"The deeds we do, the words we say--
Into still air they seem to fleet:
We count them ever past--
But they shall last--
In the dread judgment they
And we shall meet!"
LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
But our antiquarian researches were brought to a sudden conclusion by
the appearance of Mrs. Roberts at the door, whose cold eye seemed to
say, she comprehended at a glance that we were in mischief, and no
effort should be wanting on her part to thwart our further confidence.
That much she _looked_, the following she said:
"Mr. Rutledge desires to know how the young lady is, and whether she is
ready to see him?"
"She'll be ready in one minute," said Kitty, hurrying nervously the
retarded business of arranging my hair. Mrs. Roberts stationed herself
at the fire, and threefold increased Kitty's nervousness, and my
trepidation, by the stony gaze she fixed upon us. At last, however, the
operation was concluded, and Kitty helped me to the sofa, and regulated
the light from the window, put away my dressing-gown, and gave the last
touches to the room; while Mrs. Roberts looked on sardonically, and then
told Kitty to go and call her master. I had hoped this order of things
would have been reversed, and that Mrs. Roberts herself would have gone
to summon my dreaded visitor, leaving me a moment's time to recover my
composure, under the genial influence of Kitty's sturdy courage, which
to do her justice, she had not long been disarmed of. As it was, the
housekeeper's efforts at conversation were not of an enlivening
character, her first remark being, "that Kitty was much of a
chatter-box, and she should speak to the master to give her altogether
downstairs work to do, where there would be nobody to be hindered or
bothered by her tattle."
I tried to remonstrate, but, for my life, could not say an audible word,
and nervous and trembling to an absurd degree, I listened for the
approaching footsteps in the hall. The door opened, and Mr. Rutledge
entered. Walking up to me in his firm quick way, he said, extending his
left hand:
"Well, my young friend, and how's the headache?" I stammered something
about its being better, while he sat down beside me, and with wonderful
tact and patience, tried to amuse and draw me into conversation.
Now it was an inexplicable thing to me at that time, that I, who had
never known the first emotions of awe before, in presence even of the
imposing dignitaries of St. Catharine's--I who had pulled the wool alike
over the eyes of governesses and professors--I, who had enjoyed, if ever
any did in that establishment, the privilege of doing as I pleased, by
reason of the inability of anybody to prevent me--that I should, I say,
be so utterly subdued and humble, before this quiet stranger, was an
inexplicable thing to me.
I had yet to learn, that those, clothed in a little brief authority, and
holding temporary sway over young minds and wills, are not always and
inevitably so far exalted, in intellect and in character, above those
they are supposed to govern, as were to be wished, and as they sincerely
desire to appear. Narrow-minded pedantry and injudicious ignorance often
rush in, to responsibilities and duties that angels might well tremble
to assume--the moulding for good or evil, the flexile souls of children
during the most vital years of their lives.
Be this as it may, I quailed for the first time before a superior, and
not without a stubborn feeling of resistance, owned myself in the
presence of one I feared. I suppose I must have looked very childish,
with my hair brushed down simply and knotted low on my neck, and a tiny
linen collar turned over my plain blue merino frock; the lava pin and
earrings having been unavoidably omitted in the hasty completion of my
toilette. These circumstances of dress, I comforted myself, might
account in part for the manner in which Mr. Rutledge continued to treat
me, and which was very galling to my pride, for being at the most
sensitive period of adolescence, nothing could have been more humbling
than to be regarded as childish and immature. Such considerations did
not add to my ease of manner, or grace of deportment, and all Mr.
Rutledge's well-selected topics of conversation fell to the ground for
want of a sustaining power on my side. At last relinquishing the
attempt, he turned to Mrs. Roberts, and gave her minute instructions in
regard to my medicine and diet, felt my pulse, and pronounced me very
much improved; but he judged it, he said, very much better for me to lie
on the sofa pretty quietly all day. Perhaps by to-morrow, I might be
well enough to come downstairs for a little while, he continued, looking
attentively at me, to see, I suppose, how I bore the intelligence of my
prolonged captivity. He did not see any expression of impatience in my
face, however, firstly, because I did not feel any, and secondly,
because, if I had, I would have concealed it to-day. He rose to go,
first turning toward the bay window, where he stood for some minutes
thoughtfully, attracted by the beauty of the landscape it overlooked.
"After all," he said at length, addressing Mrs. Roberts more than me,
and his own thoughts, perhaps, more than either, "the view of the lake
is finer from this window than from any other in the house. The slope of
the lawn is beautiful, and that opening in the pine grove on the left,
through which you see up to the head of the lake, is very fine. Mrs.
Roberts," abruptly, "do you remember when that opening was cut?"
"Yes sir," said Mrs. Roberts (she was never known to have forgotten
anything), "it was during Mrs. Rutledge, your mother's last illness; she
sat a great deal in that window, and your father had it cut to suit her
fancy. I remember the very morning that the workmen began it; she was so
interested, and quite tired herself with watching them, and sending them
orders."
"Ah! I think I remember something of it. I must have been"----
"Just eight years old, sir," said Mrs. Roberts with precision. "She died
the next spring, when Mr. Richard was in his sixteenth year; there was
just four years between you and"----
"Yes, I know."
A dark frown contracted his brow; a forbidding compression of the lips
renewed the dread that had begun to lessen under his patient kindness.
During the five minutes that he stood thus by the window, we were, I
suppose, as entirely forgotten as one of us, at least, desired to be.
The trivial Present fell back into insignificance and oblivion before
the iron domination of some stern memory, that touched with ruthless
hand, his tenderest affection, that humbled his pride, and baffled his
indomitable will. This much I could see, in the restless light of his
dark eye, as it wandered over the familiar scene; child as I was, I
could not but see the suffering in his face. At last, with an effort, he
threw off the tyrant memory, and abruptly turning, quitted the room.
Something almost as human as a sigh escaped from Mrs. Roberts' blue
lips, as his steps echoed across the hall, and his door closed heavily.
With me, the day passed quietly and pleasantly enough; Mrs. Roberts took
the precaution to leave Kitty alone with me as little as possible,
always managing to come in, when Kitty had got nicely fixed with her
sewing at the furthest window, and find some excuse to send her away for
half an hour or so. But as Kitty had brought me some books from the
library, and as I felt too lazy and indifferent to object to anything, I
did not much mind her surveillance.
The chicken soup that Kitty brought me for my dinner, was the very
nicest ever administered to hungry convalescent; and after the meal was
concluded, and the afternoon sun shut out, I made up for all
deficiencies in last night's repose by a very satisfactory sleep; from
which I awoke with a start, to find that I had slept "the all-golden
afternoon" quite away, and that twilight was stealing over the quiet
lake, and the rich autumn woods. I smoothed back the tumbled hair from
my face, and leaning against the window, looked thoughtfully out. The
sun had but just gone down, and left the horizon still glowing with his
light, without a single cloud to break the unruffled calm of sky and
lake. Not a breath of wind stirred the dead leaves that lay thick
beneath the trees in the park--not a sound broke the stillness. How
hushed and silent the dark house was! How much more to the past did it
seem to belong, than to the living actual present. And turn my eyes or
thoughts whichever way I might, they still reverted to some thing that
would remind me of the strange story I had heard that morning, still
brought before me the desolate room, where the dust of years lay on all
traces of her, who, banished, or wronged, or fled, had darkened forever
the home she left. With her, it seemed, had vanished the gaiety, the
life of the house; following fast upon her absence had come death and
desolation; and the sole survivor of this, her ancient race, grew stern
and silent at the merest allusion to her.
My young brain grew feverish and impatient at the baffling mystery, and
refused to entertain any other thought or interest. A vague dread and
superstitious awe crept over me as the twilight waxed dimmer and greyer,
and the dying fire smouldered on the hearth, and the stillness remained
unbroken. Where was everybody; or had I slept over a few years, and were
they all dead? And was I the only living thing in the great
house--another Princess in another Day-dream, only wakened without the
kiss, and the prince gone off in a huff?
I laughed aloud, but my laughter had a very hollow sound, and only made
the succeeding silence more ghastly; it was very foolish, but I was
exceedingly uncomfortable. Why didn't Kitty come? I could not find a
bell. I searched in vain for matches; the fire was past service, and
could not for its life, have raised flame enough to light a candle.
Every minute the room grew darker and chillier, every minute the silence
grew more and more oppressive. I began to think of what Kitty had said
of the voice that still called "Alice" through the vacant halls; and
then I wondered whether this were not the very room in which the father
died; and then I tried not to listen or hear anything, and the next
moment found myself with strained ear, watching for the lightest sound.
At last I could endure it no longer, and groping my way to the door,
opened it, and held my breath, as I listened for some sound to indicate
that I was not the only thing that breathed and lived within the gloomy
walls. But such sound was wanting; a more vacant, drearier silence
reigned without than within the room; through the long hall and distant
corridors, not a footfall, not a motion; the rustle of my own dress
awoke the only echoes. I dared not look toward the end of the hall that
I had learned so much to dread; but starting forward and leaning over
the balusters I called "Kitty," in a voice that would fain have been
stentorian, but was in actual fact a whisper. No answer, of course, and
the faltering whisper seemed to float down the dreary vacancy with
mocking lightness and unconcern. I called again, this time desperation
overcoming the choking terror.
Then there was a sound of some one moving, a door opened on the opposite
side of the hall, a light appeared, and Mr. Rutledge's voice said, "What
is it?"
What was it, indeed; it would have been difficult to say just what it
was, and so I found it.
"Oh! it is you. I beg your pardon. Do you want Kitty?"
I said yes, and that I had been asleep, and just waked up a little while
since, and could not find any matches. My white cheeks told the rest.
Mr. Rutledge explained that Kitty had been sent to the post-office, and
had not returned yet; he was very sorry she had not been at hand to
attend to me, and coming across the hall, brought a light to my door.
Very much ashamed of my fears, I went in to get my candle.
"Why," he said, looking in; "your fire is all out, it looks dreary
enough; I am afraid you will take cold. You had better come down to the
library and have tea with me. How will that do?"
"It will do very well," I said decidedly; for as to staying up there all
alone till Kitty came back, it was not to be thought of, and folding my
shawl around me, I stepped out into the hall, and with great
satisfaction, shut the door of my room, and followed Mr. Rutledge
through the hall and down the stairs. I kept pretty close to him, as we
descended into the vast chilly-looking lower hall, but the coldness of
its marble pavement, and the darkness of its heavy panels, only made the
library, as we entered it, doubly attractive. The fire that would have
made any other room uncomfortable at that season of the year, only
warmed pleasantly the wide and lofty apartment. As Kitty said, "those
great windows let in no end of air, and it took a power of wood to make
it fit to stay in." And a "power of wood" now lay, "a solid core of
heat" upon the hearth, casting a warm glow over the book cases that
lined the walls, and the huge windows with their crimson drapery. The
room delighted me; there was such an air of comfort and elegance about
it, and the warm fire and bright lamp took from it the look of
old-fashioned grandeur that is so comfortless, but so universal, in
houses that have remained unchanged for a generation or so.
"What a delightful room!" I could not help exclaiming, as my eyes
wandered eagerly over the long rows of books, that stood one above
another, from floor to ceiling, in every variety of binding, from the
dusky calf of a hundred or so years ago, to the elegant morocco and gilt
of to-day.
"Yes, it is quite a delightful room for any one who likes books," said
Mr. Rutledge, seating himself by the fire; "do you like them?"
"That's rather a general question, sir," I said, walking up to the case
on the right side of the fireplace, where some more modern-looking
volumes tempted my curiosity.
"So it is," answered my companion, pushing his chair a little further
from the fire, and leaning back, shading his eyes with his hand. "It
_is_ rather general, I admit; but to reduce it to a more particular and
answerable shape, are you fond of reading?"
"Some sort of books I like to read, sir."
"What is the sort you like?"
"Why," I said, rather puzzled, "I like--why I can't tell you
exactly--but I like books that amuse me, that are not dry and stupid."
"There are so many different criterions of dryness and stupidity," said
Mr. Rutledge with an amused smile, "that your answer, I must confess,
doesn't give me much light; some people might consider as highly
interesting, you know, what you and I might look upon as hopelessly dry
and stupid."
I thought, as Mr. Rutledge said, "you and I," that it was very polite in
him to put it so, but that he probably knew as well as I, that we had
very different tastes, and that my favorite books were as unknown and
indifferent to him, as his literary proclivities were, in all
probability, elevated above, and incomprehensible to me.
"For instance," he said, "I like natural history. Now, a great many
persons think it very dull. How is it with you?"
"That's just a case in point," I answered, with an effort not to care
what he thought of me, "I never could get interested in it at all."
"I am not surprised; it is not very often attractive to those of your
age and sex. Now, leaving off the 'natural,' perhaps you're fond of
history?"
I reflected a moment; but while "White's Universal," and "Esquisses
Historiques" were so vividly fresh and hateful, how could I honestly say
I liked history? Yet I knew there were some historical works that I had
as soon read as novels, but I did not know how to explain it; so I said,
"I don't like all history, by any means."
"Neither do I," said Mr. Rutledge; "we agree on that point, and I am
certain we shall on many others, if we can only get at them. Suppose you
take any shelf, for instance, the lower one on your right, and let us
see what we think of the contents. What's the first volume this way?"
I stooped down and read off the name, "Hallam's Middle Ages."
"Ah!" exclaimed my interlocutor, "we have stumbled upon history in
earnest. How do you stand affected toward 'Hallam's Middle Ages'?"
"I like it exceedingly, sir." I responded very concisely, very much
afraid of being pressed to give my reasons, which would have involved me
in utter dismay and confusion, for in common with most very young
persons, I liked because I liked, and disliked upon the same
discriminating principle.
"What comes next?" asked Mr. Rutledge, to my great relief.
"'Goldsmith's Animated Nature.'"
"Ah! you don't like that. What follows?"
"A long row of 'Buffon,' sir, and then 'Tytler's Universal History.' I
haven't read 'Buffon,' and I think Tytler--well--very nice, but
tiresome, you know."
"Try the shelf above."
"The first book, sir, is 'Irving's Goldsmith.'"
"Did you ever read it?"
I said Miss Crowen had given it to me to read, last vacation.
"You found it tiresome?"
"Tiresome! why, sir, I think it is the nicest book in the world. I can't
help thinking how Goldsmith would love Mr. Irving, if he knew about it!
Next, sir, comes a very pretty copy of 'Macaulay's Roman Lays,' and five
volumes of his 'Essays.'"
"Did Miss Crowen give you Macaulay to read?"
"I took it from the library, and she did not make any objection."
"And what do you think of him as a writer?"
I did not need to look in his face to know how much diverted he was at
the idea of extracting a criticism of the great historian from such a
chit as I; and summoning all my courage to the aid of my pride, I
answered steadily.
"If one of my 'age and sex,' sir, can be considered to have an opinion,
I should say, that though Mr. Macaulay is probably the most brilliant
writer of the century, he is the one who has done the least good. I
don't think any one who has the least faith, reverence, or loyalty, can
read him except under protest."
"Which means," said Mr. Rutledge, "that you and Mr. Macaulay are so
unhappy as to differ on some points of politics and theology, _n'est ce
pas?_"
"I know very little about politics, and less about theology; I only know
how I feel when he calls King Charles the First 'a bungling villain,' 'a
bad man,' and says even prettier things about Lord Stafford; I know it
vexes me when he elevates Cromwell 'into a man whose talents were equal
to the highest duties of a soldier and a prince,' and never omits an
opportunity of sneering, with a mixture of contempt and pity, at that
slow old institution, the Church of England."
"And you do not agree with him?"
"Agree with him!"
"What sentiments," exclaimed Mr. Rutledge, "what sentiments for a young
republican! Do you mean to tell me that _you_ don't look upon the
death-warrant of Charles as the 'Major Charta' of England? Do you mean
to say that you don't regard it as the first step in that blessed march
of liberty that is regenerating the world?"
"A blessed march indeed!" I cried indignantly, "over the dead bodies of
honor and obedience, faith and loyalty! A blessed march, to the tune of
the Marseillaise and murder!"
"But, my young friend, how do you make that view of the subject agree
with your patriotism as an American, and your veneration for Washington?
Were there no carcasses of deceased obedience and loyalty under his
chariot-wheels?"
"_Grâce à Dieu_!" I cried, eagerly, "it was Liberty, but Liberty with a
different cap on, and marching under very different colors, that
Washington fought for; no more the same deity that Cromwell and
Robespierre acknowledged, than the idol of the Hindoo is the God we
worship!"
Mr. Rutledge shrugged his shoulders, and begged me to explain the
difference to him. And with a vehement mixture of enthusiasm, ignorance
and anger, I tried to explain my meaning to him, but, as was not
difficult to foresee, made but little headway in my argument, every
moment adding to my adversary's coolness and my own impatience. I
altogether forgot my diffidence and alarm; I was too angry and excited
to think who it was I was talking to; I only knew he was opposing and
tripping me up, and saying the most hateful things in the coolest way,
and exasperating me to the highest degree, and not being a bit
exasperated with all my saucy replies; and it was not till I had
exhausted all my combined wrath and logic, that I caught a lurking
smile about his mouth, that flashed upon me the conviction that I was
entirely the victim of his wit, and that he had just been arguing on the
wrong side for the sake of argument and amusement.
"After all," I exclaimed, "I believe you think just as I do, and have
only been talking so, to draw me out!"
"Why, mademoiselle! How can you suspect me of such duplicity?" he said,
with his peculiar short laugh.
And seizing a book, I sank down on the sofa to hide my burning cheeks
behind its pages. How angry, frightened and mortified I felt, no words
can tell, and every stealthy glance I obtained of my neighbor but added
to my vexation. Wholly absorbed in his paper, he seemed to have
forgotten all about me and my indignation; and having furnished him with
half an hour's amusement, I was to be pushed aside to make way for a
more serious train of thought, such as was now knitting his brow, and
fixing his attention over some political debate or Congressional
transaction. I might smooth my ruffled temper at my leisure; no danger
of interruption or observation; I might solace myself with what
consolation was to be found in the reflection, that whatever I had said
savoring of exaggeration or absurdity, was by this time doubtless
entirely forgotten by my companion. But it was a slim comfort, and could
not displace the angry thought--what business had he to catechise me so;
make me stand there, and tell him what books I had read, and then lead
me on to say all manner of foolish things? My cheeks glowed at the
recollection. There was one comfort; I knew enough now, never to let him
have the amusement of making me angry again; he should never hear
anything but monosyllables from me henceforth; I would be ice and marble
when he was by.
Presently there came a low knock at the door, and Kitty appeared, very
fresh and rosy from her walk, and entering, laid upon the table some
papers and a couple of letters.
"Ah!" said the master, in a tone of satisfaction, reaching out his hand
for them, "the mail is late to-night. You may send tea up; we will take
it here this evening."
Kitty looked in great astonishment to see me downstairs, but the
etiquette of the place forbade anything more on my part than a glance of
recognition, and Kitty retired to order tea sent up. Till that
refreshment arrived, and was arranged upon the table, Mr. Rutledge
devoted himself to the newly-arrived papers, of whose contents he
possessed himself with surprising celerity; and before the servant
announced that tea was ready, I had watched his eyes scan rapidly every
column of every paper; and looking up from the last one as Thomas made
his announcement, he laid it aside, and turned toward the table, asking
me, with a smile, if I should mind the trouble of pouring out tea. It
was an attention, he said, that he was generally obliged to pay to
himself, but it would make it much more agreeable if I would take the
trouble.
I took my place behind the heavy silver service, and with fingers that
trembled very visibly, proceeded, for the first time in my life, to fill
that womanly office. Mr. Rutledge looked on silently, and without note
or comment received and drank his tea. The toast and cake were
unpatronized; Mr. Rutledge, I am inclined to think, forgot them, so
absorbed did he appear in his own thoughts; and I, for my part,
shrinking behind the urn, considered myself sufficiently taxed in
swallowing a cup of tea, which almost choked me, as it was. It was not
till the tea-things were removed that Mr. Rutledge allowed himself to
open his letters, doing this, as everything else, at great disadvantage,
and with some effort, with his left hand. I resumed my book, and did not
raise my eyes, till some time having elapsed, Mr. Rutledge, rising,
handed me a letter, which he said had come inclosed to him in one he had
just received from my aunt. I opened it with considerable interest, and
looking up from the reading of it with a smile, met Mr. Rutledge's eye,
who said:
"Mrs. Churchill seems to be very much alarmed about you. I think it's
quite lucky that she was prevented from coming on in person, for she
would have considered herself basely deceived, I am afraid, if she had
dropped in upon us this evening; the two objects of her solicitude
taking tea comfortably downstairs, in the apparent enjoyment of
uninterrupted health. My bandaged arm, I believe, is the only visible
reminder of the accident."
"How is it to-day, sir?" I asked, rather faintly.
He looked a little inclined to smile, remembering, no doubt, that this
was the first time I had vouchsafed an inquiry concerning it; but he
answered very civilly, that it was rather painful: whether old Sartain
had made some blunder in setting it, or whether he had not kept it
sufficiently quiet, he could not tell. However, he had no doubt it would
soon be all right, etc.
Therewith he dismissed the subject; but I could not dismiss so easily, a
little feeling of remorse for my selfishness and thoughtlessness; and he
had been so careful of _my_ comfort, too! Perhaps from that reflection,
I was very prompt to drop my book in my lap, and be very attentive to
his first remark, as, pushing away the pile of letters and papers, he
leaned thoughtfully back in his chair, and said:
"You have not seen your aunt for a long time, have you?"
"It is rather more than five years, sir, since I have seen her."
"Have you been at school all that time?"
"Yes, sir; I have been there vacations and all. Aunt Edith went away the
year after I was put there, and only came back last spring."
"Josephine is considerably older than you, is she not?"
"Just two years, sir; Josephine was nineteen last month, and I shall be
seventeen the 28th of December, and Grace is eighteen months younger."
"I suppose you remember them quite well?"
"Not very, sir; I have never seen a great deal of them. We lived in the
country, and excepting when we went to town for a visit, we were not
together. You met them abroad, did you not, sir?"
"Yes; we travelled through Switzerland together, and I saw them very
frequently last winter in Paris."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, eagerly, quite forgetting my dignified resolutions,
"do tell me about them. Is Josephine taller than I, and is she pretty?
They say she sings so beautifully! Does she?"
"Where shall I begin?" he said, with a smile. "Such an avalanche of
questions overwhelms me. First, as to height; well (thoughtfully), let
me consider. It is difficult to judge. Stand up, and let me see how tall
you are."
I sprang up, in perfectly good faith, and stood erect before him for
three full minutes, while, with a critical eye, he surveyed me from head
to foot.
"I should say," he continued very deliberately, while I resumed my seat,
"I should say that there was not the difference of an eighteenth of an
inch between you."
"Really?" I exclaimed. "Why, isn't that odd! It's very nice, isn't it,
for us to be so near alike?"
"I did not say you were near alike."
"Oh, but in size I mean. I know we don't look alike. Josephine used to
be such a thin, dark, old-looking little girl, that I cannot imagine her
tall and grown-up."
"I think," continued Mr. Rutledge, "that she is still rather slighter
than you are; though your additional shade of health and robustness
will, I fancy, soon be lost, under the influence of town habits and
constant dissipation."
"Are they very gay? Does my aunt go a great deal into society?" I asked.
"They did in Paris, and I fancy it will be the same in New York. In
fact, there is little doubt of it."
"I wonder," I said, leaning my cheek on my hand, and looking
thoughtfully into the fire--"I do so wonder whether I shall like it."
"Ah! my child," he said rather sadly, "you need not waste much wonder
upon that; you will like it but too well. Wonder, with a shudder and a
prayer, how you will bear the ordeal."
He sighed, and pressed his hand for a moment before his eyes; then
catching my wistful look, he continued in a lighter tone:
"But I do not mean to frighten you; people, you know, are very apt to
preach against what they are tired of, and inveigh against the world
after they have 'been there,' and have seen its best and its worst, and
tasted eagerly of both; and have spent years in its service, and are
only disgusted when they find that it will yield them no more. They have
no right to discourage you young things, just on the threshold, eager
and impatient for you don't know what of glory and delight."
"Why, yes; I'm sure they have a right to warn us, if they see our
danger. I am sure it is their duty."
"Oh!" he said, with one of his quick laughs, "it would be a thankless
task; they would not be heeded. You all have to go through it, and how
you come out is only a question of degree--some more, and some less
tainted--according to the stuff you're made of."
"I don't want to believe that."
"You want to believe, I suppose, that you can go into the fire and not
be burned; that you can go into the world and not grow worldly; that you
can spend your youth in vanity, and not reap vexation of spirit; that
you can go cheek by jowl with hollowness, and falsehood, and corruption,
and yet keep truth and purity in your heart! You want to believe this,
my little girl, but you must go to some one who has seen less, or seen
it with different eyes from me, to hear it."
"I want to believe the truth, whether it's easy or hard, and I had
rather know it now, at the beginning, if I've got to know it, than when
it is forced upon me by experience."
"Wisely said, _ma petite;_ self-denial, hard as it is, is easier than
repentance; but there are few of us who would not rather take our
chances for escaping repentance and 'dodge' the self-denial, too. Is not
that the way?"
"I don't know; I suppose so. But, if the world is really as dangerous as
you say, why should kind mothers and friends take the young girls they
have the charge of, into it? Why should my aunt, for instance, take
Josephine into society, the very gayest and most brilliant?"
An almost imperceptible smile flitted across my companion's face at my
question, but he answered quite seriously:
"A great many different motives actuate parents; the principal, I
suppose, are such as these: The children, they reason, are young, and
they must have enjoyment; and so they cram them with sweets till they
have no relish for healthier food. Sorrow, they say, comes soon enough;
let them be happy while they may; and so they fit them for bearing it by
an utter waste of mind and body in a mad pursuit of pleasure. And then,
they must be established in the world; their temporal interests must be
attended to. And the myriads offered up on that altar, it would freeze
your young blood to know of! And then," he continued, with an amused
look at my perplexity, "then there is another very potent reason why
they cannot be kept in the nest--for before they are well fledged, the
willful little brood will try their wings, and neither law nor logic
will suffice to keep them back. Now, even you, sensible and
correctly-judging young lady as you have this evening discovered
yourself to be, would, I fear, not bear the test of a trial; I am afraid
your courage would droop before the self denial of the first ball or
two, and you would soon be drawn into the vortex without a struggle."
"I don't think so," I said. "I am pretty sure that if I resolved not to
go into society--being convinced that I ought not--I should be able to
keep my resolution. And even if I should see that it was best for me
not to go out till I am older, but to stay at home and study and improve
myself, this winter, at least, I know I could do it. If I thought that
balls and parties were wrong, I am certain I should never go to one."
"That would be carrying the thing too far. Do not suppose that I mean
anything like that. What I condemn is the wholesale worldliness--the
unwearied career of folly that I have seen so much of, utterly excluding
all cultivation of heart or intellect--utterly ignoring all beyond the
present. That's the snare I would warn you of, my little friend. I know
perhaps, better than you do, the trials that lie before you; so when I
tell you that you will have need of all the courage, and self-denial,
and resolution that you are mistress of, to keep you from that darkest
of all lives--the life of a worldly woman--you must remember, I have
seen many plays played out--have watched the opening and ending of more
careers than one, the bloom and blight of more than one young life."
A pause fell--a long and thoughtful one--while my companion, shading his
eyes from the firelight, gazed fixedly upon vacancy, and some time had
passed before he shook off the momentary gloom, and resumed, in a
lighter tone:
"That accident was a miserable business, was it not? Keeping you a
prisoner in this dull old place, and knocking I don't know how many
plans of mine in the head. And it is impossible to tell how many days it
may be before I am able to travel, even if you should be. Perhaps,
however, I may succeed in finding an escort for you, as I suppose you
are impatient to be in New York."
"Oh, I beg you will not take any trouble about it; I like it here very
well. I am not in the least hurry, and I hope you will not go a moment
before you are fit, on my account."
My effort at civility was rewarded by a smile to which no one could be
indifferent; and in reply, Mr. Rutledge said that he was glad to find
me so philosophical; that I must amuse myself as well as I could, and he
should tell Mrs. Churchill, when he wrote, that I was in a fair way of
being made a strong-minded woman; between Mrs. Roberts' austere example
in the conduct of the household, and his own invaluable moral lectures,
my mind would be in no danger of rusting during my captivity. "Not to
mention," he added gravely, "very able and improving mental exercise in
the criticism of the most eminent living historians."
I hung my head at this last cut, administered, however, so daintily,
that it was impossible to resent it; and being on the rack till he
should get away from the subject, I quickly reverted to his letter to my
aunt, asking when he should write, and desiring permission to inclose a
note to her at the same time. He should probably write to-night, he
said, glancing up at the bronze clock, which pointed to nine.
"Writing, however, with my left hand, is a business requiring much time
and application, and possibly I may not attempt it till to-morrow
morning."
Blushing very much, I said I wished I could be of service in writing
that or any other letters for him; it would give me great pleasure. He
thanked me for the offer, but considered it, he said, entirely too much
to ask of me. I must remember I was still an invalid. I laughed at the
idea, and the result was, that in five minutes I was seated at the
library table, with a portfolio before me, writing a letter to my aunt
at Mr. Rutledge's dictation.
I was in high spirits at the idea of being useful, and the pen flew over
the paper almost as fast as the words were uttered. I rather writhed
under the necessity of writing without demur of myself as "the little
girl," and "your young niece;" but there was nothing to be said, and
after finishing it, and adding a few lines of my own, I enveloped and
directed it. I asked if there was any other I could write for him.
He said there was one he was anxious to dispatch in the morning; so
taking another sheet of paper, I began another letter. It was one on
business, full of law terms and dry details, but fortunately not very
long, and writing it as rapidly as possible, in my boldest, freest hand,
I soon laid it ready for dispatch beside the other.
"What else?" I inquired, taking a fresh sheet of paper.
"You are not tired?"
"Not in the least, sir," and I rapidly wrote the date, and with my pen
suspended over the paper, awaited his dictation.
Without a word of explanation, he began to dictate as quickly as before,
in French. For a moment my heart failed me, as the teasing French verbs
rushed on my bewildered ear; but rallying instantly, without raising my
eyes or giving the least evidence of my discomfiture, I began to write.
Thanks to Mademoiselle Céline's drilling, I was pretty ready at
"dictée," and after the first surprise, got along very well. It was
quite a severe exercise to keep pace with his rapid language, feeling
all the while as if an error would be irreparable. I would not appear to
read it over, of course, for purposes of correction, any more than I
would have done the English ones. I managed, however, while looking for
an envelope, and wiping my pen, to glance hurriedly and anxiously
through it, and was somewhat comforted to meet no fault apparent, at
least, on such a rapid scrutiny. I folded and addressed it, not, though,
without some misgivings, and after receiving thanks, and a refusal of
further services, glanced at the clock, and rose to go upstairs.
Mr. Rutledge lit my candle, and as he handed it to me, said I must do as
I found it most agreeable about coming downstairs to my meals. He should
be most happy to have a companion whenever I felt well enough to come
down; but Kitty, he hoped, would make me comfortable whenever I
preferred remaining upstairs.
I bowed, and said, "Yes sir," rather unmeaningly, and passed out of the
door, which he held open for me, and which he was charitable enough not
to shut till I was safe in my own room.
Kitty, active and pleasant as ever, awaited me there, and I threw myself
in the easy-chair before the fire, while she unbraided and combed my
hair, with a feeling of great comfort and complacency. She congratulated
me upon going downstairs; and indirectly and respectfully endeavored to
ascertain whether I had found master as formidable as I had anticipated.
I did not wish to commit myself on this point; but finding that Kitty
herself stood in a little wholesome awe of him, I was tempted to
acknowledge that I did not feel altogether at ease downstairs; upon
which she said, she guessed I wasn't the only one; nobody on the place,
from Mrs. Roberts down, dared say their souls were their own when Mr.
Rutledge was by.
"But then, he's a kind master, is he not?" I asked.
"Oh, yes! None better; that everybody knows. He's as liberal as can be;
but then he expects everything to go on _just so;_ and every man on the
place knows that he won't put up with a bit of laziness or shirking. And
so, whether he's here or not, things go on like clock-work, and the
Rutledge farm is a perfect garden, everybody says. Better a good deal, I
guess, than it used to be in old Mr. Rutledge's time, though there were
twice as many men on it then, and twice as much money spent on it; but
there was too much feasting and company for anybody to attend much to
work, and I suppose the old gentleman was what they call a high liver,
and cared more for his hounds and horses, and dinner-parties and wine,
than for looking after his farm."
"How old was Mr. Arthur Rutledge when his father died?"
"Oh, a mere lad, sixteen or so; and for a time, I've heard them say,
things went on bad enough, nobody to look after anything, the farm just
going to destruction. For, the trouble all coming together, his father's
and Mr. Richard's death, and whatever it was about Miss Alice, it was
too much for Mr. Arthur, and brought on a dreadful fever, and for weeks
they couldn't tell how it would go with him. Mrs. Roberts nursed him day
and night; I guess she was the best friend he had, for he was the last
of the family, you see, and hadn't a relation in the world, and though
he had plenty of fine folks for his acquaintance, fine folks don't seem
to think they're needed when people are in trouble and come to die; and
I don't know but what they're right; they would be rather in the way.
However, they didn't have much to do for Mr. Arthur that time; and at
last the fever turned, and he began to get better."
Kitty had an attentive auditor, and she only too willingly talked on,
and gave me all the facts she was possessed of. I had nothing else to
think about just then, and so it was not to be wondered at that I made
the most of them, and gave many an hour to the working up and
embellishing of Kitty's story. I pictured to myself the lonely boy,
coming back to life with no one to welcome him in the changed house. I
fancied him pale and melancholy, wandering through the deserted halls
and empty rooms, finding at every turn something to remind him of his
grief. I could not blame him when, as my informant said, he grew to be
morose and gloomy, and to hate the very name of home; for, going abroad,
he did not come near it for years, and seemed to have lost all interest
in it. The estate, during this time, was managed by an agent, who
neglected it shamefully, and in whose charge it was fast going to ruin.
But suddenly, the young master returned, and to the surprise of all,
took things into his own hands; dismissed those who had been living in
idleness at his expense so long, only retaining such as were willing to
conform themselves to the new _régime_, and by industry and faithfulness
to regain what had been lost during this long period of neglect. It was
a reform which required great energy and perseverance, but these the
young heir possessed, and before a year was over, things wore a very
different aspect; the house was repaired and the grounds put in order;
the farm began to show the presence of a master. The reform did not stop
here, however. For more than fifty years, there had been no church
nearer than Hilton, a distance of six miles, which the family at
Rutledge nominally attended, when the weather was fine; but, unhappily,
Sunday and Sunday duties were by no means of paramount interest at
Rutledge; and, naturally, master and tenantry fell into a criminal
neglect of all the outward duties of religion. In the village which lay
about a mile to the south of Rutledge, there had once, before the
Revolution, been a church edifice, but long since it had fallen into
ruins, and only a neglected graveyard remained to attest its former
site. Here, Mr. Rutledge had built a church, and repairing a cottage
that lay at the southern extremity of his farm, and not a quarter of a
mile from the church, had turned it into a parsonage, where he had
established a clergyman, who had labored very faithfully and very
successfully among the almost heathenish inhabitants of the place, and
had immeasurably improved its character.
"But still you say, Kitty, Mr. Rutledge does not live here much of the
time. I should think he would be happy in a place where he had done so
much good."
Kitty shook her head. "There is too much to remind him of old times, I
suppose, for him to like it here; besides, it's very lonesome. He does
his duty by it, but I don't believe he'll ever stay here more than he
thinks he has to, to keep things straight."
I reminded Kitty, by and by, of the miniature of which we had been
talking when Mrs. Roberts interrupted us in the morning.
"Should you like to see it?" Kitty asked.
"Of all things," I replied; and Kitty, laying down the brush, said she
would run up to her room and get it. She stopped a moment, after she had
cautiously opened the door, to listen if Mrs. Roberts was still awake,
then leaving it ajar, stole quietly up the stairs. My heart beat
guiltily as I listened to her retreating footsteps. What business had I
to be prying into family secrets? I was involuntarily ashamed of myself,
but how could I help it? How could I resist the temptation? It could do
no harm; I should only just look at it, and should be no wiser after
all. It seemed an age before Kitty's returning footsteps rejoiced my
ear, and I did not feel safe till, again within the room, she slid the
bolt behind her, and put into my hand the old-fashioned locket, with its
faded blue ribbon. I started up, and going to the light, bent down to
examine it.
"It's like none of the family," Kitty said. "Their pictures are in the
dining-room, and I've compared them all."
It certainly, I saw myself, was not in the least like Mr. Rutledge. It
was a face I could not altogether understand. The eyes were dark, and
perhaps tender in their light, but about the mouth--and a handsome well
cut mouth, too--there was a something I could not define, that suggested
coldness and insincerity; something that repelled me when I first
looked, but seemed to disappear after a longer scrutiny. The features
were regular and strikingly handsome, the skin a clear olive, the hair
dark and wavy. As far as my limited knowledge of these things went, what
was visible of the uniform appeared to me to be that of a French
officer, and the letters, in tiny characters, engraved on the back, "à
Paris, 1830," seemed to confirm the probability.
"Twenty-four years ago," I said.
"That was the year before old Mr. Rutledge died," said Kitty.
I kept it in my hand while she undressed me, and only returned it to her
as she was leaving me for the night. But she said,
"You'd better keep it, Miss, if you will, to-night. I am afraid to go
to my trunk to put it away, for Dorothy, the cook, sleeps in the room
where we keep our trunks, and she's just gone upstairs."
I consented, and for safety put it under my pillow. I wished it anywhere
else, however, after the door had closed; and Kitty departing,
----"Left the world to darkness and to me."