ten times the words "No letter" had fallen, like the voice of doom, on her throbbing heart. On this eleventh day suspense reached its acme, and time seemed to have locked its wheels to lengthen her torture. At last an omnibus stopped, and Mr. Clifton stepped out, with a bundle of papers under his arm. Closer pressed the pallid face against the glass; firmer grew the grasp of the icy fingers on the brocatel; she had no strength to meet him. He closed the door, hung up his hat, and looked into the studio; no fire in the grate, no light in the gas-globes—everything cold and dark save the reflection on that front window.

"Electra!"

"I am here."

"No letter."

She stood motionless a moment; but the brick walls opposite, the trees, the lamp-posts spun around, like maple leaves in an autumn gale.

"My owlet! why don't you have a light and some fire?"

He stumbled toward her, and put his hand on her shoulder; but she shrank away, and, lighting the gas, rang for coal.

"There is something terrible the matter; Russell is either ill or dead. I must go to him."

Just, then the door-bell rang sharply; she supposed it was some brother-artist coming to spend an hour, and turned to go.

"Wait a minute; I want to——" He paused, for at that instant she heard a voice which, even amid the din of Shinar, would have been unmistakable to her, and breaking from him, she sprang to the threshold and met her cousin.

"Oh, Russell! I thought you had forgotten me."

"What put such a ridiculous thought into your head? My last letter must have prepared you to expect me."

"What letter? I have had none for three weeks."

"One in which I mentioned Mr. Campbell's foreign appointment, and the position of secretary which he tendered me. Electra, let me speak to Mr. Clifton."

As he advanced and greeted the artist, she heard a quick, snapping sound, and saw the beautiful Bohemian glass paper-cutter her guardian had been using lying shivered to atoms on the rug. The fluted handle was crushed in his fingers, and drops of blood oozed over the left hand. Ere she could allude to it, he thrust his hand into his pocket and desired Russell to be seated.

"This is a pleasure totally unexpected. What is the appointment of which you spoke?"

"Mr. Campbell has been appointed Minister to ——, and sails next week. I am surprised that you have not heard of it from the public journals; many of them have spoken of it, and warmly commended the selection. I accompany him in the capacity of secretary and shall, meanwhile, prosecute my studies under his direction."

The grey, glittering eyes of the artist sought those of his pupil, and for an instant hers quailed; but, rallying, she looked fully, steadfastly at him, resolved to play out the game, scorning to bare her heart to his scrutiny. She had fancied that Russell's affection had prompted this visit; now it was apparent that he came to New York to take a steamer—not to see her; to put the stormy Atlantic between them.

"New York certainly agrees with you, Electra; you have grown and improved very much since you came North. I never saw such colour in your cheeks before; I can scarcely believe that you are the same fragile child I put into the stage one year ago. This reconciles me to having given you up to Mr. Clifton; he is a better guardian than I could have been. But tell me something more about these new relatives you spoke of having found here."

Mr. Clifton left the room, and the two sat side by side for an hour talking of the gloomy past, the flitting present the uncertain future. Leaning back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on the grate Russell said gravely—

"There is now nothing to impede my successful career; obstacles are rapidly melting away; every day brings me nearer the goal I long since set before me. In two years at farthest, perhaps earlier, I shall return and begin the practice of law. Once admitted, I ask no more. Then, and not till then, I hope to save you from the necessity of labour; in the interim, Mr. Clifton will prove a noble and generous friend; and believe me, my cousin, the thought of leaving you so long is the only thing which will mar the pleasure of my European sojourn."

The words were kind enough, but the tone was indifferent, and the countenance showed her that their approaching separation disquieted him little. She thought of the sleepless nights and wretched days she had passed waiting for a letter from that tall, reserved, cold cousin, and her features relaxed in a derisive smile at the folly of her all-absorbing love. Raising his eyes accidentally he caught the smile, wondered what there was to call it forth in the plans which he had just laid before her, and, meeting his glance of surprise, she said, carelessly—

"Are you not going to see Irene before you sail?"

His cheek flushed as he rose, straightened himself, and answered—

"A strange question, truly, from one who knows me as well as you do. Call to see a girl whose father sent her from home solely to prevent her from associating with my family! Through what sort of metamorphosis do you suppose that I have passed, that every spark of self-respect has been crushed out of me?"

"Her father's tyranny and selfishness can never nullify her noble and affectionate remembrance of Aunt Amy in the hour of her need."

"And when I am able to repay her every cent we owe her, then, and not till then, I wish to see her. Things shall change: mens cujusque is est quisque; and the day will come when Mr. Huntingdon may not think it degrading for his daughter to acknowledge my acquaintance on the street."

A brief silence ensued, Russell drew on his gloves, and finally said, hesitatingly—

"Dr. Arnold told me she had suffered very much from a fall."

"Yes; for a long time she was confined to her room."

"Has she recovered entirely?"

"Entirely. She grows more beautiful day by day."

Perhaps he wished to hear more concerning her, but she would not gratify him, and, soon after, he took up his hat.

"Mr. Clifton has a spare room, Russell; why can't you stay with us while you are in New York?"

"Thank you; but Mr. Campbell will expect me at the hotel. I shall be needed, too, as he has many letters to write. I will see you to-morrow, and indeed every day while I remain in the city."

"Then pay your visits in the morning, for I want to take your portrait with my own hands. Give me a sitting as early as possible."

"Very well; look for me to-morrow. Good night."

The week that followed was one of strangely mingled sorrows and joys; in after years it served as a prominent landmark to which she looked back and dated sad changes in her heart. Irene remained ignorant of Russell's presence in the city, and at last the day dawned on which the vessel was to sail. At the breakfast table Mr. Clifton noticed the colourlessness of his pupil's face, but kindly abstained from any allusion to it. He saw that, contrary to habit, she drank a cup of coffee, and, arresting her arm as she requested his mother to give her a second, he said gently—

"My dear child, where did you suddenly find such Turkish tastes? I thought you disliked coffee?"

"I take it now as medicine. My head aches horribly."

"Then let me prescribe for you. We will go down to the steamer with Russell, and afterward take a long drive to Greenwood, if you like."

"He said he would call here at ten o'clock to bid us farewell."

"N'importe. The carriage will be ready, and we will accompany him."

At the appointed hour they repaired to the vessel, and, looking at its huge sides, Electra coveted even a deck passage; envied the meanest who hurried about, making all things ready for departure. The last bell rang; people crowded down on the planks; Russell hastened back to the carriage, and took the nerveless, gloved hand.

"I will write as early as possible. Don't be uneasy about me; no accident has ever happened on this line. I am glad I leave you with such a friend as Mr. Clifton. Good-bye, cousin; it will not be very long before we meet again."

He kissed the passive lips, shook hands with the artist, and sprang on board just as the planks were withdrawn. The vessel moved majestically on its way; friends on shore waved handkerchiefs to friends departing, and hands were kissed and hats lifted, and then the crowd slowly dispersed—for steamers sail every week, and people become accustomed to the spectacle.

"Are you ready to go now?" asked Mr. Clifton.

"Yes, ready, quite ready—for Greenwood."

She spoke in a tone which had lost its liquid music, and with a wintry smile that fled over the ashy face, lending the features no light, no warmth.

He tried to divert her mind by calling attention to various things of interest, but the utter exhaustion of her position and the monosyllabic character of her replies soon discouraged him. Both felt relieved when the carriage stopped before the studio, and as he led her up the steps, he said affectionately—

"I am afraid my prescription has not cured your head."

"No, sir; but I thank you most sincerely for the kind effort you have made to relieve me. I shall be better to-morrow. Good-bye till then."

"Stay, my child. Come into the studio, and let me read something light and pleasant to you."

"Not for the universe! The sight of a book would give me brain fever, I verily believe."

She tried unavailingly to shake off his hand.

"Why do you shrink from me, my pupil?"

"Because I am sick, weary; and you watch me so that I get restless and nervous. Do let me go! I want to sleep."

An impatient stamp emphasized the words, and, as he relaxed his clasp of her fingers, she hastened to her room, and locked the door to prevent all intrusion. Taking off her bonnet, she drew the heavy shawl closely around her shoulders and threw herself across the foot of the bed, burying her face in her hands, lest the bare walls should prove witnesses of her agony. Six hours later she lay there still with pale fingers pressed to burning, dry eyelids.