----"Sweet heaven, she takes me up
As if she had fingered me, and dog-eared me,
And spelled me by the fire-side, half a life!
She knows my turns, my feeble points."
E.B. BROWNING.
Christmas came and passed; my birthday came and passed; the holidays
were "over and done," and we were busily at work again with our various
professors; and, in my heart, I acknowledged that I liked work better
than play in my new home. Sundays and holidays were the times that tried
my soul. I do not mean in church; Christmas anthems, Christmas hopes and
aspirations had never before touched me so deeply as now, when there was
so much of dullness and coldness in the world outside. In church I did
not feel my loneliness so much, but it was the coming back to the
frivolity and uncongeniality of home that left the greatest blank. I do
not mean to suggest, that during all these weeks I had been as pining
and heartsick as I had been on the first day of my initiation. That day,
it is true, had been a fair index of the rest, but the acute
disappointment and pain had worn off, and I had learned to make the best
of it, and to go through my daily routine with a less heavy, but perhaps
an emptier and less hoping heart. "The ox, when he is weary, treads
surest." I was weary and unhopeful, and so, perhaps, trod more safely
the somewhat devious and perplexing path that lay before me. If the
subduing effect of a keenly felt and unkind disappointment, and a
miserable loneliness and want of sympathy, had not kept my impetuosity
and self-will in check, I perhaps should not have passed with so little
injury through scenes that were quite new and bewildering to me. As it
was, I was sad enough to think, sober enough to choose, and yet young
and elastic enough not to be crushed by the weight of my trial, but to
bow and fit myself to the yoke. I reasoned in a way that was childish in
its simplicity, and yet wise in its unworldliness.
"I have been very presumptuous and vain," I thought. "I have fancied
myself the companion and friend of one who, by forgetting me, has shown
me my mistake, while there was yet time to correct it. I have been
indulging in a very foolish, though a very happy, dream; but as long as
he knows nothing of it, I am certain I can conquer it in time, and be
more humble for the rest of my life. I have not found much sympathy or
love in the only home I shall probably ever have; I don't suppose I
shall ever be particularly happy again, but there is something higher
than mere happiness that I can try to gain, and make myself worthy of
that communion of saints in which I have been taught to believe;
stretching through earth and heaven, of all kindreds and peoples and
tongues, among whom I have no present comrade, it is true, but there is
one saint at rest, who has no other care than her child's peace--who
loved me better than all the world beside, when she was here--who will
not forget her love and tenderness in the rest that she has entered
into."
And so, with a humbled heart, I set myself to the "trivial round, the
common task," that gave me, indeed, much room for self-denial and
patience, but gave me, too, the peace that impatience and resistance
never would have brought. Much there was, indeed, of error and folly,
many mistaken steps and struggles of conscience, much sinning and
repenting, but, on the whole, it was a straighter and a safer path than
a pleasanter one would have been. There was, in truth, little danger of
being in love with the world, seen from the stand-point I had been
placed in.
Home continued pretty much as usual. Of my aunt and Josephine, we of the
study and the nursery saw comparatively little. As the season advanced,
and the gaiety increased, there was not much time, of course, at my
aunt's command for any but the most imperative home duties; this being
Josephine's first winter in New York, it was a thing of the highest
moment to bring her out properly, and no sacrifice was considered too
great. Not that she neglected her household, or regular duties; at
whatever hour she may have returned home the night before, my Aunt Edith
never failed to appear at breakfast punctually; never failed to hear
Esther repeat her Collect, and glance over Grace's theme; never failed
to overlook the grocer's, baker's, and butcher's accounts; to visit in
person daily, kitchen, laundry, butler's pantry, nursery, and study; to
keep, in short, that eye over her entire establishment that it required
to preserve its matchless order and regularity. No wonder that my aunt
looked haggard and worn; no wonder that unwelcome wrinkles were writing
themselves on her brow, and that her rounded figure was fast losing its
roundness. To serve one master is as much as one human being is capable
of. In the miserable attempt to serve two, how many wrecks of soul and
body are daily wrought.
I said we saw very little of my aunt; it seemed very little, for her
daily visits to us, though regular, were of necessity hurried, and at
meals she was generally either preoccupied and thoughtful, or busy with
Phil in arrangements and plans for the pressing demands of society.
Josephine, now-a-days, had her breakfast sent to her room, and was not
ordinarily visible before twelve o'clock. Then came visiting hours; and
at dinner, though, when they did not dine out, we enjoyed the society of
my aunt, and Josephine, and Phil, still it seemed to me, they were all
rather listless and stupid; but perhaps they were only reserving their
energies for the evening. After study hours, sometimes, and just before
my bed-time, I would go down to Josephine's room by particular request,
and assist her at her toilette; her new maid, Frances, being, she
declared, the clumsiest, stupidest thing that ever breathed, and having
a most unbearable trick of bursting into tears whenever she was scolded,
which, I suppose, deprived Josephine of all pleasure in her attendance.
My services suited her better, and I often had the honor of superseding
Frances. Not that I minded it at all; it was the only glimpse I had into
the gay world that I was as yet so ignorant of. I liked to array
Josephine in her elegant Parisian dresses, to arrange the drooping
flowers in her glossy black hair, and to clasp the rich bracelets on her
arms. Grace, on these occasions, was strictly forbidden the room; late
hours, dissipation and fatigue had not materially improved Josephine's
temper; and her pert young sister's allusions to bones, necks à la
gridiron, etc., tried her beyond endurance; and mamma interposing,
Grace, for once, was kept at bay. I will not deny a vague feeling of
regret and longing, as I watched my cousin's floating drapery
downstairs, and thought of the gay scene she was starting for; and as
Phil wrapped her light cloak around her, and whispered his honest
praises in her ear, as she followed her mother to the door, and I turned
back to my lonely little room, it did seem to me that there was great
need of faith to believe that her lot and mine were ordered by the same
unerring and impartial Wisdom.
Our lessons went on pretty much as at first. With Mr. Olman, I was
rather a check upon Grace, and the poor man began to regard me with
something like gratitude. He was a good teacher, and gave me plenty of
work, for which I, in my turn, was grateful. Our French lessons, it
appeared to me, were rather a hollow mockery, Mdlle. Berteau, our
preceptress, being a chatty little woman, who spent one-half her time in
gossiping with Grace about Paris and pretty things, and the other half
in helping her write the exercises she had been too lazy to prepare the
night before. I also found later, that mademoiselle had been in the
habit of supplying her young pupil surreptitiously with some rather
questionable French literature. Upon a threat of disclosing this
circumstance to mamma, Grace made me a solemn promise to renounce it;
but I must confess I never felt any great security about its
fulfillment.
Our German proved rather more satisfactory. Mr. Waschlager, a strapping,
burly, bearded fellow, with a loud voice and considerable energy of
manner, inspired Miss Grace with much greater respect than delicate Mr.
Olman, with his nervousness and tremor. His imperfect knowledge of our
mother-tongue, also, rendered any sly innuendoes quite powerless to
annoy him, and Grace's very strikingly imperfect knowledge of _his_
maternal mode of speech, put it quite out of her ability to insult him,
if she had dared. So that, with the exception of having ordinarily to
write her exercises for her, and give her the benefit of my researches
in the dictionary at the last moment, I enjoyed my German lesson very
much, and made quite rapid advances in that language.
A week or two before my arrival, Esther's daily governess (from all
accounts a miserably weak and injudicious person) had been dismissed,
having been found entirely incompetent to manage her young charge; and,
till another should be procured, I had asked my aunt if I should not
teach her for an hour or two every day. The offer had been very gladly
accepted, and, somehow, after a week or two, all question of obtaining a
new governess had died out, and Essie and her lessons had quietly
devolved on me. I did not mind it very much; the child was good enough,
and, with a little coaxing, got on tolerably well; but it was rather
hard always to be tied down to that duty for the hours that I invariably
felt most like reading or sewing, both of which occupations I found
entirely incompatible with the due direction of Miss Esther's early
mathematical efforts, and the proper supervision of her attempts at
penmanship. I had the benefit of her society at other hours also; she
kept pretty closely at my side during my leisure moments, favored by my
vicinity to the nursery, and was my invariable companion in my walks:
Grace never walked, except when ordered out under pain of her mother's
displeasure, and Félicie was, of course, only too glad to shift the duty
of exercising Miss Esther upon me. And as my aunt had a prejudice
against full carriages, she and Josephine were generally considered a
sufficient burden for the horses on Sunday, and Grace being commonly
threatened with headache on that day, Esther and I were left to
ourselves in the matter of church; and finding one not far distant, that
had some free seats within its ample limits, we profited by the
discovery, and pretty constantly filled two of them; Esther holding fast
to my dress, never for a moment letting go of it through service or
sermon; at times it seemed to me, as I caught her strange troubled eyes
fixed on the rich colors of the chancel window, or the misty blue of the
vaulted roof, that "her heart was envious of her eye," and she clung to
me, uncertain and hesitating, as her one tie to earth. I never could
quite make out the child; with all her pettishness, and very willful and
trying naughtiness, there were moods and fancies about her that
thoroughly puzzled me. The only way, I found, was to be as patient as
possible with the one, and humor the other as far as was practicable.
I introduced her to her Prayer-book frequently at church, but to little
effect; she would obey for the moment, then the book would drop unheeded
from her hand, and she would presently be gazing dreamily before her
again. Never letting go my dress, she would slip down on her knees when
the others did, but when I glanced at her, it was always to find that
strange wistful look on her upturned face, that always gave me a vague
feeling of uneasiness. She was by no means a precocious child--rather a
backward and undeveloped one; but sometimes she startled me with
questions that were as much beyond what I had expected of her, as they
were beyond me to answer lucidly.
Besides our dislike of Félicie and our liking for Trinity Chapel, there
was another bond of sympathy between my little cousin and me, and that
was, our cordial antipathy to "company" days and times. Not that we ever
had much personal interest in them, but the moral atmosphere of the
house, for the whole of the day on which one of my aunt's elaborate
dinner-parties occurred, was extremely grating to our nerves. My aunt
was always a little more decided and hurried, Josephine a shade more
imperious, Grace perter, Félicie more hateful, John more given to short
answers--in fact, no member of the household but felt oppressed by the
coming event. Grace and I dined with Esther at "the little dinner" at
one, on such occasions, and all we saw of the contents of the carriages
that, about six, began to roll up to the door, was seen from over the
balusters of the third-story staircase. My aunt, it is true, had at
first proposed to me to put on my new silk, and come downstairs, but it
seemed to me that the invitation was rather lukewarm, and she agreed
with me very readily in thinking that for this winter, it was better for
me to stay altogether out of society.
"You will be all the fresher when you do appear, my love," said my aunt
Edith.
So, _par conséquent_, I saw but little of the visitors at the house,
though, through Grace, and the general table talk and accidental
meetings in the parlor, I kept the run of the most intimate and familiar
ones. Among the gentlemen, there was a Captain McGuffy, an army friend
of Phil's, who was a good deal at the house, principally noticeable for
his appetite and his moustache. Also, a stale old beau named Reese, who
was a kind of heir-loom in fashionable families, handed down from mother
to daughter along with other antique and valued relics, to grace their
entrée into society. He had been an admirer of my aunt Edith's in her
opening bloom, but was now made over to Josephine, by that unselfish
parent, to swell the list of the younger one's retainers. Besides these,
there was a Mr. Wynkar, very young and very insignificant, endured
principally, I fancied, for his utility; and a young Frenchman, who was
quite new on the tapis, and much the rage.
But it was a fact patent even to my simplicity, that Mr. Rutledge was,
_par excellence_, the most courted and desired guest in Gramercy Square.
For him, Josephine's smiles came thickest and sweetest, and the daring
freedom of speech and wit that characterized her bearing with Phil and
his military _confrère_, were, in his presence, toned down into a
spirited, but most taking coquetry, and the anxious frown on Aunt
Edith's brow was smoothed away whenever John announced, "Mr. Rutledge,
madam." That those announcements were very frequent, could never cease
to be a matter of interest to me, though there seemed little excuse for
my feeling any deeper personal concern in them than John himself. Being
always expected to retire directly from dinner to the study, we of
course lost all evening visitors, and in the daytime, it was even less
likely that we should encounter any one from the parlor. More than once,
on dinner-party nights, I had stood so near him, that I could have
whispered and he would have heard; shrinking down in the shadow of the
landing-place, I had watched him leave the dressing-room slowly, always
walking through the upper hall very leisurely, and looking attentively
around. But the darkness of that upper landing-place would baffle even
his keen eye; my very heart would stand still--the breath would not pass
my parted lips, and there would be no danger that his quick ear should
discover that which I would have died rather than he should have known.
I would watch him down the stairs, see him pause a moment before the
parlor-door, then, as he opened it, there would come, for an instant,
the gay clamor of many voices, the rustling of silks, the ringing of
laughter, then in an instant shut again, and I would creep back to my
dark and cheerless little room with a heart that, had I been older and
less humble, would have been bitter and resentful, but as it was, was
only aching and sad. I often wondered whether, if that bracelet had not
been fastened irrevocably on my arm, I should have taken it off?
Whether, if I could, I would have put far out of sight, all souvenirs of
that happy visit, that nobody seemed to remember now but me. Whether it
would have been any easier to forget, if I could have broken my promise
as he most assuredly had broken his. Of course he had broken it; the
only folly had been in my ever expecting him to remember such a jest an
hour after it was spoken. A one-sided friendship, indeed it was, upon
reflection, a very absurd friendship, between an ignorant school-girl
and an elegant, high-bred, cultivated gentleman, and one who, as Grace
said one day at the table, if he wasn't the coolest and most indifferent
of men, would be a perfect lion in society.
"He's too _jeuced_ stiff and haughty to be tolerated," said Mr. Wynkar,
who, with Capt. McGuffy and Phil, was dining with us in such _petit
comité_, that it was not considered necessary to exclude the juniors
from the board.
"You and he arn't intimate, then," said Grace, with a sly laugh, which
Josephine rather encouraged in a quiet way.
"I never could see," said Capt. McGuffy, from under his moustache, "what
everybody finds in that man so remarkable. He has a tolerably correct
idea of a horse, and rides pretty well; but beyond that, I think he's
rather a stick."
Grace elevated her eyebrows, and Mr. Wynkar went on to say, "that for
his part, he thought there was nothing about him but his money and his
family. Rutledge was a good name, and he was, without doubt, the best
match in society."
"Match!" exclaimed the captain. "He's no more idea of marrying than a
monk. I pity the girl that sets her affections on his establishment.
_Ma foi_! She'd about as well make _beaux yeux_ at the bronze general in
Union Square. Her chance of making an impression would be about as
good."
"McGuffy's right," said Phil, warmly. "If everybody knew as much as he
does, they'd let Mr. Rutledge alone, and turn their attention to
subjects that would pay better."
"Army men upon a thousand a year, for instance," said Josephine, under
her breath, and with an irritated contraction of the brow.
"Yes," said Mrs. Churchill, quite blandly, "it is peculiar, that any one
can see in him a marrying man. At his age, it is very seldom that one of
his disposition feels any inclination to form new ties and interests,
and enter upon so different a life. Nothing could surprise me more than
to hear that Mr. Rutledge was going to be married."
Grace squeezed up her mouth in a significant way, and gave a funny look
at her mother as she said this, evidently exercising great self-denial
in not answering.
Mr. Ellerton Wynkar took upon himself that office, and agreed entirely
with Mrs. Churchill, adding, however, that there were some stories about
the early life of the gentleman, that he didn't know whether to believe
or not. Was it true that he had been so dissipated when he was a young
man?
Mrs. Churchill smiled, and shrugged her shoulders. She knew nothing
about that; he had spent most of his early life abroad, she said, and
sowed his wild oats, if he had any to sow, on another continent, and it
was but fair for us to be content to take him as he wished to appear at
home, and ignore the other continent.
"You may bet your head," exclaimed the captain, emphatically, "that no
man with a fortune like his, ever settled down into morality and
farming, without having a good time or so, to begin with. Trust him for
that! The ladies wouldn't like him so well, if there wasn't a touch of
the sinner about him."
Aunt Edith shook her head, and said that was a shocking doctrine; while
Josephine declared, with a laugh, they had to like sinners--there was
nothing else in society; and Mr. Wynkar taking it as a personal tribute,
pulled his pale moustache and smiled, while the captain concentrated his
herculean powers on an appropriate rejoinder, and Grace drew the
attention of the table to me, by exclaiming:
"Why, what's the matter? You look as if you had been shot."
"Rather, as if she'd like to shoot us," said Josephine, laughing. "What
_have_ we done to excite such horror? I hope you're not making yourself
unhappy on Mr. Rutledge's account. I think he's able to take care of
himself."
"If I had known," said Mr. Wynkar, with an apologetic wave of the hand,
and a smile that was meant to be ironical, "if I had known that Mr.
Rutledge had so enthusiastic a friend present, I should have been more
careful; and I most humbly beg, that what I have said may be forgiven."
The captain laughed a great laugh, and said he might have known that
wherever there was a pretty face, there was a friend to Mr. Rutledge;
and Grace asked, artlessly, what made me blush so; while only
good-natured Phil came to the rescue, and in his blunt, honest way,
exclaimed:
"It's my opinion she's much in the right of it. I shouldn't think much
of her, if she wasn't angry at hearing anybody used up so, all on
suspicion, too. If there's anything against him, why, hang it, come out
and say so; but this making a man out a rascal, because people like him
and because he's got a fortune, upon my soul, I think it's a scurvy sort
of trick, that I do."
"Don't hit him any more--he's got friends," whined Grace.
"Phil quite mistakes us if he thinks we are not all Mr. Rutledge's
friends," said Mrs. Churchill. "No one dreamed of saying anything that
could possibly be considered uncomplimentary."
"I don't know, Aunt Edith," said Phil, rather warmly; "but I hope you
don't pay me that sort of compliment when I'm not by."
"Indeed we don't," exclaimed Josephine, laughing. "When you're absent,
Phil (which isn't often, you know), we all say you're the best fellow in
the world, and count the hours till you come back."
"Then I think the best thing I can do is to stay away," he answered,
with a sort of sigh.
"Ah, Phil, I know you wouldn't have the heart!" said Josephine, in a low
tone, with a bright flash of her coquettish eye; which had the effect of
subduing her cousin for the rest of the evening, and keeping him
obedient to her slightest whim.
Though the rest of the family seemed to forget very soon the little
episode that had been so excruciating to me, and so amusing to them, I
do not think it was lost upon my aunt. I always found her looking at me
very narrowly whenever Mr. Rutledge was mentioned, and she on more than
one occasion, in my presence, took pains to speak of him in a way that
seemed to put a greater distance than ever between us, of his age, his
eccentricities, his reserve. My aunt might have saved herself the
trouble. I "knew my place" by this time, and shrunk as naturally from
meeting him now, as I had before been eager and forward. On the one or
two occasions when I could not avoid encountering him, it had been in
her presence, and I had been shy and cold to a degree that must have
been unaccountable to him, if he had given the matter a thought, which I
very much doubted. I had excused myself as hurriedly as possible, and
slipped back to the study, glad to be by myself again, yet bitterly
sorry, as soon as it was too late, that I had not staid where only I
wished to be--where only I found any pleasure, if such a doubtful
emotion indeed could be called pleasure. It was the nearest approach to
it, however, that my life presented; it was what I looked forward to,
spite of my good resolves from day to day; yet, when the wished-for
pleasure came, with strange shyness and perverseness, I thrust it away
out of my own reach, then cried passionately at the disappointment, and
began to hope again. The most inexplicable and contradictory thing in
all this world of contradictions, is a woman's heart, before experience
has tutored it. The woman herself does not understand it. What wonder if
its strange willfulness and sudden impulses hopelessly bewilder and
mislead the one of all others whom she most desires to please, and for
whom alone, if the truth were known, the foolish heart throbs and
flutters and pines.