"But, Kitty," I exclaimed, clinging to a last hope, "was the dress much spoiled?"
"Oh dear, yes! muddied, torn, stained, as if you'd been dragged through the streets in it." Our conversation was again abruptly brought to a close by the advent of Mary, this time with a message to Kitty from Mrs. Arnold, desiring her help downstairs.
And again, turning my face to the pillow, with a miserable sigh, I was left alone.
"The very gentlest of all human naturesHe joined to courage strong,And love outreaching unto all God's creatures,With sturdy hate of wrong."WHITTIER.
Evening was closing in, and filling the little room where I lay with fitful shadows, which the tiny blaze of fire in the grate was incompetent to dispel. If it had been possible for me to be more miserable than I had been all day, I should indeed have "loathed the hour" when gloom and darkness so palpably and hopelessly descend, but the climax of misery and self-reproach had been reached by daylight, and outward dreariness could only increase, in a very slight degree, the inward gloom. The faults I had been guilty of, and the errors into which I had led, or allowed Kitty to go, seemed to me, and justly, the first steps in a most dangerous path. I fully realized the sins, and their effect upon my conscience, apart from their consequences and punishment. These last, I was aware, were hard enough. I knew I had done what must lower me in Mr. Rutledge's esteem; to be the accomplice in a deception, however slight, was to sink just that much in his regard, whose rigid truthfulness and honor were offended by the least prevarication. I knew I had given Mrs. Roberts grounds for all her former distrust and aversion, and placed myself lower than she could have estimated me. Above all, poor Kitty was the victim on whom it fell hardest, and how much of the blame of not checking her or guiding her right lay on my shoulders, I dared not think. I was really attached to the brave, quick-witted girl, and remembered, with humiliation, how ignorant and untaught she was, and how naturally and unavoidably her faults were the results of her unguided impetuosity, while mine were committed in the light of an instructed conscience and educated intellect.
But with me to suffer pain, was to seek some cure for it. My repentances were not often fruitless; I could no more have lain there, and endured that self-reproach, without resolving on some way to allay it, than I could have submitted to a dagger in my breast without attempting to draw it out. The only remedy I could see, was painful enough, but there was no help for it.
"Mrs. Arnold," I implored, "do put down your work, and come and sit by me; I want to ask you something."
Mrs. Arnold left her seat by the window, and laying down the knitting that her rapid fingers plied alike through daylight and darkness, came to my bedside and sat down. She saw I was excited and feverish, and in her gentle way strove to soothe and amuse me. She talked of a great many things about the parish that she thought might interest me—of the school children, and the Christmas festivities that were preparing, and in some way Rutledge was spoken of, and its dullness and gloominess.
"But I don't think it's gloomy in the least," I said; "I think it's the most beautiful place I ever was in in my life. Don't you think it's delightful?"
"I used to think so," she said, sadly.
"Have you been there lately?" I demanded.
"Never since I left it first," she answered, musingly.
"Then you lived there once?"
She assented half unconsciously.
"What were you?" I asked, very suddenly; "were you housekeeper?"
"No, I was governess, Miss," she answered; then started, as if she had said more than she had intended, and hastily turned the conversation to something else. But I could not so quickly turn my thoughts. This woman, then, who tended me, with sad, soft eyes and voice, had been the governess and companion of Alice—had known from the beginning the storm that had burst over Rutledge, and was herself, perhaps, involved in this dark story of the past, that was meeting me at every turn. The miniature would have startled her, perhaps, if she could have seen it. What if she, in reality, had it now, and hers was the cold hand upon my breast that had seized it? But no; Kitty was sure it was not. And then my thoughts reverted to my own remorse and trouble that had only been momentarily lulled by Mrs. Arnold's conversation. There was a pause just then, and raising myself on my elbow, I said, looking intently at my companion:
"Mrs. Arnold, did you ever confess a sin to Mr. Shenstone, and ask counsel of him when you were very miserable?"
At my words, Mrs. Arnold gave a start; but recovering herself, she said, in a voice somewhat agitated:
"Why do you ask me such a question?"
"Because," I said, too much absorbed in my own trouble to heed her agitation, "because I am very miserable, and don't know exactly what to do; I am sure he is the only one who can help me, and I must tell him before I sleep to-night, if only I can get the courage! Oh, Mrs. Arnold! tell me, is he very severe? Or will he be kind—and would you dare, if you were me?"
"I cannot tell what trouble you have on your mind, but I can answer for it, if human help can lighten it, Mr. Shenstone will give you all the help he can. And if it is but between you and heaven, he will show you the way to get at peace. Oh, my dear young lady! you need not be afraid to open your heart to one who knows so much about God's mercy and men's sins. You need not be afraid but that he will be as tender as he is wise; indeed, you need not fear him."
She spoke rapidly and earnestly; her whole manner of precision and composure seemed to be broken down and melted before some recollection that my trouble seemed to recall. I laid my burning hand in hers, and said with a sigh:
"Oh, if I only dared!"
"But why should you fear?" she continued, earnestly. "Why should you fear, when I tell you that he has only kindness and pity in his heart—that he has looked with forbearance and compassion on blacker sins than ever stained your young soul; and when I tell you—for I have reason to know—that he can bring light out of darkness, and can show a way of peace to even the most tortured and despairing. It may," she continued, "be but a very little sin that is weighing on you, and turning you out of the right way; but from little sins grow heavy punishments, and better find now the best way of putting it out of your heart, and putting something good in its stead. You have all life before you," she said, with a weary sigh, "and repentance is easier and more hopeful work, than it is to come back, when one has spent one's inheritance of life in sin, having nothing to offer heaven but fruitless tears."
Her voice trembled with emotion; she looked pityingly at me as, struggling to keep back my tears, I hid my face in the pillow, and caressing the hand that still lay in hers, she went on to persuade me to the only remedy she knew for my unhappiness. I still felt shudderingly afraid to make the dreadful effort, and faltered something about my fear of his goodness and superiority, and the contempt he would feel for me when he knew how weak and sinful I had been.
"Would it give you courage," she said, in a low tone, "to know how he once received the repentance of a very miserable woman—a woman who had not only sinned against heaven, but against him—who had done more than any one else to blight his happiness and make his life desolate, but who, having met the due reward of her deeds, came back to die in misery where she had failed to live in innocence? Shall I tell you of this?"
I whispered "Yes," and she went on in a low voice:
"It is no matter what the sins were that brought me to the misery I shall tell you of; it is no matter whether they were committed for myself, or for the love of one whom I would have died to serve; it is no matter for me to tell you that they grew from little unchecked thoughts of pride and self-will, and little half-intended acts of deception, into the monster sins that overshadowed my life; it is enough that I had come to the recompense of them—that in remorse, in utter consternation, I mourned as one without hope. What did I know of hope? Six feet of foreign mound covered the remains of her I had served and sinned for. Shame and infamy covered her name; hope was dead in my heart; faith had never been lit there. Alone in a land of strangers, there was but one longing in my breast that exceeded the desire for death, and that was the craving to see home again. It makes me shudder even now to recall that journey—weary months of fatigue, and exposure and misery; the only thought that kept me up, a dreary one at best, to see home once more, and die before a word of reproach could stab me, or a familiar voice recall the wretched past.
"It was a still, clear December night, when, footsore and weary, I saw, with a strange thrill, the lights of a little village, that my heart told me was the little village I had come thousands of miles to see, and that I had not seen nor heard from since my guilty flight, long years ago, on a December night, still and cold as this. I hurried on, my sinking strength nerved up for a last effort, till I should reach a woody knoll I knew overlooked the village, and there, I said, I will die. In my hand I held what I knew would free me; I had carried it in my bosom for months and months, only waiting for this moment. At last I reached the spot, and sinking down on the hard ground, covered my face a moment with my hands, then looked down upon the scene before me. There lay the village, its white houses gleaming in the moonlight—there the familiar road wound round the foot of the hill—there was the broad street, the old mill, the placid lake in the distance, and beyond it, clear against the sky, the dark outlines of Rutledge; massive, and gloomy, and lifeless, it stood far off from the cheery village, with its animation and content. Not a window of the little hamlet but showed a kindly light, while the great house beyond was dark and silent—not a gleam of light from all its sombre front. A horror and remorse that you cannot understand came over me, such as I had thought my dead heart was incapable of harboring; then despair settled on it again, and I prepared for death. But as I was looking—and I was not dreaming—between the desolate house and me, distinct against the dark woods, there shone out a silver cross. I was not dreaming—I was terribly awake; but there it glittered, still and bright. Not a sound broke the stillness of the frosty air, not another feature in the landscape changed; I strained my eyes to catch the least wavering or fading of the distinct lines, but calm and clear the holy sign still lit the dark stretch of woodland between me and Rutledge, and never wavered or faded. I was not superstitious, but this came to me like a token from heaven, and I held the fatal vial unopened in my hand. What if this was meant to tell me there was forgiveness yet—that there was a sanctifying calm even over the cold desolation of that dark house—that the sins were done away, and that mercy had shone out. With that sign before me, I did not dare to add that one sin more to those I had already committed; I did not dare to die by my own hand. And then a desire took possession of me to know something of what had passed in all these years, or if there was, indeed, none remaining to loathe and execrate me. And finally, hiding the vial in my bosom, I crept down, and keeping my eye still fixed on the shining cross, I turned into the broad street that led to the village. One after another of the cheerful lights I passed, not daring to go in, pausing before each gate, and then hurrying on, determined to try the next. By and by, the cross was lost among the trees, and my courage began to fail, when, on a sudden, I found myself at the gate of a church-yard, and looking up, saw, what was most unexpected and unfamiliar, the arches and spire of a little church, on the site of the neglected old graveyard I remembered; and there, above it, gleamed the cross that had stayed my hand from suicide, which, catching the rays of the rising moon, had shone out with such a message of mercy.
"I opened the little gate, and stealing across the churchyard, bent down to read the names upon the graves that had been made since I had been away. I mournfully traced out one familiar name after another, till, with a groan, I turned away from the gloomy spot, and shutting the gate, struck off into the road again. I dragged on, till I reached the outskirts of the village, then sat down to rest. A single light, at a little distance, shone from a cottage on the edge of the woods, that I knew bordered Rutledge Park. A boy passed by me, and summoning courage, I stopped him, and asked him what house that was. 'The Parsonage,' he said. And there, I thought, is where I will go, and hear, perhaps, whether there is any hope for such as me in either world. When I reached the low gate of the garden in front of it, I did not allow myself time to think, but walked down the path, and stepping on the little porch, knocked faintly at the door. The blinds of the window where the light was, being open, I looked in, and saw the only occupant of it, who had been reading by the lamp on the table, rise to answer my knock.
"'Can I see the clergyman?' I asked, in a low voice.
"'Come in, this way,' he said, kindly, leading the way to the room he had left; 'I am the clergyman.'
"He told me to sit down by the fire, and then, in a tone that moved me strangely, asked if he could help or direct me in any way.
"I was too near the gate of death to see in him anything but the minister of God; and, forgetting that he was a man and a stranger, began in a broken, husky voice, the recital of the doubts and the despair I had been fighting with. I do not know how much of my story I betrayed, or what, in this extremity of wretchedness, I said; but pausing at the end, and frightened by his silence, I raised my eyes, and faltered:
"'Would God have mercy after that, do you think?'
"The clergyman's face was white as mine: his voice shook as he said:
"'If He has let you live, He means to forgive you, you may be sure.'
"'He has let me live,' I said, eagerly, and I told him of the cross that had held me back from suicide. He pressed his hand before his eyes, then said, after a moment, in a broken voice:
"'Take it for a sign, then, that He is waiting to be gracious; that there is peace on earth, as well as mercy in heaven, for you.'
"'Never peace; I have no right to hope for that, only a chance of pardon before I die.'
"'A sure hope of pardon, if you verily repent, and a sure sense of peace, if you strive to put in deeds, the repentance that God has put in your heart.'
"'There is nothing left in life for me to do,' I said, with a bitter sigh.
"'So I thought once,' he said, 'but I have learned that God never leaves a soul on earth, without leaving some work for it to do, to keep it from despair, some sin to be atoned for, some duty to be fulfilled. Can you think of none?'
"'None,' I said; 'there is nothing left for me, my repentance comes too late; there is none left but my weary self, to profit by it.'
"'There is a work I know of waiting for you, Rachel Arnold,' he said, in a voice that thrilled through and through me. It all came upon me then; with a low cry, I started up and sprang toward the door; but he interposed.
"'Let me go,' I cried; 'I cannot face you in this world! Wait, before you bring your accusation, till we are at God's tribunal! Let me go, and I will never offend your sight again. Oh! why are you not dead, like all the rest? Why are you left to drive me back to despair again?' And in an agony I sank down at his feet.
"'I am left,' he said, raising me up, 'to guide you back to peace and duty; to tell you of God's infinite loving kindness, and to show you how much of hope there is for you, in this world and in the next; and to assure you, if you need the assurance, that I as utterly forgive you, as I hope for God's forgiveness for myself.'
"'You never would say so,' I murmured, 'if you knew all.'
"'I know enough to understand your remorse; the rest you can tell to God; I say again, from my soul, I forgive you.'
"But I never raised my face, nor looked at him, till I had told him all, and he had said again:
"'With all my heart I forgive you. The past is cancelled; stay here, and help me in the work that God has set us to do, and obliterate the sins that this place has seen, by faithful striving in the labor of restoring it to his service again.'
"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Arnold, in a trembling voice, "can you fear him after that?"
"No," I exclaimed, with tears; "let me see him now."
"Make no enemies; he is insignificant indeed that can do thee no harm."LACON.
"Well," says Mrs. Arnold, with an inquiring look, as she was preparing to leave me for the night, "was I right, or do you feel sorry you followed my advice?"
"Ah! no, indeed!" I exclaimed; "it's all right now! I can see all through it, and I am so much happier!" and I took her hand affectionately as she left me.
It was all right, or nearly so. I had found, after the first awkwardness, that it was very easy to tell Mr. Shenstone things that I had never supposed I could tell to any one; there was something in his manner that divested one of all fear and shyness, and suggested only the interest and earnestness of one whose highest desire it was, to set forward in the right way, all who were faltering and uncertain. He made my duty very clear, and gave me many simple suggestions that I wondered I had never thought of before. He then told me what it seemed to him I ought to do, in the matter of remedying the mischief I had caused. Acknowledging my fault to Mrs. Roberts in person, was a very humiliating, but a very wholesome mortification, and one which he unhesitatingly recommended. And the restoration to her of a dress equally as valuable as the one she had lost, was also his advice, and, if it shortened uncomfortably my already rather scanty supply of pocket-money, so much the better lesson it would be. He would himself undertake acquainting Mr. Rutledge with the circumstances, and representing them in the most favorable light. About the miniature I had just begun to tell him, intending to say as much as I could without implicating Kitty, when a knock at the door interrupted us, and "the doctor" was announced. His visit was not quite as trying as it had been in the morning, owing to the increased stock of patience and good resolutions I had been laying in since then; and indeed, they continued to influence my endurance of him during the daily visits that he inflicted on me while I remained at the Parsonage. I had had so much of the effects of willfulness, that I determined never to be self-willed again, and not so much as to ask him when I might go back to Rutledge; and he, for his part, seemed determined not to volunteer the permission till I should ask for it.
But the matter at last was settled by Mr. Shenstone, who came up one morning while the doctor was with me, and said he had just received a note from Mr. Rutledge, saying that from the account the doctor had given him of me, he should fancy I was well enough to come back, and if the doctor's permission could be obtained, he would send the carriage for me that afternoon at four o'clock. I looked at the doctor with breathless interest; the doctor looked at me with searching curiosity, while he said, as slowly as the occasion permitted, and with as long a preface, and as protracted an utterance as he could command:
"I should be most unwilling to be the cause of disappointing Mr. Rutledge, or of occasioning any vexation to the young lady, by denying the permission that Mr. Rutledge seems to expect and desire; though I am certain, he has no intention of influencing my decision against my better judgment, or of inducing me to say anything, that in my capacity of medical adviser, would involve any departure from strict veracity and prudence. I am aware that it is often difficult for a disinterested party to resist the reasonable and natural desires of those whose judgments are warped by their wishes, and that the only reward the conscientious physician gets, in such cases, is the aversion and coldness of those whose good he is most interested in. In this case, however, I am certain, that from the well-known good sense and sagacity of Mr. Rutledge, and theunquestioned amiabilityof the young lady, I should have nothing to fear."
"Then," said Mr. Shenstone, kindly, evidently seeing my anxiety, and wishing to put an end to it, "then you do not consider it desirable to allow the change?"
"I am not prepared to say so, entirely," he answered; "I was going on to remark, that I should not have allowed any of the considerations I mentioned to influence me, had I really deemed it imprudent for the young lady to leave her present residence. But, considering her rapid convalescence, and the mildness of the day, and the care I am certain will be taken to make the drive an easy one, and the harm which a disappointment might occasion her, I think I am justified in according my consent to Mr. Rutledge's arrangement."
I don't think I could have endured a minute more of this kind of suspense, and probably the doctor knew this, and so brought his discourse to a termination, after having tried my nerves as long, and given me as many cuts, as he considered me capable of enduring. I began to suspect, indeed, that he had perceived my aversion to him, and that in a quiet and unostentatious manner, he returned the sentiment, and would lose no occasion of letting me benefit by it. This was mere conjecture, however, for the doctor's manner was as assiduously polite, as blandly gallant as ever. And indeed, his anxious interest would not suffer him to allow me to go unattended to Rutledge; but at four o'clock, when I was bidding adieu to Mr. Shenstone, and being seated comfortably in the carriage by Mrs. Arnold and Kitty, the sorrel horse and shiny gig drew up beside us, and in anempressémanner, the doctor sprang out, and in his own person superintended the arrangements for my comfort, and declared that he should not feel quite easy till he had seen me safe at Rutledge; and for that purpose, as well as that of paying a professional visit to the master of it, he should drive on, and be there to receive us. An unconscious tinge of hauteur was all, in my manner, that escaped of the vexation I felt at the announcement.
His presence altered very much my conduct at leaving the Parsonage. If he had not been there, I am sure I should have managed to tell Mr. Shenstone something of the gratitude I felt for the unmerited interest in, and kindness toward me, that he had shown; as it was, I could only look down, and appear unspeakably awkward, at his kind expressions of affection and regret, as he said good bye. And, instead of throwing my arms around Mrs. Arnold's neck, as I wanted to do, and telling her I was fonder of her than of almost anybody else in the world, and that I should never forget her care and goodness, I could only, with that man looking on, give her my hand, and say something unintelligibly about coming to see her again before I went away. The carriage started, and the gig first followed, then passed it, and by the time we reached the gate, the sorrel horse was standing before the door, and the sorrel driver thereof waiting for us, in company with Mr. Rutledge on the steps.
"Now Kitty," I said, as we drove into the park, "now Kitty, keep your courage up. Mr. Shenstone says he has seen Mr. Rutledge, and he has promised to excuse you; all you have got to do is to make an apology to Mrs. Roberts, and that's nothing! Why, I've got to do the same thing, and you'll see how brave I'll be about it."
Kitty shook her head dejectedly. "I never hated to do anything more."
And here the carriage stopped, and Mr. Rutledge and the doctor came down to it. "Ah," said the former, kindly, "you have come back at last. I did not know whether the doctor and Mrs. Arnold ever meant to let you return to Rutledge."
His tone was kind—but—what more did I want? I did not dare to look up; I felt Dr. Hugh's eyes on my face, and murmuring some broken commonplace about being happy to be back again, hurried up the steps and into the house, Kitty following with my shawls and packages. At the head of the stairs, I stopped till she overtook me, and telling her hastily that I was going immediately to Mrs. Roberts, and she must give me the package that contained the dress, and be ready to go in, and make her apology as soon as I came out, I left her, and crossed over to the door of Mrs. Roberts' room.
It was a mean and cowardly thing to hope, no doubt, but I did, notwithstanding, most ardently desire that it might so happen that the housekeeper was not in her room, and that I might have a brief respite before the dreadful penance was undertaken, and in that hope I gave an undemonstrative knock, to which Mrs. Roberts' voice responded promptly, "Come in." Coming in was an easy part of it; walking up to her and saying, "How are you?" was easy too; and remarking, "I am better, thank you," was the easiest of all. But after that! Standing blankly before that rigid black bombazine figure, whose bluish lips were obstinately compressed, and whose unsympathetic eyes were regarding me inquiringly, it was anything but easy to say what I had come to say—it was anything but pleasant to remember I was to be humble. But there was no help for it. I gulped down my pride and aversion, and simply and honestly told my story, making every allowance truth would permit me for Kitty, putting all the blame that was possible on myself, making no cowardly excuses, and no submissive apologies, but telling a very straightforward and honest story, in a very downright and unequivocal manner, and winding up with a request that she would consider that I regretted my share in the business, and was desirous of making her every amend for the annoyance and inconvenience I had occasioned her. No other course could have been as well calculated to mollify Mrs. Roberts; any undue humility would have aroused her suspicions—the least attempt to conciliate her would have settled her in her aversion—the smallest parade of penitence she would have stigmatized as hypocrisy; but as it was, she was met on her own ground, and could do nothing but yield, in an ungracious manner, an ungracious acknowledgment of my honesty and sincerity, and a promise to consider the offence atoned for. I put the package down on the table, telling her what it contained, and again recommending Kitty to her mercy, turned and left the room.
I found that young person awaiting me in an unenviable state of mind. I told her I should never have the least respect for her again, if she lost her courage now, and then I talked to her a littleà laShenstone, and then rallied her a littleà lamyself, and finally sent her off, quite staunch again, to meet her offended mistress, while I employed the time in taking off my bonnet and cloak, and arranging the different articles that I had brought back, in the drawers.
Despite my attempts at nonchalance, I felt a little unhappy. I did not yet know how far Mr. Rutledge had put me out of the place I had held in his regard, since he knew of my fault, and I could not feel quite at ease till I heard my pardon from his own lips.
At last Kitty returned, looking a little pale and agitated, but acknowledging that, on the whole, she was glad she had gone. The interview had been, it appeared, rather a stirring one, but Kitty had kept her temper, and Mrs. Roberts had, at last, after expending her wrath upon an unresisting subject, come to terms, and the curtain had dropped upon comparative tranquillity. Then I told Kitty we must have done with deceits, little and great, and related how near I had come to telling Mr. Shenstone about the miniature, and that I meant to tell him the very first chance, or else Mr. Rutledge. But Kitty fell into such an ecstasy of terror, and with such vehement tears and entreaties besought me never to expose her, and promised such eternal devotion to truth henceforth, if I would only spare her that insupportable mortification and disgrace, that at last I yielded, and, to my own sorrow, promised to hazard no attempt to clear up that mystery, and to make no confessions to any one in regard to it.
After dressing my hair and arranging the room, Kitty left me, and I sat down in my favorite seat in the bay window, with the double purpose of whiling away the time and watching for the doctor's departure. But that devoutly wished consummation did not crown my waiting; moment after moment passed, and still the doctor tarried, and at last Thomas came out and led the sorrel horse away to the stable.
"That man's going to stay to tea, I know," I ejaculated, indignantly. "I've a great mind not to go downstairs."
The unremunerative policy, however, of spiting myself, had early been impressed on me, and I wisely abandoned all thought of pursuing it, and reconciled myself to the trial with all possible heroism. I should not go down till the last minute. That was all the indignation I should indulge in.
Twilight was descending fast; the afternoon had not been a bright one, and contrary to the nature of such things, was particularly short-lived. There was a light streak around the horizon, that suggested to the weather-wise the idea of snow impending; above, and all over the rest of the sky, there was nothing to relieve the dull grey hue. The line of light grew narrower and narrower, the cold grey shroud settled down lower and heavier, the lake and lawn grew more and more indistinct, the shadows thickened within, the darkness increased without, and imperceptibly night stole over us, and still I sat dreamily by the window, picturing to myself for the hundredth time, and as I did at all dreamy moments, Rutledge as it used to be—the halls filled with servants, the rooms with guests; carriages rolling to the door; music and laughter echoing through the house; Alice lovely and admired; Richard, with his refined, aristocratic face; and the young Arthur, as the sketch he gave me, had recorded him. Then I joined to this links that I had caught from Mrs. Arnold's broken story; the flight, the dreary exile in a foreign land, and death finishing a career that infamy and shame had branded. But what had Mr. Shenstone to do with it all? Perhaps he had loved Alice; perhaps it was the loss of her that was the terrible trial of which he had spoken to Mr. Rutledge when I was lying half unconscious in the study. Then I tried to put together more of what I had then heard; but the more I pondered, the more confused and indistinct it all grew, and ended by bringing up, in all its perplexity, the tormenting mystery of the lost miniature. Why must I be so baffled about that? Why had I put it out of my power, by my promise to Kitty, to go to Mr. Rutledge honestly, and tell him the story, and ask him to help me to discover who had taken it, and so rid my fancy of the hateful idea that Kitty had suggested, which, do what I would, had come, between sleeping and waking, every time I had closed my eyes since she had told me of it. In the dead of night, the cold hand upon my bosom would wake me with a start; I would reason away the fright, and try to sleep again, but as soon as unconsciousness would come, the chilling horror would come too, and startle me into sleepless watching.
I despised myself for the folly; but I had begun to hate the darkness. Even now, the dusky thickening twilight, with its creeping shadows, made me nervous; a chill seemed to strike to my very heart, and I caught myself starting at every sound, and trembling at every flicker of the dying firelight.
Under these circumstances, the hour that intervened between the closing in of twilight and the ringing of the tea-bell, could not fail to be a very long and uncomfortable one, and the promptness with which I hurried down at the summons, attested my preference for social hours and habits over solitude and contemplation.
"What! old, and rich, and childless, too,And yet believe my friends are true?Truth might, perhaps, to those belong,To those who loved me poor and young;But, trust me, for the new I have,They'll love me dearly—in my grave."
Dr. Hugh was suavity and amiability itself; his host was courteous and attentive; I only, of the party, was abstracted and silent, and could not enter, with any interest, into the discussions, political, social, and educational, to which the medical guest led the way. He frequently appealed to me, but I answered mechanically and at random, and was soon involved in my own thoughts again, while the two gentlemen carried on the conversation learnedly enough between themselves. Though Dr. Hugh showed equal readiness in argument, and had, moreover, the advantage of choosing his topics in all cases, I could not help contrasting the brusque inelegance of his tone with the well-bred ease and quiet of Mr. Rutledge's. One was trying to please and toappear, the other was simplybeingwhat was innate and habitual.
Altogether the doctor was, on this occasion, the most animated and chatty of the trio at the tea-table, and though Mr. Rutledge did a proper share of the talking, still his manner was not unreserved, either to his guest or to me. Whether this was the effect of the change in his feelings toward me, or only the presence of a third party, I could not tell; but it was very tormenting, and made the doctor's stay unbearably tedious, and the termination of it an unspeakable relief. When the hall door closed behind him, however, I could have wished him back, for it was even worse to find myself alone with Mr. Rutledge, for the first time since the strange night of which I had so many strange recollections. Since then, was he alienated or altered, or had he forgotten his interest in me during the days of absence that had intervened? His voice brought the perplexing reverie to an end, and dispelled the doubts forever "Now that that tiresome doctor has taken himself off," he said, in a tone so changed and so divested of its reserve, that it almost startled me, "perhaps you'll have the grace to come to me, and tell me how glad you are to be home again." He held out his hand, and I was by his side in a moment. "'Home is not home without thee,'" he said. "What, I should like to be informed, am I to do when you're gone 'for good,' as this Yankee gentleman would say?"
Surprise and pleasure brightened my face, and I had some saucy words on my lips, when the door softly opened, andthe doctorstood hesitatingly on the threshold, apologizing for his abrupt return and entrance, on the ground of having forgotten to impress upon the young lady the importance of continuing the powders she had been taking. He had not thought of this neglect of his till he had actually got into his buggy at the door, and then remembered it "on a sudden," and was so much alarmed at thinking what the consequences might be, that he had sprung out, and hurried in to give a parting charge on the subject. Every three hours, he reiterated, and then apologized again to Mr. Rutledge for the interruption.
Mr. Rutledge received his apologies rather stiffly, and begged him to be easy on the matter of the powders; he had no doubt the young lady would follow his advice implicitly, and he trusted the result would be as gratifying as Dr. Hugh himself could wish. And the gentlemen both bowed, and Mr. Rutledge accompanied his guest to the door with undiminished politeness, but with a slight contraction of the brow, that augured ill for the doctor's cause.
There was much expression in the doctor's parting salutation to me; his glance had been rapid, but he had not omitted, in his observation, the total change of attitude, expression and voice, that had ensued upon his withdrawing from the two people who had been sodistraitsand undemonstrative all the evening; it was a significant fact, and he had not been slow to seize upon it. And I liked him less than ever after he left us for the second time that evening.
"Mr. Rutledge," I said, when he had returned from convoying the doctor to the door, "did you notice what a disagreeable impression Dr. Hugh seemed to make upon Tigre? He keeps at a little distance from him, and barks in the short, snappish way that he always does when the tortoise-shell cat prowls into the barn."
Mr. Rutledge smiled at the analogy I seemed to trace.
"I don't altogether fancy the man myself, but one must not be too readily influenced by fancies; no doubt he's very good in his way, and seems to be much more of a physician than old Sartain. It's a bad way to expect too much of people, and I hope you'll never get as much in the habit of it as I have always been."
With that he dismissed the subject, and presently pointing to the seat beside him, told me I need not think of saying good night yet, as he had a great deal to say to me. Without much reluctance, I sat down, and listened submissively.
"In the first place, you have not asked what your aunt says to this new delay."
"Well, what does she say?" I asked, a little uneasily.
"She says, that unless you arrive very shortly at New York, she shall feel herself obliged to leave all her pressing household cares, sick children, undisciplined servants, and come on for you in person."
"It's a new thing for her to be so anxious about me," I exclaimed, impatiently. "I was sick a month last summer at school, and she never suggested the idea of coming on to see me."
"Be that as it may, her anxiety at present knows no bounds, and I have in vain rendered the most elaborate accounts of your state, and in all ways endeavored to weaken her fears. This very afternoon I received another letter, more decided than the last in its request, that if you were able to be moved, you might be brought on immediately; if not, she would at once start for this place, and my answer was to be instantly communicated to her by telegraph."
"You have sent it?"
"Yes, three hours ago," he answered, looking at me attentively.
"Well, what did you tell her?"
"That we should start to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."
I struggled hard to keep up, under the unexpected blow, and answered, as I bit my lip and choked down the tears:
"Very well, sir, I will try to be ready in time."
"The doctor says it will be perfectly safe," continued Mr. Rutledge, quietly.
"And there is no appeal from his opinion," I interrupted, tartly.
"I am so much better myself," he went on, as if he had not heard me, "that there is no imprudence in my attempting it; and I can see no objection to complying with your aunt's request immediately. Indeed, I feel that I could not do otherwise."
His indifferent way of speaking of what to me was such a vital matter, roused my pride less than it wounded my sensitiveness, and I had much ado to master myself enough to say:
"If you had had the goodness to tell me before, I need not have wasted this evening, but could have spent it in packing."
"You cannot have much to do, I am sure. Kitty can pack everything in the morning, and I thought it was best not to worry you by telling you of it before."
"I must go up immediately, however," I said, rising.
"I cannot let you go yet," he said, detaining me. "Do you remember this is the last evening you are to spend at Rutledge?"
"And what of that?"
"You ought to be sorry."
I shrugged my shoulders, and said, it was a pity I could not gratify his taste for the pathetic.
"Ah, nonsense, child!" he said, with a sudden change of manner, "we have so little time left, it's foolish to waste any of it in idle pretences. You may as well cry; I know you are sorry enough, I know you can hardly keep back your tears."
That broke down all my self-control; burying my face in my hands, I burst into a passion of tears. There was no use in attempting to command myself, and indeed I never thought of it. Mr. Rutledge took my hand, and attempted to draw it away from my face, then suddenly relinquishing it, walked rapidly once or twice across the room, returned, and sat down by me.
"You will make it harder than ever for me to let you go, if you cry so bitterly," he said, after a pause. "You will soon forget your grief, and be as happy in your new home as you have been here, while I shall, for a long while, miss you, and be lonely without you. Do you not see I have the most to regret?"
I shook my head, while the sobs came more chokingly than ever.
"Foolish child!" he said, "this is but a transitory feeling with you; it will vanish in the sunshine of to-morrow. In a week, you will have forgotten all about Rutledge."
Now my anger mastered my tears, and looking up, I exclaimed:
"You are always telling me I am a child! You are always treating me as if I were a senseless plaything! I am tired of it; I could almost hate you for it!"
He looked at my flashing eyes with a strange intentness, as if he would read me through and through. "But you are a child; it would be folly for me to treat you otherwise; how can I know that your affections and sensibilities are other than those of any ardent, impetuous child?"
With an impatient gesture, I interrupted him; and turning away, hid my face on the sofa again.
"That is the way!" he exclaimed. "No child could be more changeable; one moment, I have half a mind to think you are a woman, and the next, you turn away, and pout, and cry."
"You shan't have that to say of me again!" I exclaimed, conquering my tears with a huge effort, and raising my head. "I will be cold enough, if that's what you want. I won't trouble you with my tears again, even if you try to make me cry, as you did a little while ago. I can be as indifferent and unkind as you are yourself, if that will be any proof of my maturity and wisdom."
"Indifferent? Ah, there you show your childishness and ignorance more plainly than you think! Culpably indifferent and unkind!" he said, with a short laugh. "But," with a softening of his voice, "whatever there may have been of neglect or unkindness in my manner, remember, when you think of it hereafter, that there was nothing that answered to it, in my heart; remember that I shall never cease to feel the strongest interest in you, the kindest affection for you; remember, whenever you need a friend, you have promised to appeal to me. And remember, too," he continued, in a lighter tone, "all the rest of the engagements that you entered into, of which that bracelet is to be the souvenir. I have the greatest faith in it; I shall never feel very far separated from you, with this little key so near my heart," he said, touching the trinket on his chain.
"As for me," I exclaimed, bitterly, "I shall have to wear this bracelet as I've promised to; but I shall try my best to forget the giver and all about him! As for the promises, I don't carethatfor them!" And in emphatic contempt I snapped my fingers.
Mr. Rutledge smiled, as if he knew enough about my indignation to bear up under it, and said, coaxingly and low:
"Ah, surely you're not going to desert me already; my little friend is the one thing in the world I care for, just now; what would be the result, if she were to turn faithless?"
I averted my head. "You should have been prepared for that when you took a child into your friendship."
"Ah! that rankles still, I see. Well, now, turn your face toward me, and look up, while I assure you, solemnly you know, and most sincerely, that I do not think you are childish in most things, that I do believe you are honest and true, and altogether, excepting a few pardonable caprices, as good a friend as one need desire. Doesn't that satisfy you? What could I say more flattering?"
"Oh! as to saying, you are unrivalled at that; it's the doing that you are deficient in. It's all very fine for you to call me your friend, and say how lonely you shall be without me, and all that style of thing; and then, in the next breath, tell me to get ready to go away to-morrow, and remark that you cannot see the least objection to my aunt's plan—and look and laugh just as usual. That doesn't seem much like meaning what you say, surely!"
"But what," he said, "would you have me do? If it made me perfectly miserable to part with you, it is still my duty to do it. Tell me any way of getting out of it."
"Let me stay at Rutledge," I exclaimed, turning toward him with pleading eyes; "just let me stay here. I hate New York, I hate society, I don't even know my aunt; and here I am so happy, and I have just got used to it all, and am beginning to feel at home, and it is cruel to take me to another strange place! I will be so good and useful; I will study and improve myself, and help Mrs. Arnold with the school-children and the poor people, and keep Mrs. Roberts' accounts, and read to you, and write your letters, and be just as good and obedient as possible; not in the least self-willed, not a bit unlady-like. Just try," I went on, coaxingly; "you will not know me, I shall be so amiable!"
"But," he said, with a strange mixture of fondness and irony in his tone, "what wouldMadame votre tantesay to such an arrangement?"
"She would say, of course, that if I wanted to, I was very welcome to stay; she has daughters enough already, and not having seen me, she can't be expected to know whether she wants me or not."
"Very well; supposing for a moment, that your aunt had given her consent, and that there was no obstacle in the way of your remaining here, how many weeks do you suppose it would be before you would begin to think regretfully of the gay life you had given up, and the pleasures you had put out of your power, before you would begin to sigh for companions of your own age, and excitements greater than your life here could offer? Believe me, it would not be long before you would be thoroughly 'aweary' of the quiet routine of Rutledge, and thoroughly tired of your bargain."
I protested against this injustice, and exhausted every argument to prove my superiority to such fickleness, but Mr. Rutledge remained unconvinced.
"I do not say you are more fickle than are all other untamed young things of seventeen; it isn't your fault that you are not older and wiser; it is my misfortune. In the nature of things, you cannot stay forever ignorant and innocent, and indifferent to the world—
"'Let the wild falcon soar her swing,She'll stoop when she has tired her wing.'"
"It's very strange," I said, "that you should tell me I must put myself in the way of the very temptations that you were so earnest in cautioning me against not long ago. Why must I go into society, when I don't want it? Why must I try the snares of the world, when, in reality, I am best content away from it?"
"You must first know what it is you renounce, my pretty child; you must first see what other places are like, before you can judge whether Rutledge will content you, and what other friends are like, before you can tell how worthy of your affection this first one is. Wait till you are a little older; wait a year or two, and then if you still turn to Rutledge, it is your home forever."
Wait a year or two! If he had said, "Wait till the early part of the twentieth century," it could hardly have seemed a more insupportable term of banishment.
"Ah!" he said, with a sigh, "a year or two seems an age to you now; when you have passed through as many as I have, you'll begin to realize how short they are, how very small a part of a life they form, and how very quickly they pass."
I shook my head. "They would go soon enough if there was anything pleasant to mark them; but if they are to be passed in longing for their end, they will be ages indeed."
"No fear that the next two or three years of your life will be passed in that way, my friend. It would be a heavy blow, indeed, that would take the elasticity out of your spirit, and daunt the courage that I know will make your life a worthy one. Be true to yourself; keep your heart pure, and the world will not hurt you; you will only see how far it is from satisfying you."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "if I might never have to go in it! If I couldonlystay here. You can't understand how miserable it makes me to go among strangers again. And I am so fond of this place! You need not be afraid that I shall get tired of it; I don't get tired of people and places when once I like them. Do you suppose I ever was tired of my own dear home, or ever would have been, if I had not been taken away from it?"
And at that recollection the tears came blindingly into my eyes.
"You have never told me about your home. Were you happy there?" he asked, kindly. "Tell me about it."
It seemed strange when I remembered it, but it did not seem so at the time, that I should tell him what I had never told to the dearest of my confidants, had never before put into words; but there was a sympathy in his tone that was irresistible; for the time, my grief seemed his; I did not wonder why his interest was so strong in my recollections; I did not think it strange that tears shone in his eyes when they filled mine, nor that his voice trembled as he told me of his sympathy; he was my friend; he was kinder and better than any one else in the world; that was enough.
"Poor little homesick child, you must have been miserable enough, among so many strange faces, with such an aching heart. It was a cruel thing to send you off so far, without a single familiar face to comfort you, and so soon after such a shock."
"Aunt Edith thought it was best for me, I suppose. Perhaps it was; that is, if it is best for anything living to be wholly miserable, it was very good for me. And now," I went on, turning to him, beseechingly, "how can you know whether it's best for me to be sent away from here? I shall be dreadfully homesick there, I know; I shall be so strange and forlorn among all those gay people; I know you will be sorry if you don't let me stay. I know you will say, when it is too late, 'she was right after all; I should not have made her go.' You will miss me, I know you will. Think how dreary the long evenings will be, and how lonely!"
"Ah! Don't appeal to my selfishness; let that slumber if it can; don't make my duty any harder than it is already. Be a good, self-denying child, as you have always been, and go because I think it is best for you, and because it is your duty to go, and mine to send you. Will you try?"
"Yes," I said, sadly, "if there's no help, I will try to make the best of it, and think as little as possible about what might have been, and as much as possible about what I ought to do."
"That's my brave little friend again! You haven't been with Mr. Shenstone without profit. He has made you already as philosophical as himself."
"If I could be near Mr. Shenstone," I said, with a sigh, "there would be some chance of my learning to control myself and be good. One can hardly help doing right, with his teaching."
"It may seem so to you," he answered, "and I acknowledge it is a great assistance; but, alas! good counsel cannot accomplish the warfare. If it could, those who have the benefit of Mr. Shenstone's would be fortunate indeed; but we have to struggle and conquer for ourselves; no one can do it for us."
"But you do not mean to say that it isn't the greatest advantage and comfort to have the advice and guidance of such a wise and holy man? You do not mean that you do not think Mr. Shenstone the best and the most devout of men?"
Mr. Rutledge smiled at my enthusiasm.
"Do not be afraid that Mr. Shenstone will suffer at my hands. He has been my guide and counsellor ever since I was younger than you; and so, you see, I have reason to know, experimentally, the value of his counsels, and the possibility of not doing right in spite of them. He is the noblest of men, the most clear-sighted and wise of counsellors, and my nearest and truest friend, and yet, for all that, I have often gone contrary to his rules, and, no doubt, often grieved his kind heart. But, so it goes! The human heart, you are aware, my young friend, is the very perversest of all created things. Now, at this very moment, would you believe it, I am doing what that same good and wise Mr. Shenstone has warned me not to do; and, moreover, mean to continue doing it."
I looked in astonishment.
"I wonder at you, sir. You will be sorry in the end. Mr. Shenstone, I am certain, knows better than you do."
"How can you possibly know? You cannot tell anything about the right of the case."
"No, of course I don't know anything about it; but from the nature of things, Mr. Shenstone is the most likely to be right. He's older than you, he's a clergyman, and—well—you will not be angry, but I think he is much less likely to be governed by his wishes than you, much more likely to see the right, and give up everything else for it, and to look at things clear of the mists that other people see them through. You know what I mean," I continued, "even though I don't express it very well; and oh! Mr. Rutledge, I am sure you must see, if you think about it at all, that it is very unwise in you to reject Mr. Shenstone's advice. The time may come when you'll regret it."
"Nevertheless, I shall do it."
From perversity, perhaps, as much as anything else, I continued to urge what I thought right. There was quite a fascination in contradicting and opposing Mr. Rutledge; it gave me a giddy sense of elation to think I dared do it, and though I did not gain my point, it diverted me from the thoughts of to-morrow's pain, till the clock struck, and I started up in alarm.
"It's only eleven, Cinderella; there's no need for such a frightened look. There is an hour left of your last evening at Rutledge."
"No, indeed; Kitty is waiting for me, and there is so much to be done before to-morrow at ten o'clock. Good night, sir."
"Ah, I see you are in a hurry; you are tired. Why didn't you go before? Ten is your usual hour."
The clock had struck another half hour before my last evening at Rutledge was ended—before the last good night was spoken at the library door, and, with a sad enough heart, I ascended the stairs, and traversed the dreary hall, where not even ghostly terrors would have had power to startle me from the heavy grief that was lying at my heart.
My room was cheerless; the candle died flickeringly as I opened the door; the fire was dead long since; poor Kitty, tired with waiting, had fallen asleep on the rug, with one of the sofa pillows under her head. I covered her softly with some shawls, wrapped one about myself, stole to the bay window, and leaning my forehead against the pane, cried as if my heart would break.
"What is this passing scene?A peevish April day!A little sun, a little rain,And then night sweeps along the plain,And all things fade away."KIRKE WHITE.
The grey dawn was just breaking when I woke Kitty. She started up bewildered, and her bewilderment did not decrease when I told her the object of this reveille. I never had any cause to doubt the sincerity of the grief she showed on this occasion. I had added as much to the pleasure of her life since I had been at Rutledge, as she had increased the comfort of mine; and it was with no very light hearts that we went about the business of packing. There was too much to be done, however, to admit of much sentiment, and we both bestirred ourselves so diligently, that before the breakfast bell rung my trunk was strapped and labelled, my bag filled with everything necessary for the journey, and my bonnet, cloak and shawl lying ready on the bed. There was not another article now about the room that belonged to me. What a dreary and forsaken look it had already; the toilet-table dismantled of its recent ornaments; the books and work that had given so bright and familiar a look to the pretty room, now all removed, and a bit of card, a ball of cord, and some withered flowers, were all that graced the étagère and the table.
I did not dare trust myself to enter into particulars, even in thought, and with a very resolute voice, telling Kitty I would come up immediately after breakfast, and see if there was anything more for her to do, I went downstairs. The first floor presented signs of an exciting stir; there was a very unusual bustle and movement in the quiet hall—a trunk and a valise stood at the front door, a pile of cloaks and wrappers lay beside them; Thomas' long limbs were animated with unwonted energy, Mrs. Roberts bustled in and out of pantries, and to and fro through side-doors and entries, in a very startling manner; Sylvie was more raving distracted than ever—flew unmeaningly up and down stairs—took the wrong thing to the wrong place—irritated everybody, and was in the way generally. Mr. Rutledge, in the library, gave audience to farmer, gardener, groom, and carpenter—delivered orders—paid bills—settled accounts—the one undisturbed member of the commonwealth. It was evident that the sudden marching orders had taken them all by surprise, and unsettled most of their brains. Stephen, alone, I was happy to notice, seemed to preserve in some degree the possession of his reasoning faculties, and did not "haze" to the same extent as the others. Kitty, I thought, comes honestly by hersang froid.
I stood some minutes by the hall window gazing out upon the dreary winter landscape, the dull sky, the brown bare trees, the hard grey earth, ashes of roses in hue, the nether millstone in hardness. It had been the coldest night of the season, the water that stood in the narrow carriage-tracks and in the little crescents that the horses' hoofs had made, was frozen hard; the trees, the hedges, looked as if they were, too—so still and stiff they stood. Not a bit of wind was stirring, but the temperature was evidently moderating.
"Softening down for snow," Stephen remarked, as he passed out; "you'll not have it so cold for your journey, Miss. It's too bad that you're going, such fine sleighing as we have at Rutledge a little later in the season. You should stay and enjoy it, Miss."
"I wish, indeed I could, Stephen," I said, with great sincerity. "It's a long while since I've had a good sleigh-ride. The roads must be splendid for it here, so broad and clear."
"Beautiful, Miss; packed smooth, and hard as the house floor, and as dry as sand. You might walk over 'em in your thin slippers, and never wet your feet. And the snow lays sometimes better than a month without a rain or a thaw, the weather as clear as a bell and as cold as Christmas-thermometer down to nobody knows where, and nobody minds, after they're used to it. But maybe you're afraid of the cold?"
"Not I! It's the very thing I like. I'd give anything for a ride behind those bays, wrapped up to the eyes in furs, on the coldest day Rutledge ever saw. I know they must go like the very wind when there's snow on the ground; don't they?"
"Aye, Miss, that they do!" exclaimed Stephen, warming up at the mention of his favorites; for though the garden was his particular province, as the oldest man in the service, he took a fatherly interest in everything animate and inanimate on the place. "That they do! There's nothing in this part of the country has ever begun to come up to 'em. I'd like you to see 'em go, when their spirit's up! 'Taint many young ladies," he continued, with a "gentleman of the old school" bow, "'taint many young ladies as can tell a horse when they see him; but everybody says that you sit like a born horsewoman, and Michael, stupid rascal as he is, swears you ride like a cavalry officer. Nobody but the master ever managed that Madge so before."
I acknowledged the compliment with a laugh and a blush, and encouraged Stephen to continue his bulletin of the stable, in which he well knew my interest. Indeed, the worthy gardener was not to blame for his loquacity, as this was by no means the beginning of our acquaintance; many a chat I had had with him over the garden-gate, while he leaned on his spade, and discoursed willingly of the ancient glories of the house of Rutledge, and the manifold virtues of the present master of it. I knew he was a faithful, honest old fellow, shrewd and intelligent beyond his class, and altogether, inestimably superior to many old fogies in the higher walks of life, and being certain that he was very much delighted to be talked to, I very much enjoyed talking to him.
He was just saying, with great appearance of sincerity, that he did not know what they should all do, now I was going. I had waked up the old place "amazing;" it was a long while since there had been anybody so cheerful-like and bright in it; and as for his Kitty, he really did not know how she could content herself after me—when we were both startled by finding that Mr. Rutledge had been an undemonstrative auditor of the whole conversation, and ostensibly engaged in putting some books into the valise behind us, was quietly listening, and no doubt criticising, all that had been said.
Stephen looked a little confused, only a very little though, and with dogged dignity gave me many good wishes for the journey, bowed and withdrew. I turned around and faced the intruder with a determination not to be ashamed of myself, and not to acknowledge that I had been unduly familiar with an inferior, and to submit to no lecture; but his face was so different from anything that I had expected, that I blushed, and looked very foolish, instead of very defiant. He laughed outright.
"Upon my word," he exclaimed, "I never saw old Stephen so nearly embarrassed in my life; during an acquaintance of some forty years, I never saw him approach so near a blush! And you, young lady, certainly have an extraordinary taste for low life! You have no greater passion, that I can see, than the one you have just been acknowledging to Stephen, for horseflesh generally; and as for dogs, your mind runs on them continually; Kitty shares your confidence—Stephen is hail-fellow-well-met—Michael swears by you, and"——
"That's enough for the present, if you please," I said, hurrying into the dining-room.
"You will have coffee, sir?" I continued, very blandly, sitting down at the table.
"Are you sure you know enough of such things to make me a palatable cup? I know you could saddle my horse for me in extremity, and groom the bays to perfection, but whether you're to be trusted with anything so feminine as making coffee, really you must excuse me for being a little skeptical."
"Ah! please, Mr. Rutledge!"
But it did not please Mr. Rutledge to do anything but tease me just at that time. After breakfast was over, he told me, looking at his watch in his precise manner, that there was just an hour and a quarter before it would be time to start, and if I had nothing better to do, I might come down to the stables with him, and give my parting orders about the care of the horses and dogs. I did not know whether this invitation was given sarcastically or sincerely, but I preferred accepting it in the latter sense; so I ran upstairs and put on my bonnet and cloak and joined him in the hall in a very short time. He evidently did not mean to give me opportunity for any sentimental regrets, for he never before had been half so teasing. I could not do anything right, though I was a baa-lamb, as far as submissiveness went. I walked either too slow or too fast, was too chatty with the groom, or too taciturn with him; there was not a fault or indiscretion in all our previous acquaintance that I did not then and there have to bear the penalty of. It was only when I came to say good-bye to Madge that my courage gave way completely, and I leaned my forehead on her glossy neck to conceal the silly tears that filled my eyes.
"I verily believe," said Mr. Rutledge, "that she knows you. She does not submit to such familiarity from strangers."
Finding that I did not answer, he continued, in a kinder tone:
"I think, as you broke her in, to feminine usage at least, you are entitled to her; so I make her over to you, body and soul, if soul she has, to have and to hold, from this day forward; and a tender mistress may she find you."
"Thank you," I said, without raising my head; "a very useful gift; of about as much service to me as if you should make over to me your right and title in the fastest pair of reindeer in the employ of the Hudson's Bay Company."
"Why, don't you mean ever to come here again? If you don't, you had better take her with you. Any way, she is mine no longer. What shall be done with her? Shall Michael blanket and prepare her to accompany us to New York? or will you leave her here till you come back?"
"Ah! Do you fancy I am child enough to believe in such a conveyance as that? It wouldn't stand in any court of law."
"What would you have? There isn't a magistrate within four miles, and we haven't the time to draw up a document properly. I will tell you what can be done as next best. I will record the transaction here, above her manger, and there it shall remain to remotest ages, 'to witness if I lie.'"
Mr. Rutledge took out his penknife, and with considerable ingenuity carved in the sturdy old oak beam, the transfer of Madge Wildfire from himself to me, using, for brevity, only initials, and then the date. I climbed up to the fourth round of the ladder when it was completed, and did my best to achieve a signature, but the result was so unsatisfactory that Mr. Rutledge put beneath it, "her mark," and so it stands to this day, I suppose. This transaction having consumed a good deal of the hour and a quarter that we had before starting, Mr. Rutledge rather hurried up my adieux with my new favorite, and it was very ungraciously that he submitted to wait till I had cut a lock from her black mane, and embraced her tenderly for the twentieth time.
"Nobody is to ride her, remember," I said, as we went out; "only, of course, the man who takes care of her, when it is necessary for exercise."
"Your orders shall be obeyed. Any further instructions that may occur to you in the course of the winter you had better commit to paper and send to me, and I will observe them faithfully."
"Oh, I depend entirely on your integrity; I am confident you will be careful of her. Anyway," I continued, "it's a comfort to know I own anything at Rutledge, and have a sort of claim upon its hospitality still. Ah! how long it will be before I walk up this road with you again, Mr. Rutledge!"
"Maybe not," he answered. "You shall, if you will, come back and make me a visit before many months are over; you shall come back and see how Rutledge looks in her June dress,
"'When all this leafless and uncolored scene,Shall flush into variety again;'
when this dull November sky shall have given place to the warmest summer sunshine, and this hard, frozen earth shall be soft and brown, and roses shall be blooming about this dreary porch, and the garden shall be one wilderness of sweets, and the trees and the lawn shall be all of the richest green. Will you come then, if I send for you?"
I checked my look of delight with a sigh: "you'll forget before that time, I'm afraid. And I don't believe my aunt would let me come."
"You may trust that to me. Haven't you seen that I make people do as I wish them to? Do you not believe that I can induce your aunt to let you come, if I continue to want you, and you continue to want to come?"
"Perhaps so," I said, half incredulously; "but if I remember right, my Aunt Edith is fond of her own way too, is she not?"
"She has that reputation," he answered, with a short laugh. "Butcela ne fait rien. You shall come if you wish to. Leave it to me, and say nothing about it."
"June is a long way off yet, but it is better than two or three years, the term of my 'honorable banishment,' that you first decreed."
Before we reached the house, the snow-flakes began to descend, large, and soft, and white, floating down in fast-increasing thickness,
"As though life's only call or careWere graceful motion."
"How pretty it makes the landscape!" I said, pausing on the steps. "In among the bare trees there, it makes such a charming variety and lightness, and in a few minutes every twig will be feathered with it, and fences, and roofs, and all. Why can't we wait till we have had one sleigh-ride?"
"This snow will not amount to anything; we should have to wait a long while for a sleigh-ride. It is too early yet for that entertainment; a fortnight hence will be time enough to expect it."
"I think you are mistaken," I said, looking wisely at the clouds, "there's plenty of snow up there, and we shall have enough of it before night, depend upon it. Hadn't we better wait till to-morrow? It would be dreadful to be caught in a heavy snow-storm on the way."
"Have you forgotten your good resolutions of last night?" he said, in a low tone. "There's the carriage."
And without answering a word I ran upstairs. Kitty wrapped me tenderly in my soft shawl, and fastened my fur tippet carefully round my neck.
"Oh, Kitty! you'll smother me!" I cried. But it was something less tangible than tippet or shawl that was smothering me just then, and choking my breath. I gave one glance around the room, thrust adouceurinto Kitty's hand, and telling her to bring down my travelling-bag, hurried out without a second look, and downstairs without a second thought, sustained by the determination not to make a baby of myself and cry.
The library was empty; I passed on through the hall. Mr. Rutledge was already at the carriage, superintending the packing in it of numerous valises, books, shawls, and packages. Mrs. Roberts, bluer than ever with the cold, stood by him, busy with all the arrangements for his comfort, and looking a shade more cheerless than usual, at the prospect of separation from the master who stood to her lonely old age in the place of son and friend. "I believe she does love him," I thought, and warming toward her at the idea of one redeeming weakness, I walked up to her and said, extending my hand:
"Good bye, Mrs. Roberts. I am afraid you will be glad to get rid of such a troublesome guest; but I assure you I am very sorry to have given you trouble, and very much obliged to you for the attention you have shown me."
Mrs. Roberts gave me her hand, and answered, without any undignified haste:
"All attentions you have received from me you are very welcome to. I hope never to be wanting in my duty to any guest of Mr. Rutledge's."