"The God whom you believe in bless you, and, if he has the right—forgive me!
"VICTOR."
"I don't understand—what does he mean—where has he gone?" I said, wildly, pressing my hand to my head. "I am so bewildered, I can't think. Oh! don't look so awfully! There must be some mistake. You can't believe that—that—oh! heaven help me!"
My companion did not speak; my eyes searched his blanched face in vain for comfort—a wild impulse seized me; I grasped the candle in my hand, and, with a hasty look around the apartment, hurried to the bed and drew aside the curtains.
I did not swoon or cry; I did not even drop the candle from my hand, nor loose the grasp with which I held back the curtains; but, with glazed eyes and freezing veins, gazed steadily at what lay before me. Pale with the unmistakable pallor of death, one arm thrown above his head, the other buried in his bosom, his dark tangled curls lying distinct against the pillow, his manly limbs rigid—a crimson stream that had stained his breast, and was creeping down upon the bed, gave awful proof that Victor and I had indeed parted forever—that my wretched lover lay dead before me.
Brought so suddenly to my sight, there was nothing in that moment of the remorse and the lingering tenderness that after the first shock nearly deprived me of reason; it was only horror—staring, ghastly horror—at the sight of his dead body—at the thought of his lost soul; the words that rang in my head, and the first that struggled to my lips were: "God have mercy on his soul! God have mercy on his soul!" Dead—without a prayer—dead—by his own hand—cast out forever from God's mercy—a wailing, damned, lost soul through all eternity. I stood as if turned to stone; my companion, in an agony of grief and consternation, had thrown himself on his knees beside the bed; his iron fortitude broken down before this awful judgment that, laying bare the anguish of the past, had interwoven itself so strangely with the present; the unerring retribution that had worked out this end to sins so long ago committed.
But no sob or cry came from my lips; no tears dimmed my riveted eyes. I heard the broken words that burst from him as in a dream, and neither knew nor felt that there was anything in this world but blank horror—hopeless consternation—till from a slight movement of the candle, I caught the shine of a trinket that the unhappy man had worn around his neck. Bending forward, I saw in a moment what it was. A little ring of mine, and a link of the broken bracelet, worn on a chain next his heart while living, now wet with blood, was lying still above the heart that beat no more. At that sight a passion of tears came to my relief. His tender and devoted love, the miserable return I had made, the unkindness of our parting, my shameful injustice and deceit, the cruelty of his sufferings, all rushed over me and shook me with a tempest of tears and sobs. I threw myself beside him on the bed, and covered his cold hand with tears and caresses; wild with pain and remorse, I laid my cheek against his on the pillow, and implored him to forgive me, to speak to me but once, to say I had not killed him; with incoherent passion I called heaven to witness that I really loved him—that I would have been true to him—that I would have died for him—that I had nothing else to live for or to love.
It was long before, worn out by excess of weeping, I yielded to my companion, and was led faint and almost unresisting from the room. With a few words of pity, he left me in my own apartment, reluctantly turning away from me, so wretched and so lonely. But I shook my head; I did not want any one, I had rather be by myself.
"No one can do you much good, it is true," he said sadly. "God help you!" and he left me.
I stood motionless for some minutes after the door closed upon him. Then, stung by some fresh recollection and by the added terrors of solitude, I paced rapidly up and down the room, and flinging myself on my knees by the bedside, I prayed incoherently and passionately for Victor—for myself—for pardon and for death. I could not endure one thought or one occupation long: before I rose from my knees my resolution was taken; my brain would have given way if I had not had some necessity for exertion, some design to carry out. And strange and sudden as my determination was, I doubt whether I could have done anything wiser and better. There was one uncontrollable longing uppermost—to escape from this place, to hide myself forever from all who had ever known me here.
Stealthily and hurriedly, for Kitty was sleeping in the dressing-room, I went through my preparations. They were not many; there were some letters to be burned and one to be written, some clothes to be selected and made up into a package, a trinket to be clasped round Kitty's arm, and a coin slipped in her hand, and I was ready. I looked at my watch; it was half-past three, the faint grey dawn was just streaking the eastern sky, I must go. Where should I put my letter? I sat down and hurriedly wrote the address, then with a momentary indecision, the first that had marked my rapid movements since my resolution was taken, I opened and read it over:
"You will not be surprised when you find that I have gone away. You can understand, if you will think a moment about it, and try to realize what I should have to endure in concealing and controlling my feelings, that it is the only thing I could do. My life with Mrs. Churchill has grown so intolerable that I had before this resolved it should not continue. And now is the best time to do what at any other moment would be painful, but which at this, is only a relief. Inquiries and investigations as to where I go, will be just so many cruelties; will you do this last of many kindnesses, and help to cover my retreat, and keep them from any attempts to find me? It would kill me to have to face any of them now; will you not trust me enough to help me to the only comfort possible to me now, solitude and rest? You are ingenious, you can divert them from it, if you try; it is not as if they had any instincts of affection to guide them in finding me out. You need not let them know that I did not project the pastime of last night to accomplish a premeditated flight. If you ever had any kindness for me, do not try to find me out yourself,do not let them. You may trust me when I promise you I will do nothing rash, nothing that you would not approve if I could tell you. I promise you that I will remember my religion and my womanhood, and spend what length of life God sentences me to, as penitently, patiently and reasonably as He will grant me grace to do. If you will show this proof of confidence and friendship, you will never repent it.
"God knows, you have little reason to trust in me: but I am changed—I am much changed—I will not deceive you now. If you will believe in me this once, and shield me from exposure, and leave me in peace where I may choose to go, I will pledge you my word that as soon as I shall ascertain that you have sailed for Europe, I will write you fully and truthfully where I am, and what I intend to do, and will from that time make no secret of my place of abode and my plans.
"There is another thing—but I need not ask it of you. You, for your own sake are concerned to keep this cruel secret that I have so long been hiding, a secret still. It passes now from my hands to yours. Perhaps I should be insensible to disgrace and ignominy; they cannot harmhimnow: but oh! shield me from them, save his memory from shame. Do not let the world know of it till that day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed; when God shall commit all judgment to His Son, who is more merciful than man—more compassionate and more just.
"You have helped me hitherto, though I did not know whose hand was smoothing my way; do not give up now, despairing. Kitty and Stephen will be faithful, no one else need know the secrets of that dreadful room.
"I am not so selfish as you think. I do not forget that you are only less miserable than I am, as you have only grief and not remorse to bear. Heaven send you the peace I have no right to ask for myself."
I folded my letter quickly and sealed it; then with one more look at Kitty, and one hurried glance around the familiar room, I put out the candle, took the package from the table and stole out. Where should I put my letter? It must be within reach of no other hand than his; no one must know that I had written to him. The hall—no words can tell its gloom, the early dawn just turning its darkness into spectral dimness. If inevitable detection had been the result, I could not have helped the hurried, incautious steps with which I crossed it, and listened at Mr. Rutledge's door. Within the inner room I heard a step pacing restlessly up and down, but no other sound. He was awake, then; I stooped, and softly tried the handle of the door. It was locked; he would be the first to open it; so I slipped the letter under it, and springing up, fled down the stairs and through the hall, without a look behind, with no thought but that of escape, no fear so strong as that of detection. I had forgotten everything now but flight.
It was Heaven's mercy and nothing else, as poor Kitty would have said, that no one was aroused by the loud sliding of the bolts, that required all my strength to move; I hardly stopped to pull the heavy door to, after me; I should not have heard, if the whole household had been in pursuit, for the wild throbbing of my heart, the maddening pressure on my brain, the choking fear, kept me insensible to sight and sound. I flew on, through the shrubbery, across the unfrequented, dark orchard; my feet tangled in the rank, wet grass that lay in the field beyond it, my light dress tore to fragments in the thicket that bordered the western extremity of the park; but on, till the thickest of the forest sheltered me; then sinking exhausted and panting upon the ground, I hid my eyes and shuddered at the terrors I was flying, and the dismal blank, and dread uncertainty of what was beyond.
"Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu, car il pleure.Vous qui souffrez, venez à lui, car il guerit.Vous qui tremblez, venez à lui, car il sourit.Vous qui passez, venez à lui, car il demeure."ECRIT AU BAS D'UN CRUCIFIX.
The years that have passed since that night, have been long and strange years. At first they were too strange and hopeless and blank to be borne without repining; I knew but too well the curse that turns life into a burden and a dread, and makes the wretched soul cry in the morning, "would God, it were evening," and in the evening, "would God, it were morning!" I knew what it was to dread solitude, and yet to shrink from the reproach of any human face; to hate life, and yet to fear death; to know to the fullest the terrors of remorse and the bitterness of repentance.
I have passed through this howling wilderness, passed through it once and forever; it lies black and horrible behind me; when I look back, I cross myself and murmur a prayer; but beyond—thank God's good grace—lies a plain path; over it shines the steady star of faith, the cold, clear light of duty fills the sky, the still air breathes peace; the promise is faint of the life that now is, but of that which is to come, of the bliss that never tires, the joy that never ceases, the majesty of the Glory that fills the heaven beyond the dividing limit of that horizon, I can dream and hope, till the dream fills my soul to satisfaction, and the hope grows strong as life itself.
The daily routine of my life is easily described, and the occupations that served to soothe and sustain me will not take many words to paint. The refuge I had sought upon my flight from Rutledge, was not distant; Mr. Shenstone's compassion was the first I asked; he heard, fresh from its occurrence, the awful story of Victor's death, the not less awful story of his life. I needed no truer friend than he; and though it opened anew the recollection of his own early trial, I did not suffer from the association it awoke; he was only tenderer and kinder.
Mr. Rutledge regarded my request. Whether he suspected my retreat or not, I could not tell, but in the confusion and excitement that ensued upon the discovery of my flight, I have reason to believe he influenced the direction of the search that was instituted, and did not thwart the general idea, that I had fled to the city to rejoin Victor, who, it was soon learned, had not sailed when he had appointed. All was mystery and confusion, but this idea saved me from pursuit here, and gave something for suspicion to fasten and feed upon, and out of which to build up an effigy, to receive the maledictions and reproaches of the world. All this was less than indifferent to me; while they were searching for me with venom and wrath, and bemoaning my iniquities with dainty horror, and execrating my hypocrisy, and settling my fate, and clearing themselves forever of any further part or lot in me, I was much nearer the other world than this; so near indeed, that when after long weeks of hovering between this and the unseen, I gradually awoke to the knowledge that I was still to stay in life, I had so far lost my interest in it, that it gave me hardly a moment's concern to find that Mrs. Churchill had discovered my place of retreat, and had written in almost insulting language to Mr. Shenstone, forbidding my return to her, and casting me off forever. Mr. Shenstone seemed sadly distressed to communicate this to me; the languid smile with which I received it, reassured him.
"She could not have done me a greater favor, sir; she has saved me the trouble of saying that I would not return to her, and she knew it very well. She is glad to be rid of me, and hurried to spare her dignity the rebuff that she knew it would receive as soon as I was able to put pen to paper."
But there was a harder task to perform; my promise to Mr. Rutledge was yet unfulfilled. I understood from Mr. Shenstone that he had sailed for Havre a fortnight after I had left Rutledge, and I dared no longer delay my promised communication to him. A very brief and simple letter told him all that was necessary. In the course of the winter there came an answer to it, short but kind, with nothing wanting in consideration and interest, characteristic and manly, yet with a shade of formality and restraint, differing from all phases of our former intercourse; ever so slight a shade, it is true, but it made me put this his last letter away, with the same feeling that I think I should have had, if I had just turned away from my last look at him in his coffin. He was dead tome, at least.
Occasional letters, indeed, came from him to Mr. Shenstone, generally with some mention of my name; Mr. Shenstone always showed them to me; they brought back old times, and made me restless and vaguely sad for a day or two, then thedeadfeeling would come back, and all would be the same as before. As time wore on, the letters grew almost imperceptibly shorter and less explicit; he was travelling—he was here—at such a time he should be there—such places pleased him—such spots were changed since his former visits; then would follow some general directions about the farm—remembrances to Mrs. Arnold and to me—kind inquiries into Mr. Shenstone's own health—renewed assurances of friendship—and so the letter would end.
Of my aunt's family I rarely heard. They went abroad the year after we parted; I saw occasionally by the papers their residence at Paris, or their journeying in Italy; and Grace's marriage with a Frenchman of good family came to my knowledge through the same means. Why Josephine still lingered unmarried I could only conjecture. Phil Arbuthnot returned to America after spending a year with them in Paris, and I believe has never rejoined them.
So much for these once prominent participators in my interest, and now of myself. In the home I had chosen I was soon as necessary as I was occupied; Mrs. Arnold saw life and usefulness receding from her now with less pain, that she saw one younger and stronger, able to take up the duties that she had reluctantly laid down. There was no chance for time to hang heavy on my hands; besides the occupations of the house, there were unnumbered calls upon my energies in the parish. Mr. Shenstone was no longer young, almost an old man now, and though his energy never flagged, his strength did, and I found many ways of relieving him, and inducing him to save himself and depend on me. I have no doubt he saw it was the kindest thing he could do for me, and so the more willingly yielded the duties to me. No one that sets himself or herself earnestly at work, with a sincere desire to do right, and to atone for the past, but will, sooner or later, feel the good effect of such effort; his languor will yield before the invigorating glow of exercise, his nerves will regain the tone they had lost, his pulse will beat with something of its old vigor; he will, though never again the same man, be once more a man, be free from the corroding melancholy that threatened to be his ruin, and be ready to look on life with steadier, wiser eyes than in his youth. Such reward work brings; no matter how plain and coarse and unattractive the work may be, no matter if, in itself, it has no interest and no charm, the will, the duty, the spirit in which it is done, will give it its interest and its charm, and will bring it its certain reward. Youth can hardly see this, misery cannot at first acknowledge it, but none ever faithfully and patiently tried it, without finding the truth of it.
There is a lonely grave in the very heart of the pine forest, unmarked by cross or stone, above which no prayers but mine have ever been said, which the dark moss covers thickly, and around which the trees sound their everlasting dirge. I have not learned to be tranquil there; years more of faith and prayer may take the sting out of that sorrow, and bring me to leave it utterly in His high hand who seeth not as man seeth. If prayer could avail, after the grave had shut her mouth upon any of the children of men, if fast and vigil, tears and penance, could mitigate the wrath decreed against them, I might hope, I might stand by that desolate mound with a less despairing heart. I have tried to realize that God's ways are not as our ways, that nothing is impossible with him, that His mercy is as incomprehensible as is His power; and that our puny prayers, however they may chasten and purify ourselves, are not needed, and not efficient in influencing His sentence on our brothers' souls.
There is enough to do among the living. "Let the dead Past bury its dead." There are souls yet unsentenced to be prayed for and to be gained, there are children to be brought to baptism and to be led aright, there are dark homes of poverty and sin to be invaded with the light of truth and love; there is doubt to be won to faith, ignorance to be enlightened, sluggish indolence to be roused, God's church to work for, His honor to be extended, our most holy faith to be spread and reverenced; there is no need to languish for want of work, or to waste tears and prayers upon that which is already in the hands of Almighty Love and Almighty Power.
Yes; I believe I was, through it all, happier than Mrs. Churchill, haggard and worn in a service whose nominal wages are pleasure and ease; and than Josephine, wasting her youth in the pursuit of an ambition that had rewarded her as yet by nothing but vanity and vexation of spirit. A gay hotel in Paris, and a secluded country parsonage—on the one hand wealth, the pleasures of society, the admiration of the world, on the other seclusion, the annihilation of every hope that had its root only in this earth, the love only of the poor, the aged and the suffering, yet I would not have exchanged their gaiety for my peace, their prosperity for my adversity.
"What should we do without you, child?" said Mr. Shenstone, kindly, one day as I was leaving him. "What should we do without these young eyes and this young zeal? I am afraid the village would begin to tire of its old pastor, and to fret about his old ways and his new negligences, if we had not this fresh enthusiast to throw herself into the breach, and to save both flock and pastor from discouragement and disgust. You have assimilated yourself strangely to those you have fallen among. Tell me truly, my dear child, are you never weary of this dull life—never tired of the companionship of two solitary, sad people, old and spiritless? We are apt to forget—you cheer and comfort us—we must depress and sadden you."
"You? Oh, Mr. Shenstone! You know to whom it is I owe it that I have conquered depression and sadness. You have done everything for me; may I do nothing for you? It is little enough, surely, but it is my greatest pleasure."
"If it is—then go," he said, with a sad smile on his wan, furrowed face. "Go and fulfill the duties that God has taken out of my hands, and I will try to be patient and stay at home in idleness. I will try to remember,
'They also serve who only stand and wait.'
But God knows, it is the hardest kind of service!"
Every day lately had been adding to his languor; I watched with anxious foreboding his slow step and altered tone. It was the twenty-fourth of December, and I knew that the contrast of his present inactivity at this holy season, to former diligence, must be a keen trial to him with his stern rules of duty. I left the house with a sigh, and went out into the clear, still air of the winter afternoon, with the energy of youth and earnestness in my veins, and thought, wonderingly, of the different grades of trials, the "anguish of all sizes" that God's elect must pass through,
"Till every pulse beat true to airs divine."
It must be hard, indeed, to "stand and wait," to feel that energy and strength are going before life goes, and that there is nothing left to do, only to endure. Such a trial, it seemed to me, would be the worst of all: as long as there is work there is a panacea, but take away that, and the burden grows intolerable. God spare me that! And I hurried on through my many duties with double thankfulness that they were so many.
The short winter afternoon was all too short for them—it was almost sundown when I started to cross the common on my return from a distant cottage. There was but one thing more to do to-night; the school-children were waiting for me to go into the church and practice their Christmas-hymn with them, and it was late already, so I quickened my pace. I found my young pupils waiting for me around the gate of the churchyard; they hailed me with acclamations, and clustering round my skirts, followed me into the church. They were too well taught to continue their chattering there, even if they had been unrestrained by my presence, but I could not but believe the scene must have struck them with some reverence, thoughtless and trifling though too many of them were. The lowering sun streamed in through the stained glass of the western windows, and lit up gorgeously the sombre church, illuminating the joyful Christmas words above the altar, touching cross and star and tablet with soft light, and laying rich and warm upon the glossy wreaths that were twined round font and chancel, desk and pillar. Coming from the cold air and wintry landscape, into such a mellow, warm, green sanctuary, where there seemed no winter and no chill, I could understand the feeling that checked the children's mirth so suddenly, and made them look wistfully and silently around; and when their sweet, young voices followed mine in the Christmas-hymn, and when the organ yielded its full tones to my touch, arch and rafter, pavement and aisle seemed to stretch away into infinity; the light that filled the church was the glory of heaven; the sweet music, the voices of the angels; and time and earth seemed to fade and recede, and floating down that path of glory, I could almost have touched the open gates of heaven—almost have mingled in the white-robed throng within. The chains of sin and sense fall off—the sounds of warfare die away—the terrors of the conflict with the hosts of hell are all forgotten; if one's soul could follow in the wake of one's longing at such a moment as this, death would indeed be conquered—the king of terrors be cheated of his prey.
The glory had faded from the west, and dullness and gloom had crept into the church before the young choir dispersed. It seemed as if the very spirit of music had possessed the children; hymn after hymn, anthem and carol, and never tired or flagging. As at last I rose to go, and bent forward to shut the organ, one of them whispered eagerly:
"There's somebody been below there in the church! I hear steps going down the aisle; and hark! The door just opened and shut again."
"No matter," I said, a little startled. "Some one has heard the music, and come in to listen. Follow me quietly, children: it is almost dark; we have stayed too late."
The little group separated at the church door; bidding them good-night, and taking by the hand the child whose way lay partly with mine going home, I took the path toward the village. It gave me, I confess, a little uneasiness to see how faint the daylight was, and the conjecture—who could have been in the church so long and so silent, recurred again and again uncomfortably. It was too late to trust little Rosy to go home alone, so, though it took me a full half mile beyond my own road, I kept on with her; and beguiling her with a Christmas story as we went, soon succeeded in forgetting foolish fears,malgréthe twilight and the lonesome road. At last we reached the little gate of Rosy's home, and stooping to kiss her as I left her at it, I was turning away, when a carriage drove quickly past toward Brandon. It was a strange carriage, and it gave me a sort of start; I could not quite recover my composure for some minutes; but then strangers came so seldom through the village at this season, it was not very wonderful after all that I had been startled. However, I reflected, it was not improbably some one on the way from northward, detained by the freezing of the river, and hurrying on to catch the evening train from Brandon; and with that, dismissed the subject from my mind.
When I reached home, I hurried into the study, anxious to explain to Mr. Shenstone the cause of my long absence, and to make amends for it by enlivening his evening. I found him alone; Mrs. Arnold had not been able to leave her room for several days, and the study was in darkness, and tea had not been thought of.
"Why, how dismal you look, sir!" I exclaimed, as I came in. "I beg you will excuse my staying till this hour; but the children were so in love with their own voices, that I could not get them away; and that little gipsy of a Rosy had to be escorted all the way home. Kitty should have brought you lights, sir; shall I ring?"
"No, not just yet; I am in no hurry. Sit down; are you not tired? I have wondered at your being so late. You have missed a visitor."
"A visitor? No! Why, who?"
"One whom I little expected to see, and much less expected to have had so short a visit from. I confess it has quite startled and unsettled me, seeing him so unexpectedly and for such a moment. But he could not stay over night, and the Brandon train leaves at half-past six, he says. He was sorry you were away."
"Mr. Rutledge has been here?"
"Yes."
"And gone?"
"And gone."
"Be not amazed at life. 'Tis stillThe mode of God with his elect,Their hopes exactly to fulfill,In times and ways they least expect."Coventry Patmore.
The winter passed heavily away: no change for the better relieved our fears for Mr. Shenstone, and, before spring, poor Mrs. Arnold died, and left me alone with the burden of care and dread. All that time is like a sad, slow dream; I cannot tell the days apart as I look back upon them—the one fear that grew daily colored all events alike. It was like no other approaching death that I had ever seen. I knew he was longing for his release; but what would be release to him would be my sentence of banishment—my separation from the only friend I had, the severing of the only tie I knew.
Still it seemed vague and far off, and the warm spring days came slowly on, and crept into June, before either he or I knew how very few he had yet to live. The doctor had at last to tell me what every one else knew—that Mr. Shenstone could not live a week. I do not think that he himself, though knowing well that the time was at hand, had been aware how very near it was. I knew it was not too near for his desires; but one earthly care vexed the holy calm of his death-bed.
"I must see Arthur before I die. Write to him again, and beg him to come quickly. He could not have realized what I meant him to understand when you wrote last, or he would have been here before."
I wrote again urgently, and told him in the plainest words what the necessity for his coming was, and how anxiously Mr. Shenstone desired an interview before he died; that it was the one ungratified wish that disturbed his last moments; the letter was hurriedly dispatched, and yet day after day passed and no answer came. It was cruel to see the momentary eagerness with which the dying man's eye lighted up at each new sound without, and to hear the faint sigh with which he sank back at the fresh disappointment.
I had my own interpretation of this silence; but I dared not tell him. Through the winter his letters had been irregular; it was now some weeks since any had come; I did not feel a doubt but that he had gone abroad again, and, in the hurry of departure, had omitted to write. Something that Mrs. Fielding (the pretty Janet Emerson, married and living at New Orleans, but on a visit to her old home, who had found me out and come to see me a month or so before) had said, confirmed my suspicions.
"I heard from Paris a week or so ago," she said, "that your cousin, Miss Churchill, and Mr. Rutledge are really to be married. Upon my word, you must excuse me; but it is a shame. I grudge him to her. Ah!méchante, if you had made the proper use of that evening in the library that I gave you, she would not have had him."
I had not told Mr. Shenstone this; nor dared I tell him that there was hardly a hope that his friend was still in America. A week had elapsed since my letter had been sent; the end was surely approaching—we could not shut our eyes to that. That morning, Mr. Shenstone had, with great pain and difficulty, refusing my assistance, himself written a few lines to Mr. Rutledge, and, sealing it, had committed it to my hands, charging me to deliver it to him as soon as he should come. From the moment that that was done, he had put off all care, and given himself wholly up to the exercises of religion and the preparations for death. Of my future he had never spoken much. God would direct my lot mercifully, he was sure; he left me, his sole earthly care, with faith, to God's protection. He desired that for the present I should remain, with the two servants, in the house, till some other home presented, or till the parsonage was required for his successor.
It was a holy, religious day; such peace as soothed the last hours of his life told well for the service in which he had spent it. It was not like death—it was like the coming of a blessing that had been long prayed for. We had with him received the sacrament, and heard the faint words that told his triumph and his hope, and stood waiting around him, almost following him to the courts of heaven, almost forgetting with him, the world in which our path still lay; when through the window, open to the sunset of a June evening, there came the sound of a hurried arrival.
"It is Arthur," murmured the dying man, faintly, turning his eyes on me. "Go and bring him to me."
I hurried to the door and down the path. "You have not a moment to lose," I said, without a word of preparation or salutation. "He can hardly live an hour, and he desires to see you."
"Good heaven! Has it indeed come to that!" he exclaimed, following me up the stairs. I left him at the door; for half an hour they were alone together, then Mr. Rutledge opened the door and called me hastily to come in. I obeyed; but only in time to receive the last blessing of the dying saint, and, kneeling in unspeakable sorrow by his bedside, to feel his hand rest tenderly on my head, with a silent benediction, even after his departing soul had carried its supplication and its intercession to the very presence of the Divine Benefactor.
Two days had passed since the funeral; there was no more anxiety to engross, no more watching to employ me; the blank idleness that is the earliest pain after a great loss, was just then creeping over me with its worst power. There was nothing more to do—the house was settled to its ordinary ways, and I sat alone in my little room in the deepening twilight, with a sadder sense of my loneliness than I had had before. It was not time yet for me to think of what was to become of me; I had a right to rest a little before I faced any greater change, yet harassing thoughts of my homelessness and desolation crowded on me to make my present trial heavier. There was no one on earth I had a right to call my friend, save only the humble ones who could offer me nothing but gratitude and affection, and who were as unable to direct and help me, as I was to direct and help myself. It was long before I could summon courage enough to say that I must decide upon some change, and to resolve that it must be done now. There was no right and no propriety in staying longer here than till I had arranged some other home; indeed for some reasons this was the last roof that I should stay under now. But my resolves came quick when they did come—I saw that the sooner I began my new life the better; it would be like another death if I waited till a few months hence before I left this dear home; now, in this time of change and restlessness, I could best bear the pain. To-morrow, I had resolved, I would go out and try to find some cottage or some rooms, where, with Kitty to attend me, I could make the best of my slender fortune, and remain quietly at least for the present, when a knock at the door aroused me. The servant said: "Mr. Rutledge is in the study, Miss, and desires to see you for a few moments."
"Ask him to excuse me to-night," I began; but no, it was as easy now as it would ever be, so telling the woman to say I would be down in a moment, I shut the door and tried to prepare myself. There was a good deal to help me to be calm; some pride and some humility—a prayer—and the remembrance of my sorrow—and the gulf that lay between the present and the past; and I went downstairs quite self-possessed and quiet.
The study was so dusky I could hardly see my visitor's face as he rose to meet me. I longed to keep the dusk, but said:
"Do you mind twilight, sir? My head aches a little, but if you prefer it, I will send for candles."
"Not at all," he said, sitting down opposite me in the window. "I am sorry to hear you are not well. Kitty told me, when she admitted me, that it was doubtful whether you could come down; but I fancied you would not have the least hesitation in declining to see me if you were not able."
"I did think, sir, when you were first announced, that I would beg you to excuse me; but I remembered that possibly you might be returning to the city to-morrow, and this might be my last chance of seeing you, so I made an effort to come down."
There was a moment's pause, which I broke by saying:
"I wanted to see you, sir, about the change in my plans, which, as Mr. Shenstone's nearest friend, you would, perhaps, be kind enough to sanction."
"It was about that that I came this evening."
"You are very kind, sir, and so I may go at once to the subject. You know, of course, of Mr. Shenstone's legacy; that, with my own property, is sufficient to provide very comfortably for Kitty and myself. I propose making my arrangements to leave here within a fortnight, keeping Kitty with me; but for the other servant, Mary, I would ask your advice. She has been some time in the family, and is a faithful person. Would it be best to leave her in the house till it is otherwise occupied, or to provide a place for her, and close the house? You know, as I shall have the packing up and settling of all at the last, it is necessary I should know your wishes."
"I do not quite comprehend. I had understood from Mr. Shenstone that it was his wish that you should remain for the present here. Did he not express the same to you?"
"He did, sir, but it was a mistaken kindness. I had rather go now; and I do not think there can be any wrong in disregarding a request which he only meant as an indulgence and a respite, and would not have insisted on if he had known my reasons."
"Can I know them?"
"They are so many, sir, it would not be worth while to trouble you."
"Am I wrong when I fancy that one is, that the house belongs to one from whom you would not endure an obligation?"
"You put it too harshly, sir; but in truth I do not like obligations."
"You would incur none, then, let me assure you, by remaining here. The house will be unoccupied; I should be glad to have some one in it, and there is, I fear, little chance of having the parish permanently suited with a clergyman before fall, and even after that, there is no necessity of retaining this as a parsonage; there are one or two houses nearer the church, which would, indeed, be more convenient."
"Thank you, sir, but it will be impossible. You do not estimate the difficulties. I cannot stay here: and perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me what to do about the arrangement of the books. Shall they be packed, or are they to remain on the shelves? And here, sir, is the key of the private drawers in that book-case, that I was to give you when you came."
My voice faltered as I delivered my kind friend's last message. There was a long pause, then Mr. Rutledge said:
"These things are very trying to you now; there is no need that you should distress yourself by attending to them at once. Leave them till later."
"No, sir, it is better that they should be all arranged before you go. I do not mind the effort of undertaking it at once."
"But how do you know I am going? Why will not a few weeks hence do as well?"
"Why, sir, as I told you, I should prefer that everything were settled, the papers arranged, the house vacated, before you go abroad. It may make no difference, but it will be more agreeable to me."
"I am not going abroad; I do not intend to leave America again. Can you not be contented to let things rest as they are at present, and to let me, in some degree, take the place of him you have lost? Consider, you are homeless and friendless—you have no one to direct or guide you"——
"I have considered this, sir, more fully, perhaps, than you have. There is not a circumstance in my fate that I have not weighed. Indeed, I do not need so much pity; your attention has just been called to it, and so it sounds new and dreadful to you for a woman to be left so alone. But I am used to the idea, and I do not mind it. People will be kind to me, no doubt, and I shall do very well."
"Then you are resolved to go away from here?"
"Within a fortnight, sir."
"And you refuse all offers of assistance from me, of all kinds?"
"Why, sir, you know it would be useless to trouble you, when I do not need any; but I hope you understand that I am very grateful for your goodness."
"I understand it fully, and that you decline any further demonstration of it. But if you have no scruple against telling me where you intend to go, perhaps it would be wiser to do it, as some cases may occur which you cannot foresee, in which it would be safer for you to have the judgment and advice of one whose age and experience place him above you in knowledge, of the world, at least."
"It would be impossible for me to tell you, sir, for I do not know in the least where I shall go. You know I have not had time to arrange my plans definitely—it is only two days—since—since—I have had to think about them."
"And you will not take more time, and put off any change for a few months—you will not let me advise you?"
"Mr. Rutledge, you are trying to make me seem rude; I have but one answer to make, and it sounds so ungracious you are not kind to oblige me to repeat it."
"I will not; I believe I understand how you wish it to stand; and perhaps you are right. It is not necessary to detain you longer," he continued, rising, "there is nothing of importance left to say, I believe. About the books and furniture, I should prefer having them left for the present in the house; I will not trouble you to do anything but to send the keys, when you leave, to my house. Mrs. Roberts will take charge of them. The papers I can look over at my leisure. In regard to the servant you spoke of—I will mention her to Mrs. Roberts, and will see that she is provided with a situation. Is there anything more?"
"Nothing that I remember at this moment, sir. You are very kind; I shall endeavor to leave everything in the order you would wish."
"I do not doubt it; I hope you will be able to bear whatever you intend to put upon yourself, but you will do well not to overtask your strength or fortitude just now; you are not at not at present fit for exertion. But I forget"——
I rose, and held out my hand; he went on: "You know you have always my best wishes; there is no need for me to say that."
"I know it, sir," I replied, with what steadiness of voice I could. "I wish I could tell you how"——but the words choked me. He did not relinquish my hand, but with a sudden change from the cold tone of his last words, he exclaimed hurriedly, and with a smothered vehemence:
"You wish you could tell me what? You wish you could tell me what I already know—could tell me that you pity me—that you are sorry for the pain you give me? That you know how much it costs me to say a final farewell to you—and that you are sorry—sorry. No! You need not wish to do it; I can spare you that. I came to you to-night to see if time, and sorrow, and necessity had not helped me in my suit; to try, for the last time, whether there was any chance of winning you; I came to tempt you by the fortune and the luxury I could offer you, just to endure my love, and to repay, by ever so cold a kindness, the devotion of years. I came, misled by a hope held out by one who loved us both too well to be an impartial judge; and I find you colder, more distant than ever, and that the hope I have been trying to extinguish so long is only rekindled to be quenched at last utterly!
"Foolish girl!" he went on, in a lower tone, "how little you know what you throw away. How vain to cling so fondly to a memory. Believe me, it will not be wronging the dead—I little thought I should ever stoop to ask it, but only try to love me—only consent to give me your esteem and consideration, and I will take the risk of teaching you to love me. Is it nothing to be loved as I have loved you? To be the first, and last, and only choice of a man who has had so many to choose from? Have you no vanity that can be touched—no pride? If you had, I could allure you by the promise that you should be proud of the position you would hold; those who have slighted you should look at you with envy—those who"——
"Oh, Mr. Rutledge do not talk of those things now—I have given them up forever; I shall never care again for the world—but—there is something else—I"——
"You relent!" he murmured, eagerly. "You will consent to forget the past—you will"——
"I must tell you one thing first; I must tell you something that I have told to no one else. Heaven have mercy on me if it is a sin, or if I am betraying what I should still conceal. I never felt the love you think I did. I deceived him and you; but as I have been bitterly punished, and bitterly penitent, so Heaven forgive me for it! Between him and me there was another love, that began before I ever saw him—that is not ended yet—that has never known change or wavering."
"And that love?"
Within his arms, my face hidden on his shoulder, I could whisper the answer to that question, and the confession of the folly, and deceit, and pride, that had so long kept me from him.
TABLE
CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.CHAPTER VII.CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER IX.CHAPTER X.CHAPTER XI.CHAPTER XII.CHAPTER XIII.CHAPTER XIV.CHAPTER XV.CHAPTER XVI.CHAPTER XVII.CHAPTER XVIII.CHAPTER XIX.CHAPTER XX.CHAPTER XXI.CHAPTER XXII.CHAPTER XXIII.CHAPTER XXIV.CHAPTER XXV.CHAPTER XXVI.CHAPTER XXVII.CHAPTER XXVIII.CHAPTER XXIX.CHAPTER XXX.CHAPTER XXXI.CHAPTER XXXII.CHAPTER XXXIII.CHAPTER XXXIV.CHAPTER XXXV.CHAPTER XXXVI.CHAPTER XXXVII.CHAPTER XXXVIII.CHAPTER XXXIX.