"Be not amazed at life. 'Tis still
The mode of God with his elect,
Their hopes exactly to fulfill,
In times and ways they least expect."
Coventry Patmore.
The winter passed heavily away: no change for the better relieved our
fears for Mr. Shenstone, and, before spring, poor Mrs. Arnold died, and
left me alone with the burden of care and dread. All that time is like a
sad, slow dream; I cannot tell the days apart as I look back upon
them--the one fear that grew daily colored all events alike. It was like
no other approaching death that I had ever seen. I knew he was longing
for his release; but what would be release to him would be my sentence
of banishment--my separation from the only friend I had, the severing of
the only tie I knew.
Still it seemed vague and far off, and the warm spring days came slowly
on, and crept into June, before either he or I knew how very few he had
yet to live. The doctor had at last to tell me what every one else
knew--that Mr. Shenstone could not live a week. I do not think that he
himself, though knowing well that the time was at hand, had been aware
how very near it was. I knew it was not too near for his desires; but
one earthly care vexed the holy calm of his death-bed.
"I must see Arthur before I die. Write to him again, and beg him to come
quickly. He could not have realized what I meant him to understand when
you wrote last, or he would have been here before."
I wrote again urgently, and told him in the plainest words what the
necessity for his coming was, and how anxiously Mr. Shenstone desired an
interview before he died; that it was the one ungratified wish that
disturbed his last moments; the letter was hurriedly dispatched, and yet
day after day passed and no answer came. It was cruel to see the
momentary eagerness with which the dying man's eye lighted up at each
new sound without, and to hear the faint sigh with which he sank back at
the fresh disappointment.
I had my own interpretation of this silence; but I dared not tell him.
Through the winter his letters had been irregular; it was now some weeks
since any had come; I did not feel a doubt but that he had gone abroad
again, and, in the hurry of departure, had omitted to write. Something
that Mrs. Fielding (the pretty Janet Emerson, married and living at New
Orleans, but on a visit to her old home, who had found me out and come
to see me a month or so before) had said, confirmed my suspicions.
"I heard from Paris a week or so ago," she said, "that your cousin, Miss
Churchill, and Mr. Rutledge are really to be married. Upon my word, you
must excuse me; but it is a shame. I grudge him to her. Ah! _méchante_,
if you had made the proper use of that evening in the library that I
gave you, she would not have had him."
I had not told Mr. Shenstone this; nor dared I tell him that there was
hardly a hope that his friend was still in America. A week had elapsed
since my letter had been sent; the end was surely approaching--we could
not shut our eyes to that. That morning, Mr. Shenstone had, with great
pain and difficulty, refusing my assistance, himself written a few lines
to Mr. Rutledge, and, sealing it, had committed it to my hands, charging
me to deliver it to him as soon as he should come. From the moment that
that was done, he had put off all care, and given himself wholly up to
the exercises of religion and the preparations for death. Of my future
he had never spoken much. God would direct my lot mercifully, he was
sure; he left me, his sole earthly care, with faith, to God's
protection. He desired that for the present I should remain, with the
two servants, in the house, till some other home presented, or till the
parsonage was required for his successor.
It was a holy, religious day; such peace as soothed the last hours of
his life told well for the service in which he had spent it. It was not
like death--it was like the coming of a blessing that had been long
prayed for. We had with him received the sacrament, and heard the faint
words that told his triumph and his hope, and stood waiting around him,
almost following him to the courts of heaven, almost forgetting with
him, the world in which our path still lay; when through the window,
open to the sunset of a June evening, there came the sound of a hurried
arrival.
"It is Arthur," murmured the dying man, faintly, turning his eyes on me.
"Go and bring him to me."
I hurried to the door and down the path. "You have not a moment to
lose," I said, without a word of preparation or salutation. "He can
hardly live an hour, and he desires to see you."
"Good heaven! Has it indeed come to that!" he exclaimed, following me up
the stairs. I left him at the door; for half an hour they were alone
together, then Mr. Rutledge opened the door and called me hastily to
come in. I obeyed; but only in time to receive the last blessing of the
dying saint, and, kneeling in unspeakable sorrow by his bedside, to feel
his hand rest tenderly on my head, with a silent benediction, even after
his departing soul had carried its supplication and its intercession to
the very presence of the Divine Benefactor.
Two days had passed since the funeral; there was no more anxiety to
engross, no more watching to employ me; the blank idleness that is the
earliest pain after a great loss, was just then creeping over me with
its worst power. There was nothing more to do--the house was settled to
its ordinary ways, and I sat alone in my little room in the deepening
twilight, with a sadder sense of my loneliness than I had had before. It
was not time yet for me to think of what was to become of me; I had a
right to rest a little before I faced any greater change, yet harassing
thoughts of my homelessness and desolation crowded on me to make my
present trial heavier. There was no one on earth I had a right to call
my friend, save only the humble ones who could offer me nothing but
gratitude and affection, and who were as unable to direct and help me,
as I was to direct and help myself. It was long before I could summon
courage enough to say that I must decide upon some change, and to
resolve that it must be done now. There was no right and no propriety in
staying longer here than till I had arranged some other home; indeed for
some reasons this was the last roof that I should stay under now. But my
resolves came quick when they did come--I saw that the sooner I began my
new life the better; it would be like another death if I waited till a
few months hence before I left this dear home; now, in this time of
change and restlessness, I could best bear the pain. To-morrow, I had
resolved, I would go out and try to find some cottage or some rooms,
where, with Kitty to attend me, I could make the best of my slender
fortune, and remain quietly at least for the present, when a knock at
the door aroused me. The servant said: "Mr. Rutledge is in the study,
Miss, and desires to see you for a few moments."
"Ask him to excuse me to-night," I began; but no, it was as easy now as
it would ever be, so telling the woman to say I would be down in a
moment, I shut the door and tried to prepare myself. There was a good
deal to help me to be calm; some pride and some humility--a prayer--and
the remembrance of my sorrow--and the gulf that lay between the present
and the past; and I went downstairs quite self-possessed and quiet.
The study was so dusky I could hardly see my visitor's face as he rose
to meet me. I longed to keep the dusk, but said:
"Do you mind twilight, sir? My head aches a little, but if you prefer
it, I will send for candles."
"Not at all," he said, sitting down opposite me in the window. "I am
sorry to hear you are not well. Kitty told me, when she admitted me,
that it was doubtful whether you could come down; but I fancied you
would not have the least hesitation in declining to see me if you were
not able."
"I did think, sir, when you were first announced, that I would beg you
to excuse me; but I remembered that possibly you might be returning to
the city to-morrow, and this might be my last chance of seeing you, so I
made an effort to come down."
There was a moment's pause, which I broke by saying:
"I wanted to see you, sir, about the change in my plans, which, as Mr.
Shenstone's nearest friend, you would, perhaps, be kind enough to
sanction."
"It was about that that I came this evening."
"You are very kind, sir, and so I may go at once to the subject. You
know, of course, of Mr. Shenstone's legacy; that, with my own property,
is sufficient to provide very comfortably for Kitty and myself. I
propose making my arrangements to leave here within a fortnight, keeping
Kitty with me; but for the other servant, Mary, I would ask your advice.
She has been some time in the family, and is a faithful person. Would it
be best to leave her in the house till it is otherwise occupied, or to
provide a place for her, and close the house? You know, as I shall have
the packing up and settling of all at the last, it is necessary I should
know your wishes."
"I do not quite comprehend. I had understood from Mr. Shenstone that it
was his wish that you should remain for the present here. Did he not
express the same to you?"
"He did, sir, but it was a mistaken kindness. I had rather go now; and I
do not think there can be any wrong in disregarding a request which he
only meant as an indulgence and a respite, and would not have insisted
on if he had known my reasons."
"Can I know them?"
"They are so many, sir, it would not be worth while to trouble you."
"Am I wrong when I fancy that one is, that the house belongs to one from
whom you would not endure an obligation?"
"You put it too harshly, sir; but in truth I do not like obligations."
"You would incur none, then, let me assure you, by remaining here. The
house will be unoccupied; I should be glad to have some one in it, and
there is, I fear, little chance of having the parish permanently suited
with a clergyman before fall, and even after that, there is no necessity
of retaining this as a parsonage; there are one or two houses nearer the
church, which would, indeed, be more convenient."
"Thank you, sir, but it will be impossible. You do not estimate the
difficulties. I cannot stay here: and perhaps you will be kind enough to
tell me what to do about the arrangement of the books. Shall they be
packed, or are they to remain on the shelves? And here, sir, is the key
of the private drawers in that book-case, that I was to give you when
you came."
My voice faltered as I delivered my kind friend's last message. There
was a long pause, then Mr. Rutledge said:
"These things are very trying to you now; there is no need that you
should distress yourself by attending to them at once. Leave them till
later."
"No, sir, it is better that they should be all arranged before you go. I
do not mind the effort of undertaking it at once."
"But how do you know I am going? Why will not a few weeks hence do as
well?"
"Why, sir, as I told you, I should prefer that everything were settled,
the papers arranged, the house vacated, before you go abroad. It may
make no difference, but it will be more agreeable to me."
"I am not going abroad; I do not intend to leave America again. Can you
not be contented to let things rest as they are at present, and to let
me, in some degree, take the place of him you have lost? Consider, you
are homeless and friendless--you have no one to direct or guide you"----
"I have considered this, sir, more fully, perhaps, than you have. There
is not a circumstance in my fate that I have not weighed. Indeed, I do
not need so much pity; your attention has just been called to it, and so
it sounds new and dreadful to you for a woman to be left so alone. But I
am used to the idea, and I do not mind it. People will be kind to me, no
doubt, and I shall do very well."
"Then you are resolved to go away from here?"
"Within a fortnight, sir."
"And you refuse all offers of assistance from me, of all kinds?"
"Why, sir, you know it would be useless to trouble you, when I do not
need any; but I hope you understand that I am very grateful for your
goodness."
"I understand it fully, and that you decline any further demonstration
of it. But if you have no scruple against telling me where you intend to
go, perhaps it would be wiser to do it, as some cases may occur which
you cannot foresee, in which it would be safer for you to have the
judgment and advice of one whose age and experience place him above you
in knowledge, of the world, at least."
"It would be impossible for me to tell you, sir, for I do not know in
the least where I shall go. You know I have not had time to arrange my
plans definitely--it is only two days--since--since--I have had to think
about them."
"And you will not take more time, and put off any change for a few
months--you will not let me advise you?"
"Mr. Rutledge, you are trying to make me seem rude; I have but one
answer to make, and it sounds so ungracious you are not kind to oblige
me to repeat it."
"I will not; I believe I understand how you wish it to stand; and
perhaps you are right. It is not necessary to detain you longer," he
continued, rising, "there is nothing of importance left to say, I
believe. About the books and furniture, I should prefer having them left
for the present in the house; I will not trouble you to do anything but
to send the keys, when you leave, to my house. Mrs. Roberts will take
charge of them. The papers I can look over at my leisure. In regard to
the servant you spoke of--I will mention her to Mrs. Roberts, and will
see that she is provided with a situation. Is there anything more?"
"Nothing that I remember at this moment, sir. You are very kind; I shall
endeavor to leave everything in the order you would wish."
"I do not doubt it; I hope you will be able to bear whatever you intend
to put upon yourself, but you will do well not to overtask your strength
or fortitude just now; you are not at not at present fit for exertion.
But I forget"----
I rose, and held out my hand; he went on: "You know you have always my
best wishes; there is no need for me to say that."
"I know it, sir," I replied, with what steadiness of voice I could. "I
wish I could tell you how"----but the words choked me. He did not
relinquish my hand, but with a sudden change from the cold tone of his
last words, he exclaimed hurriedly, and with a smothered vehemence:
"You wish you could tell me what? You wish you could tell me what I
already know--could tell me that you pity me--that you are sorry for the
pain you give me? That you know how much it costs me to say a final
farewell to you--and that you are sorry--sorry. No! You need not wish to
do it; I can spare you that. I came to you to-night to see if time, and
sorrow, and necessity had not helped me in my suit; to try, for the last
time, whether there was any chance of winning you; I came to tempt you
by the fortune and the luxury I could offer you, just to endure my love,
and to repay, by ever so cold a kindness, the devotion of years. I came,
misled by a hope held out by one who loved us both too well to be an
impartial judge; and I find you colder, more distant than ever, and that
the hope I have been trying to extinguish so long is only rekindled to
be quenched at last utterly!
"Foolish girl!" he went on, in a lower tone, "how little you know what
you throw away. How vain to cling so fondly to a memory. Believe me, it
will not be wronging the dead--I little thought I should ever stoop to
ask it, but only try to love me--only consent to give me your esteem and
consideration, and I will take the risk of teaching you to love me. Is
it nothing to be loved as I have loved you? To be the first, and last,
and only choice of a man who has had so many to choose from? Have you no
vanity that can be touched--no pride? If you had, I could allure you by
the promise that you should be proud of the position you would hold;
those who have slighted you should look at you with envy--those who"----
"Oh, Mr. Rutledge do not talk of those things now--I have given them up
forever; I shall never care again for the world--but--there is something
else--I"----
"You relent!" he murmured, eagerly. "You will consent to forget the
past--you will"----
"I must tell you one thing first; I must tell you something that I have
told to no one else. Heaven have mercy on me if it is a sin, or if I am
betraying what I should still conceal. I never felt the love you think I
did. I deceived him and you; but as I have been bitterly punished, and
bitterly penitent, so Heaven forgive me for it! Between him and me there
was another love, that began before I ever saw him--that is not ended
yet--that has never known change or wavering."
"And that love?"
Within his arms, my face hidden on his shoulder, I could whisper the
answer to that question, and the confession of the folly, and deceit,
and pride, that had so long kept me from him.