"Back, then, complainer; loathe thy life no more,
Nor deem thyself upon a desert shore,
Because the rocks thy nearer prospect close."
KEBLE.
Félicie had fled. When, in the agonized confusion of that dreadful
night, she was at last remembered and searched for, there was no trace
of her to be found, and all future inquiry was equally unavailing. The
wretched woman need not have concealed herself with such desperate fear;
no one felt any heart to search her out, or revenge on her the death of
her little charge. No one of that sad household but knew, in their
hearts, that there was a sin at more than her door--a sin that lay heavy
in proportion to its unnaturalness and strangeness.
Those were wretched nights and days that followed little Esther's death.
The vehement grief that, in the first hours of amazement and remorse,
had burst from the miserable mother, was succeeded by a calm more
unnatural and more alarming. My heart ached for the misery that showed
itself but too plainly in her haggard face and restless eyes; but,
shutting herself up in her cold and speechless wretchedness, from all
sympathy, I longed, but did not dare, to offer any. And I, perhaps more
than any other, involuntarily recalled the phantom she was trying to
fly, the remorse that she was struggling to subdue. Though her
self-control, even then, was almost perfect, I could see that she never
looked at me unmoved--that she winced at any attention from me, as if a
newly bleeding wound had been roughly handled, and shrunk more than ever
into herself. She refused all visitors, even the most intimate.
Josephine was the only one of the family whose presence did not seem to
pain her, and at times even she was sent away. She was too strong and
proud a woman not to bear her sorrow, as she bore all other emotions,
alone. Not even Josephine saw any further into her heart than strangers
did.
With the resumption of the ordinary household ways, came the cold
insincerity that custom sanctions, of banishing from familiar mention
the name that, a month ago, had been a household word, now recurring
hourly to the lips, but hourly to be hushed and sent back to deal
another pang to the aching heart. No more allusion was made to Essie
than if, a few short weeks ago, she had not been one of this small
circle, the youngest, and "the child," who, welcome or unwelcome, had
necessarily, and by virtue of her position, claimed some part of the
time and notice of those around her.
It was impossible to define how much of the subdued apathy of Grace's
manner was owing to the grief she felt at her sister's loss, and how
much to a sort of cowardly nervousness and shrinking from the idea of
death. For days after the shock, she was like my shadow, dreading,
evidently more than anything else, to be left alone, shunning her mother
and everything that brought the hateful subject to her thoughts, trying,
with all ingenuity, to divert herself and think of other things. It was
useless to attempt to lead her higher, to make her see in her little
sister's death anything but dread and horror. She shrunk from all
mention of it with aversion, and turned eagerly to any diverting
subject, and before any other member of the family, she shook off the
depression it had caused. With Josephine it had been different. At first
she was awe-struck and stunned, and for a while there seemed a danger of
her falling into a morbid state of feeling; but as the freshness of the
shock wore away, her elasticity returned, and with it the old impatience
and imperiousness, that the absence of amusement and excitement only
heightened.
A storm indeed had passed over our house, but a storm that had not
purified and cleared the atmosphere, only left it more close and sultry
than before; the black sky, indeed, had brightened again, leaving
comparative sunshine overhead, but threatening clouds still lingered
around the horizon, and distant rumbling still warned of danger.
I missed more than I had fancied possible, my little companion and
pupil. No hour in the day but brought some fresh souvenir of the
tortured young life that had ended its penance so early, the shrinking
little soul that had been released so soon. It was not seldom, in those
dark days, that I thought, with something like envy, of the peace she
had inherited, and with something like repining of my lonely lot. How
many years of warfare might stretch between me and the end; how many
chances that I might fail or faint, grow weary, or yield to sin; while
the little child I had so long looked upon with pity, so long tried to
help and guide, now redeemed and safe, and everlastingly at peace, had
passed "the golden portals of the City of the Blest." Good angels had
pitied her, struggling and bewildered on her way, and lifting her in
their arms, had carried her home; floating through the blue ether, in a
moment of time she had passed the rough and weary road that would have
taken a lifetime to have traversed alone. But no angels, it seemed to
me, looked on my weary path; no sympathy, from heaven or of men, came to
help me as I pressed on alone. Parting and death, repentance and
self-accusation made that Lent a time of heartfelt sorrow; and before
Easter-week was over, the low fever that had been hanging about me since
the spring began, accomplished its errand, and laid me on a tedious bed
of sickness.
Is there any one who has ever been sick "away from home," among
strangers, courteous and attentive, perhaps, but whose courtesy and
attention were of duty, not love, that cannot understand what it was to
be lying, day after day, in a "home" like mine, knowing it was the only
one I had a right to, or a hope of, this side heaven, and knowing,
through all the exaggerating excitement of fever, and the languid
hopelessness of slow convalescence, that in it there was no one to whom
the care of me was not a penance, that no hour was so grudged as that
spent by my bedside? Cold faces met me when I waked from my feverish,
troubled sleep, commonplace, unsympathetic voices fell upon my ear,
when, unnerved and childish, I longed for nothing so much as for a kind
word or a caressing touch.
They were very attentive; I had every care; my recovery was as rapid as
the doctor wished; it had not been a very alarming illness; nobody was
particularly excited about it. They said it was a "light case," and I
could not be doing better. They had a right to know, certainly; but oh!
the weariness of that dark room, the length of those spring days, the
stillness of those warm nights, the loathing of those city sounds, the
longing for the country!
June was now not many weeks off; and hour after hour, the question,
"would Mr. Rutledge remember his promise?" perplexed my brain. I knew I
had done enough to have forfeited it; I knew it had been made hastily;
that, indescribably and unaccountably, he was changed since then, and we
had ceased to be anything like friends. Still, I was nearly certain he
would keep his word; whatever else he might forget, he would not forget
that. No matter if it bored him, as I almost knew it would, I was sure
he would do it just the same. Though I had a thousand fears that I
should not be allowed to go, I knew I should be sent for, and I was not
disappointed.
It was the first morning that I had breakfasted downstairs; I had been
well enough for a week, but a languor and indifference possessed me that
made me averse to all thought of change or exertion. Now, however, that
I was actually in the cool dining-room, where white curtains replaced
the heavy winter drapery of the windows, and white matting the thick
carpet, I wondered that I had not made the effort before. It was vastly
more attractive than my own room, certainly; and the parlors, as I
glanced into them, looked in comparison, almost imposing in their
vastness. The world, I saw, had been creeping in again. There were notes
and cards on the table, and a lovely basket of violets; the piano was
open, and some new music lay on it. Josephine, too, at breakfast, talked
of drives and engagements that showed the days of mourning were over.
There was little difference in my aunt's manner from formerly, but she
looked ten years older, and was somewhat colder and more precise.
"Who on earth can that be from?" Grace exclaimed, as John brought in the
letters, and Mrs. Churchill took up the only one that did not look like
an invitation or a milliner's circular. "It's from out of town," she
continued, reaching out her hand for the envelope, as her mother laid it
down. "It's postmarked Rutledge! What can Mr. Rutledge have to say to
mamma? Joseph, doesn't your heart beat?"
If Joseph's didn't, mine did, and so quickly, too, that I felt sick and
faint, and dreaded lest Grace's prying eyes should inquire the cause of
my alternating color. But the letter absorbed the attention of all, and
I could only wait till Mrs. Churchill should divulge its contents.
Josephine tried to look undisturbed, but there was an accent of
impatience in her tone, as she said:
"Well, dear mamma, may I see it, if ever you should finish it? I suppose
there is nothing that I may not know about."
"It is a very kind letter," said Mrs. Churchill, as she glanced back to
the beginning; "very kind, indeed, and you are all interested in it. Mr.
Rutledge says that he has been detained at his place several weeks
longer than he had anticipated, and there is now a prospect of his being
obliged to remain till possibly the middle of summer; in which event,
he thinks that we could not do a kinder thing than come and pay him a
visit. He describes the country as looking very delightfully, and
promises all sorts of rural amusements if we will come; and, by way of
insuring the enjoyment of the young ladies, he begs we will make up a
party to accompany us, and suggests the Wynkars, Mr. Reese, Captain
McGuffy, Phil, of course, and any one else we may choose to ask. He is
really very urgent, and begs we will not refuse to enliven the gloomy
old mansion with our presence for awhile. He puts it entirely into my
hands, and begs I will invite whom I choose."
"Delightful!" exclaimed Josephine. "Mamma, could anything be nicer?"
"Mr. Rutledge is 'a gentleman and a scholar,'" said Grace; "he ought to
be encouraged. You'll accept, of course?"
"_Cela dépend_," said her mother, thoughtfully.
"Oh, mamma!" cried Josephine, "you cannot dream of refusing. What
possible objection can there be? We do not want to go to Newport before
the middle of July, and of course we can't stay in town all through
June. This is the very thing; and you know I'd rather go to Rutledge
than any other place in the world. Surely, mamma, you cannot think of
refusing."
"There are a great many things to be considered, my dear."
"Ah," cried Grace, with unusual animation, "there'll be no peace till
you say, yes. I long to get out of this dusty city. What else does he
say, mamma?"
"Not much," answered her mother, glancing down the second page. "He says
he only heard a few days ago of my niece's illness, which he hopes will
not prove serious, and that a change of air, and return to the scene of
her last year's convalescence will be of benefit to her."
"How do you imagine he heard she had been sick?" asked Grace.
"I haven't the least idea, I am sure," said Josephine. "It's of no great
consequence, any way. But, mamma, who shall we ask? The captain, of
course, and Phil, and, I suppose, the Wynkars; Ella will be delighted,
no doubt, and think it's all on her account! And about Mr. Reese--he's
such a tiresome old fogie, let's get somebody in his place."
"Ask Victor Viennet," said Grace, "just to spite Ella Wynkar. You know
she hates him. He's as nice as anybody."
"I haven't quite made up my mind," said Josephine, with dignity.
"Wait till I have made up mine," said her mother, quietly.
So this was the way which Mr. Rutledge had found to keep his promise to
me, and gratify his own wishes at the same time. It took away all the
pleasure of my anticipations, however, to have it fulfilled in this way.
It seemed to me a sort of desecration of the grand, quiet stateliness of
the old place to have all these gay people invading it. I could hardly
fancy it full of careless, noisy, chattering guests, resounding with the
captain's loud laugh, and Ella Wynkar's unmeaning cackle. What would
Mrs. Roberts say? How would Kitty like it?