"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 to _appear_, the other was
simply _being_ what 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, and _the doctor_ stood
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 so _distraits_ and
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 care _that_ for 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 would _Madame votre tante_ say 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 could
_only_ stay 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.