"In all his humors, whether grave or mellow,
He's such a testy, touchy, pleasant fellow,
Has so much mirth, and wit, and spleen about him,
There is no living with him, or without him."
"The next station will be Rutledge," said Phil, leaning back to announce
the fact to the detachment of our party in the rear.
"I am not sorry to hear it, for one," said Ella Wynkar, with a yawn.
"Josephine, chère, are you not tired to death?"
But Josephine, chère, was too busy with collecting books, shawls, and
bags, and loading the captain therewith, in anticipation of our arrival
at the station, to vouchsafe an answer.
"Travelling all day is rather exhausting," said Phil, looking at his
watch. "It's half-past six--a little behind time, but it won't hurt Mr.
Rutledge to wait for us awhile. Ah! there's the whistle. We shall be at
the station in another minute. Now, Aunt Edith, if you and Miss Wynkar
will trust yourselves to me, I think the rest are provided for. Victor!
what are you about? Don't you see we're here, man?"
Victor started up, and taking my parasol and shawl, offered me his arm
as the train stopped, and the conductor, bursting open the car door,
shouted "Rutledge!" as if we were to escape for our lives.
I heard Mr. Rutledge's voice before I saw him. We were the last of the
party, and there being a little crowd at the car-door, we were obliged
to stand for a moment inside, while the others stepped on the platform.
It was a lovely June evening; the air was fresh and soft, and the sunset
had left a rich glow on the sky, and lighted up with new verdure the
green earth. It was so delicious to be out of the city; it was so
bewildering to feel I was at Rutledge again. And with a beating heart, I
followed my escort, as he forced a way for me through the crowd, and
stepped down on the platform.
Mr. Rutledge was waiting to receive us. I was not quite self-possessed
enough myself to be certain that I saw a slight change in his manner as
he recognized my companion; if it did occur, however, it was overcome as
quickly, and he welcomed Mr. Viennet courteously. With a few words of
welcome and congratulation upon my recovery, he led the way toward the
carriage. My aunt and Miss Wynkar were already in it. Josephine and
Captain McGuffy were established in a light wagon by themselves, while
the open carriage and the bays stood as yet unappropriated.
"I think, Mrs. Churchill," said Mr. Rutledge, standing at the open door
of the carriage, "that perhaps you had better make a place for this
young lady inside. She is not very strong as yet, I fancy, and the
evening air"----
"Oh! pray," I exclaimed, shrinking back, "let me go in the open
carriage. I hate a close carriage--it always makes my head ache."
"There's not the least dampness in the air to-night," urged Mr. Viennet,
and meeting with no further opposition, I turned to the open carriage,
and at a whispered suggestion from him, mounted up upon the front seat.
He sprang up beside me, and taking the reins from Michael, who, bowing
delightedly, had been saying, "Welcome back, Miss," ever since the train
stopped, we only waited for Grace and Ellerton Wynkar to get in, before
we started off at a round pace, leaving the carriage and the captain,
and Mr. Rutledge, who was on horseback, far behind.
It was a lovely evening. The fields and woods were in their freshest
green; everything, from the grass by the roadside to the waving forest
trees, looked as they never can look after June. The dust of summer, and
its parching heat, had not yet soiled and shrivelled the smallest leaf
or blade; but fresh from the warm spring rains, and the pleasant spring
sunshine, they budded and shone as if there were no such thing as
scorching summer heats, and choking dust, and parching thirst, to come.
The sky--fit sky to bend over such an earth--was of the clearest blue,
and the few clouds that hung around the setting sun were light and
fleecy, tinged with rose and tipped with gold. The soft breeze, coming
out of the west over fields of clover and acacias in bloom, and lilac
hedges, and cottage gardens full of early flowers, and cottage porches
covered with blowing roses and climbing honeysuckles, steeped the
listening senses with a sort of silent ecstasy, that made commonplace
conversation a profanation of the hour. Why _would_ Grace and her
companion keep up such a constant chattering. It was unbearable; and
when Ellerton, leaning forward, offered Victor his cigar-case, the
latter, with a quick gesture of impatience, exclaimed:
"Ah! _merci_, not to-night. It's too nice an evening, my good friend, to
be spoiled with such perfumes. The young ladies like roses better than
cigars, I fancy."
And Ellerton, who reverenced Victor as a high authority on all social
questions, quietly put away his cigar-case, and said no more about it.
It was a long drive from the station to the house, and our hopes of
being the first of the party to arrive, were dashed by the occurrence of
a little accident just as we entered the village. The off horse, shying
violently at a loaded wagon, as we passed it rapidly, reared and fell
back, breaking the pole in two, and throwing himself and his fellow into
ecstasies of fear, plunging and struggling with the want of presence of
mind, and the reckless disregard of consequences always manifested by
terrified horseflesh under circumstances of sudden alarm.
Victor, however, was a good horseman, and after a short battle, brought
them to terms, Grace, meantime, shrieking violently, and Ellerton
imploring him to let him get the ladies out at once, which looked rather
like one word for the ladies and two for himself. Victor requested him
simply to hold his tongue and sit still, and Ellerton, without a
remonstrance, acquiesced, as the horses, now subdued, stood quite
unresisting, while Victor, giving the reins to me, sprang down, followed
by Michael from behind, and the countryman, whose load of brush had
caused the accident. We were, fortunately, just by a blacksmith's shed,
and in a few minutes that official himself, in his leathern apron and
bare arms, was busily employed in remedying the mishap.
The horses were still a little restive, and Victor was standing by the
head of one and Michael by the other, when the rest of the party came
up. Quite an excitement was created, of course, at seeing us in this
disabled condition, and our host, springing from his horse, hurried up
in some alarm to ascertain for himself the extent of the accident, which
Ellerton Wynkar, standing up in the carriage, explained at large to the
rest of the party, adding that, "it might have been something serious if
we had not been very prompt."
Victor bit his lip to keep from laughing, and Grace turned away her
head; nothing but the consciousness of not having distinguished herself
during the action, restrained her from bringing down Mr. Wynkar "a peg
or two" by a statement of facts.
Mr. Rutledge, finding that the repairing of the pole was likely to
occupy some little time longer, said that the young ladies had better
get in the carriage; he had no doubt Mr. Arbuthnot would willingly give
up his seat.
Phil, of course, most urgently begged we would do so, but for me, the
idea of being cooped up in the carriage with Mrs. Churchill, and Ella,
and Grace, was insupportable, and I expressed my resolution of staying
by the ship. Mr. Viennet and the smithy said it would only be a few
minutes more, and I declared I didn't in the least mind waiting, it was
such a lovely evening, and I couldn't think of crowding the carriage.
Grace, partly from perversity, and partly from a little lingering fear
of the bays, said she should accept Phil's invitation, and without more
ado, gave her hand to Mr. Rutledge and sprang out.
"May I advise you?" said he, coming back to me after he had put Grace in
the carriage.
"Not against my will, if you please. Indeed, I had rather wait."
"That settles it," he answered, bowing. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he
continued, to Victor and Ellerton, "to leave you in this fashion, but my
duties, as host, require me to ride forward with the ladies, and I hope
you will soon follow us."
Victor assured him of his perfect confidence, that we would be at home
almost as soon as they would; and then, with a polite commendation of
his fortitude under misfortune, Mr. Rutledge threw himself upon his
horse, and galloped after the carriage. I could not help feeling a
little awkwardly; it is never pleasant to be the only lady among a
number of gentlemen. Besides those of our own party, several men of the
village had collected around us, and with their hands in their pockets,
and in a very easy, sauntering way, were offering their comments on the
accident.
Victor walked angrily up to one, who, with a short pipe between his
lips, had ventured rather too near, and was leaning nonchalantly against
the fore-wheel; and knocking the pipe out of his mouth, took him by the
shoulder and ordered him to take himself off. Didn't he see there was a
lady in the carriage?
The man moved sulkily away, but I saw him more than once look back with
an ugly expression in his eyes toward Victor, as he crossed the road and
disappeared in the woods that skirted the highway.
Just at that moment, a sorrel horse drew up beside us, and an inquiring
face was thrust out from the gig behind it.
"What's the matter, Michael? Anybody hurt? An accident, did you say?"
inquired a voice that gave me a cold chill.
"That detestable doctor already!" And returning stiffly his salutations
as he recognized me, and hurried up to the carriage, I said there had
been no accident to anything but the pole of the carriage, and that was
nearly remedied, and we had plenty of assistance.
The doctor bowed, but did not seem in the least discomposed by my too
obvious rudeness, and leaning comfortably on the wheel, as the dismissed
clown had done before him, continued to address me in a tone of easy
familiarity that was too annoying to me to be concealed, and my face
must have told the story; for Victor, calling to one of the men to hold
the horses a moment, walked quickly up behind the doctor, and laying his
hand heavily on his shoulder, said, in a tone by no means equivocal:
"I say, my good fellow, you are annoying this lady, and I must ask you
to step back!"
The doctor did step back, and turning quickly, faced him.
"Victor Viennet, as I am a sinner!"
I looked on in wonder, as I saw Victor give a violent start, and change
color; then recovering himself after a moment, he said, in altered
voice:
"I ask your pardon, Dr. Hugh, I didn't see your face. How, under heaven,
did you happen to turn up here?"
There was an expression on Victor's face, as he said this, which seemed
involuntarily to indicate that the fact of Dr. Hugh's turning up here,
was just the most disagreeable fact that could possibly have transpired,
and so essentially "cute" a man as the doctor, could not have failed to
see it, but it did not seem in the least to interfere with his
complacency.
"How did I happen to turn up here? Why, my good fellow (as you said just
now), by the most natural process in the world. You see, after we
parted, a year ago, in the city"----
"Yes, yes," said Victor, hurriedly, and in a low tone, "I've got to look
after the smith now. You can tell me there."
And making some apology to me for the continued detention, he turned to
retrace his steps. The doctor followed, and passed his arm familiarly
through Victor's, at which I saw he winced, but did not attempt to
resent; and the doctor continued to talk to him in a low and
confidential tone. Twilight had already descended before the smith
pronounced the job completed, and Michael, backing up the horses, put
them to the carriage. While this was being accomplished, Victor and Dr.
Hugh, standing a few paces apart from the others, talked together, or
rather, the doctor talked and Victor listened with ill-concealed
impatience.
I could not hear a word that passed, but I could see that Victor was
suffering torture at the hands of the bland doctor, and his face, for
several minutes after he had parted from him and resumed his seat in the
carriage, wore an expression of pain and anger. We had started and
driven on for some distance before either spoke, and the first to break
the silence, I said, with more curiosity than courtesy:
"How in the world did you happen to know that detestable doctor? I
didn't suppose anybody had ever seen him before he came here."
"Detestable you may well call him," said Victor, below his breath, and
with a sort of groan. "I'd rather have met the arch-fiend himself!"
Then hastily remembering himself, he apologized, exclaiming, with a
laugh, that the fellow always put him out of temper, and bored him to
death, and he hoped he should never see him again, and he didn't mean to
trouble himself any further about him. With that last resolution, his
spirits rose, and in a few minutes he was as gay as ever. We were
dashing along at such an inspiriting pace, that no one could help
throwing dull care, and all things sad and gloomy, to the winds, and
being pro tem. in the highest spirits.
"I am sure you drive as well as you dance," said Victor, putting the
reins into my hands. "Let me see whether you know how to handle the
ribbons."
Put upon my mettle in that way, nothing could have induced me to have
declined the undertaking, though I happened to know a thing or two in
the early history of the bays that Mr. Viennet was evidently ignorant
of, and the recollection of which put a nervous intensity into the grasp
I had upon the reins.
"Admirable!" said Victor, with enthusiasm; "I see you understand what
you are about. You manage those beasts as well as I could, and there's
no denying it, they do pull."
"_Pull_ isn't the word," I thought; "but no matter."
"What a good road!" exclaimed Victor. "We're going like the wind.
Ellerton, this is fine, is it not?"
"Charming," said Ellerton, feebly, from the back seat; "charming; I
never saw a lady drive so well; but don't you think, it's getting so
dark, it would be better for you to take the reins? You can see better,
you know."
"On the contrary," said Victor, with great glee, "on the contrary; the
female vision, you know, is proverbially the sharpest. Shall I touch up
that near horse? He rather lags," he continued, wickedly, to me.
"Oh no, thank you!" I said, breathlessly, but trying to laugh.
"I'm sure you're tired," said Mr. Wynkar, with great feeling. "You speak
as if you were. Victor, you lazy dog, take the reins, if you have any
politeness left."
"I haven't," said Victor, leaning back with composure. "I haven't a
vestige left. I used up the last I had about me on that boor with the
short pipe, who gave me such a gracious look as he walked off."
"Yes," I exclaimed, "I think you'll hear from him again."
"Not improbable," said Victor, coolly. "I have a knack at getting into
scrapes that's only exceeded by my knack at getting out of them. Now I
think of it, he didn't look like a pleasant sort of fellow to meet in a
dark piece of woods like this."
We had just driven into the woods that stretched about half a mile this
side of the gate of Rutledge Park, and the faint young moon that had
been lighting us since we left the village, had no power to penetrate
the dense foliage that met over our heads, and shut out moon and sky. It
did not make me any more comfortable to remember that there was a short
path from the village across these woods, and that any one on foot could
reach this point almost as soon as in a carriage by the road. I did not
feel like laughing at Ellerton Wynkar's little gasp of fear, and
Victor's gay laugh and easy tone of assurance, far from inspiring me
with confidence, made me doubly nervous and apprehensive. I only wished
that I dared ask him to be quiet till we were out into the open road
again. But he seemed possessed with mischief--he quizzed Ellerton, told
droll stories, and laughed till the woods rang again. But through it
all, I strained my ear to catch the faintest noise by the roadside; and
when the horses, more intent than I, shied violently to one side and
dashed forward, with a quivering, desperate pull upon the reins, I was
quite prepared for what succeeded. A large stone whirred swiftly
through the air, just grazed my cheek, and fell with a crashing sound on
the other side of the road.
"Good heavens!" cried Victor, starting forward, "are you hurt?"
"No, no," I exclaimed; "for heaven's sake, be quiet."
"Give me the reins," he cried, snatching them.
"No, no!" I answered, keeping them by a desperate exertion of strength.
"I shall never forgive you if you stop the horses."
"I shall never forgive myself for the danger I have brought you in," he
said, in a low tone. "You will never trust yourself to my protection
again, I fear," he continued earnestly, as we drove into the park gate.
"Oh, I'm not afraid as long as I hold the ribbons," I answered, trying
to laugh, but drawing a freer breath as we cleared the woods and came
into the moonlight again.
"You are cruel," he said, in a lower tone still.
"There's the house at last!" exclaimed Ellerton, with a sigh of relief
so profound that we both started.
"How are you getting on, behind there?" asked Victor. "I'd forgotten all
about you, Ellerton. That was a neat little compliment from our friend
in the woods, now wasn't it? But the least said about those little
attentions the better, I've always found; you understand. 'Oh no, we
never mentions him,' under any circumstances."
"Of course not," said Ellerton, acquiescently. "I should not speak of it
on any account."
"And, Michael, my man," continued Victor, putting his hand in his
pocket, "whist's the word about this little adventure, you know."
Michael touched his hat, and, pocketing the coin that Victor tossed him,
promised absolute silence on the subject.
The horses, as we came up the avenue, slackened their pace, and gave us
time to look around. Sunset, starlight moonlight, had neither of them
abdicated the bright June sky, but all combined to light up the picture
for us, and make the lake a sheet of silver, and the dark, old house as
fair as it could be made.
"A fine old place, indeed," said Victor, with a temporary shade of
seriousness on his face. "It must be pleasant to have such an ancestral
home as that. These Rutledges are a high family, are they not?"
"One of the very best in the State;" answered Ellerton, feeling that
"family" was always a toast to which he was called upon to respond.
"There are very few in the country who can go back so far. The Rutledges
have always been very exclusive, and held themselves very high, and so
have never lost their position."
"Ha!" said Victor, with a little darkening of the brow. "That's the
style, is it? Our host, then, is a proud man, I am to understand--one
who values birth, and that sort of thing, and plumes himself upon it,
and regards with a proper scorn all who have come into the world under
less favorable auspices than himself."
"Exactly," said Ellerton. "I think that's Rutledge exactly. He's what
you'd call a regular aristocrat, and proud as Lucifer himself."
"I kiss his hand!" cried Victor, with a dash of bitterness in his tone.
"Commend me to such a man as that! I reverence his largeness of soul,
his nobility of nature! I long to show him in what esteem I hold him."
"I think you mistake Mr. Rutledge," I began eagerly; but before I had
time to say another word we were at the door, and Mr. Rutledge himself,
descending the steps quickly, and speaking with some anxiety, exclaimed:
"We have been very uneasy about you. I have just sent orders to the
stable for horses to start to meet you. Has anything happened?"
"The pole required just three times as long to repair as Mr. Smithy said
it would," answered Victor, "and we, very foolishly depending upon his
word in the matter, were much disappointed in not reaching the house
three-quarters of an hour ago. I am sorry to have caused you any
uneasiness."
"It is dissipated now," said Mr. Rutledge, courteously. "I only regret
that your arrival should have been marked by such a misadventure."
"What would he say if he knew of misadventure number two?" said Victor,
_sotto voce_, as he assisted me to alight. "I feel positively
superstitious. No good is coming of this visit, depend upon it!"
As we were half-way up the steps, I found I had forgotten my parasol,
and Victor went back to look for it. Mr. Rutledge, seizing the
opportunity of his absence, said to me quickly:
"I see you drove those horses; you must promise me you will never do it
again."
"Why not?" I asked, haughtily.
"No matter why; you must promise me you will never touch the reins again
behind them."
"I am sure I drove them up in style; Michael himself could not have done
it better. I don't think I can bind myself never to do it again. You'll
have to excuse me from promising."
"I remember; you have a prejudice against promising."
There was something in his tone, and in the short laugh that followed
these words, that brought back so much of what I had been trying to
forget, and revived so much of what I had half forgiven, that I made no
effort to keep back the hasty words that rushed to my lips.
"Can you wonder at it? My experience has been so unfortunate; why, less
than a year ago, I made a promise that, I suppose, was as binding as
most other promises, and meant about as much; and I have found it a
chain at once the lightest and most galling--empty as air, and yet the
hatefullest restraint--the veriest mockery, and yet a thing I can't get
rid of! That's briefly what I think of promises, and why you must excuse
me from making one."
"I will excuse you," he said, looking at me with eyes that never
faltered; "I will excuse you, with all my heart, from making or keeping
any promise to me."
This upon the threshold! Under the very shadow of the doorway! I felt
faint and giddy as I passed on into the hall. Kitty, with a low cry of
delight, sprung forward to meet me.
"Kitty, I am so glad!" I said, laying my hand upon her arm. "Isn't it a
long time since I went away? But I am so tired; do take me to my room."
Kitty flew up the stairs in delight, only stopping occasionally to ask
me if I didn't feel well, and if she couldn't help me. All the others
had gone to their rooms; not even Mrs. Roberts was to be seen.
"She's got her hands too full to prowl around now," said Kitty, with a
wicked shake of the head. She led the way to my old room, and, to my
surprise, putting her hand in her pocket, drew out the key, and fitted
it in the lock.
"What's the reason of its being locked up?" I said in surprise.
"Reason enough, Miss," said Kitty, with a profound look. Then, admitting
me and shutting the door carefully, continued, in a less guarded tone:
"The idea of your coming back here and having any but your own room! And
it's been just as much as I could do to keep Mrs. Roberts from putting
Miss Churchill in it. Such a time as I had about it when the baggage
came! None of the ladies had come upstairs yet; they were all walking
about the piazza and hall with master, and Thomas was seeing to the
trunks being carried up, and I overheard Mrs. Roberts say: 'Thomas, Miss
Churchill's baggage is to be put in the blue room, and her mamma's and
Miss Grace's in the oak-chamber opposite, and Miss Wynkar's goes in the
south room.' 'No, I beg your pardon, ma'am,' I says, coming forward,
'_my_ young lady's trunk goes to the blue room, if you please. I've
master's own orders for it, and I'll go ask him again if you
choose.'_Your_ young lady, indeed!' says Mrs. Roberts, throwing me such
an awful look. 'Thomas, you will attend to my orders.' I flew upstairs
and put the key in my pocket, and Thomas tipped me a wink, and left your
trunk outside the door. And now," said Kitty, stopping a moment to
recover breath, "don't you think it looks pleasant, Miss?"
"Indeed it does, Kitty," I said, gratefully, sinking down in an
easy-chair, and looking about me admiringly. It looked whiter and cooler
than ever. There were new book-shelves in the recesses, and new curtains
at the windows; roses, mignonette and heliotrope, filled the slender
vases, and the wax candles on the dressing-table shed the softest light
around the room. Kitty, busying herself about putting away my bonnet and
shawls, chatted on eagerly.
"Gay times, these, for Rutledge," she went on, after having answered my
inquiries for Stephen and the others. "Gay times, and busy times. Who'd
ever have thought to see this house full of company again?"
"Yes," I said, "so busy, I am afraid, I shall not have much of your
attendance, Kitty. It will not be like last fall, when you had nothing
to do but wait on me. What nice times those were! I wish all the rest of
the people were miles away, Kitty, and there was no one in the house
that wasn't here last November."
"Oh!" exclaimed Kitty, deprecatingly, "I'm sure you'll enjoy it, Miss,
with so many young gentlemen and ladies. I'm certain master thought you
would, or he wouldn't have asked them. And as for my waiting on you, why
that's all settled, and Mrs. Roberts knows it too. Mr. Rutledge told me
this very morning that he supposed it would please me to be allowed to
attend upon you, and that I was to consider that my duty as long as you
were here. Mrs. Roberts had come in for some directions, and she heard
it all. She jerked her head, and flounced a little, but didn't dare to
say a word. But," continued Kitty, anxiously, "I'm afraid you are not
well. Can I get you anything? Won't you lie down? Oh! I am afraid you
are crying."
Kitty's fears were not unfounded. The tears rushed to my eyes, and
hiding my face in my hands, I tried, but vainly, to suppress the
hysterical sobs that choked me, as I essayed to answer her anxious
questions. She was so disappointed and alarmed at my unexpected mood
that she hardly knew what to do, and I tried, as soon as I could speak,
to assure her that I was really very glad to get back, that there was
nothing the matter, only I was very nervous and tired.
"And there's the tea-bell!" exclaimed Kitty, in dismay, "and everybody
else is dressed! What's to be done?"
"There's nothing for it, Kitty, but to let me go to bed. I can't go
downstairs to-night--it would kill me. Undress me, and then don't let a
soul come in--not even my aunt. That's a good Kitty: it isn't the first
time you've taken care of me."
"Ah!" said Kitty, with tears in her kind eyes, "if I only knew what to
do to make you better! It isn't the headache that I mean--a cup of tea
and a good night's rest will make that all right; but you ain't the same
young lady that you were last fall. I saw that the minute you stepped
into the hall. There's something on your mind; I knew it the instant you
spoke. When you used to talk, it was as if there was a laugh in your
voice all the time, and now you talk as if you were tired, and hated to
open your lips."
"So I am, Kitty," I said, with a fresh burst of crying. "I am tired and
heart-sick, and when I talk it's no wonder there are 'tears in my
voice.' There are a great many things to make me unhappy; you mustn't
ask me anything about them; but it's so long since I've had anybody to
care for me, and nurse me, that it makes me babyish, I believe. There!"
I exclaimed, after a minute, conquering my tears, "don't think anything
more about it, Kitty, but help me to undress."
There could have been no better medicine for my aching head and heart,
than that Kitty administered. It was a perfect luxury to resign myself
into her hands, to feel that I needn't think again to-night if I didn't
choose, that I was sure of being watched over and cared for, come what
might. I had not realized, till I came into its sunshine again, how
perfectly necessary to anything like happiness an atmosphere of love is.
I had known that, in my home, I had felt chilled and forlorn. I had
given no pleasure to others, and received none myself; but, child-like,
I had only known it was, and had not asked why. But now, that kind and
tender hands rendered the services that I had long wearily performed for
myself, and a watchful care provided for my comfort and remembered my
tastes, I realized how unnatural and unkind a thing it is for anything
of human mold to be denied human love and sympathy; I realized how
necessary to the fair growth and goodly proportions of a nature, is the
sunshine of kindness and affection. Since I had left Rutledge, I had
never known what it was to be caressed and favored; misconstrued,
slighted, and put aside by those around me, the natural result had been
reserve, distrust, and aversion on my part. I was, as Kitty said, not
the same girl I had been. I knew better than Kitty did how deep the
change had gone--how far below the surface the blight had struck. The
brave, gay heart of the child was dead in my bosom forever. Whatever
there might be to hope for, in the future, it must be the life-and-death
struggle and victory of the woman, not the careless happiness of the
child.