Rutledge Part 19

"I used to think so," she said, sadly.

"Have you been there lately?" I demanded.

"Never since I left it first," she answered, musingly.

"Then you lived there once?"

She a.s.sented half unconsciously.

"What were you?" I asked, very suddenly; "were you housekeeper?"

"No, I was governess, Miss," she answered; then started, as if she had said more than she had intended, and hastily turned the conversation to something else. But I could not so quickly turn my thoughts. This woman, then, who tended me, with sad, soft eyes and voice, had been the governess and companion of Alice--had known from the beginning the storm that had burst over Rutledge, and was herself, perhaps, involved in this dark story of the past, that was meeting me at every turn. The miniature would have startled her, perhaps, if she could have seen it. What if she, in reality, had it now, and hers was the cold hand upon my breast that had seized it? But no; Kitty was sure it was not. And then my thoughts reverted to my own remorse and trouble that had only been momentarily lulled by Mrs. Arnold's conversation. There was a pause just then, and raising myself on my elbow, I said, looking intently at my companion:

"Mrs. Arnold, did you ever confess a sin to Mr. Shenstone, and ask counsel of him when you were very miserable?"

At my words, Mrs. Arnold gave a start; but recovering herself, she said, in a voice somewhat agitated:

"Why do you ask me such a question?"

"Because," I said, too much absorbed in my own trouble to heed her agitation, "because I am very miserable, and don't know exactly what to do; I am sure he is the only one who can help me, and I must tell him before I sleep to-night, if only I can get the courage! Oh, Mrs. Arnold!

tell me, is he very severe? Or will he be kind--and would you dare, if you were me?"

"I cannot tell what trouble you have on your mind, but I can answer for it, if human help can lighten it, Mr. Shenstone will give you all the help he can. And if it is but between you and heaven, he will show you the way to get at peace. Oh, my dear young lady! you need not be afraid to open your heart to one who knows so much about G.o.d's mercy and men's sins. You need not be afraid but that he will be as tender as he is wise; indeed, you need not fear him."

She spoke rapidly and earnestly; her whole manner of precision and composure seemed to be broken down and melted before some recollection that my trouble seemed to recall. I laid my burning hand in hers, and said with a sigh:

"Oh, if I only dared!"

"But why should you fear?" she continued, earnestly. "Why should you fear, when I tell you that he has only kindness and pity in his heart--that he has looked with forbearance and compa.s.sion on blacker sins than ever stained your young soul; and when I tell you--for I have reason to know--that he can bring light out of darkness, and can show a way of peace to even the most tortured and despairing. It may," she continued, "be but a very little sin that is weighing on you, and turning you out of the right way; but from little sins grow heavy punishments, and better find now the best way of putting it out of your heart, and putting something good in its stead. You have all life before you," she said, with a weary sigh, "and repentance is easier and more hopeful work, than it is to come back, when one has spent one's inheritance of life in sin, having nothing to offer heaven but fruitless tears."

Her voice trembled with emotion; she looked pityingly at me as, struggling to keep back my tears, I hid my face in the pillow, and caressing the hand that still lay in hers, she went on to persuade me to the only remedy she knew for my unhappiness. I still felt shudderingly afraid to make the dreadful effort, and faltered something about my fear of his goodness and superiority, and the contempt he would feel for me when he knew how weak and sinful I had been.

"Would it give you courage," she said, in a low tone, "to know how he once received the repentance of a very miserable woman--a woman who had not only sinned against heaven, but against him--who had done more than any one else to blight his happiness and make his life desolate, but who, having met the due reward of her deeds, came back to die in misery where she had failed to live in innocence? Shall I tell you of this?"

I whispered "Yes," and she went on in a low voice:

"It is no matter what the sins were that brought me to the misery I shall tell you of; it is no matter whether they were committed for myself, or for the love of one whom I would have died to serve; it is no matter for me to tell you that they grew from little unchecked thoughts of pride and self-will, and little half-intended acts of deception, into the monster sins that overshadowed my life; it is enough that I had come to the recompense of them--that in remorse, in utter consternation, I mourned as one without hope. What did I know of hope? Six feet of foreign mound covered the remains of her I had served and sinned for.

Shame and infamy covered her name; hope was dead in my heart; faith had never been lit there. Alone in a land of strangers, there was but one longing in my breast that exceeded the desire for death, and that was the craving to see home again. It makes me shudder even now to recall that journey--weary months of fatigue, and exposure and misery; the only thought that kept me up, a dreary one at best, to see home once more, and die before a word of reproach could stab me, or a familiar voice recall the wretched past.

"It was a still, clear December night, when, footsore and weary, I saw, with a strange thrill, the lights of a little village, that my heart told me was the little village I had come thousands of miles to see, and that I had not seen nor heard from since my guilty flight, long years ago, on a December night, still and cold as this. I hurried on, my sinking strength nerved up for a last effort, till I should reach a woody knoll I knew overlooked the village, and there, I said, I will die. In my hand I held what I knew would free me; I had carried it in my bosom for months and months, only waiting for this moment. At last I reached the spot, and sinking down on the hard ground, covered my face a moment with my hands, then looked down upon the scene before me. There lay the village, its white houses gleaming in the moonlight--there the familiar road wound round the foot of the hill--there was the broad street, the old mill, the placid lake in the distance, and beyond it, clear against the sky, the dark outlines of Rutledge; ma.s.sive, and gloomy, and lifeless, it stood far off from the cheery village, with its animation and content. Not a window of the little hamlet but showed a kindly light, while the great house beyond was dark and silent--not a gleam of light from all its sombre front. A horror and remorse that you cannot understand came over me, such as I had thought my dead heart was incapable of harboring; then despair settled on it again, and I prepared for death. But as I was looking--and I was not dreaming--between the desolate house and me, distinct against the dark woods, there shone out a silver cross. I was not dreaming--I was terribly awake; but there it glittered, still and bright. Not a sound broke the stillness of the frosty air, not another feature in the landscape changed; I strained my eyes to catch the least wavering or fading of the distinct lines, but calm and clear the holy sign still lit the dark stretch of woodland between me and Rutledge, and never wavered or faded. I was not superst.i.tious, but this came to me like a token from heaven, and I held the fatal vial unopened in my hand. What if this was meant to tell me there was forgiveness yet--that there was a sanctifying calm even over the cold desolation of that dark house--that the sins were done away, and that mercy had shone out. With that sign before me, I did not dare to add that one sin more to those I had already committed; I did not dare to die by my own hand. And then a desire took possession of me to know something of what had pa.s.sed in all these years, or if there was, indeed, none remaining to loathe and execrate me. And finally, hiding the vial in my bosom, I crept down, and keeping my eye still fixed on the shining cross, I turned into the broad street that led to the village. One after another of the cheerful lights I pa.s.sed, not daring to go in, pausing before each gate, and then hurrying on, determined to try the next. By and by, the cross was lost among the trees, and my courage began to fail, when, on a sudden, I found myself at the gate of a church-yard, and looking up, saw, what was most unexpected and unfamiliar, the arches and spire of a little church, on the site of the neglected old graveyard I remembered; and there, above it, gleamed the cross that had stayed my hand from suicide, which, catching the rays of the rising moon, had shone out with such a message of mercy.

"I opened the little gate, and stealing across the churchyard, bent down to read the names upon the graves that had been made since I had been away. I mournfully traced out one familiar name after another, till, with a groan, I turned away from the gloomy spot, and shutting the gate, struck off into the road again. I dragged on, till I reached the outskirts of the village, then sat down to rest. A single light, at a little distance, shone from a cottage on the edge of the woods, that I knew bordered Rutledge Park. A boy pa.s.sed by me, and summoning courage, I stopped him, and asked him what house that was. 'The Parsonage,' he said. And there, I thought, is where I will go, and hear, perhaps, whether there is any hope for such as me in either world. When I reached the low gate of the garden in front of it, I did not allow myself time to think, but walked down the path, and stepping on the little porch, knocked faintly at the door. The blinds of the window where the light was, being open, I looked in, and saw the only occupant of it, who had been reading by the lamp on the table, rise to answer my knock.

"'Can I see the clergyman?' I asked, in a low voice.

"'Come in, this way,' he said, kindly, leading the way to the room he had left; 'I am the clergyman.'

"He told me to sit down by the fire, and then, in a tone that moved me strangely, asked if he could help or direct me in any way.

"I was too near the gate of death to see in him anything but the minister of G.o.d; and, forgetting that he was a man and a stranger, began in a broken, husky voice, the recital of the doubts and the despair I had been fighting with. I do not know how much of my story I betrayed, or what, in this extremity of wretchedness, I said; but pausing at the end, and frightened by his silence, I raised my eyes, and faltered:

"'Would G.o.d have mercy after that, do you think?'

"The clergyman's face was white as mine: his voice shook as he said:

"'If He has let you live, He means to forgive you, you may be sure.'

"'He has let me live,' I said, eagerly, and I told him of the cross that had held me back from suicide. He pressed his hand before his eyes, then said, after a moment, in a broken voice:

"'Take it for a sign, then, that He is waiting to be gracious; that there is peace on earth, as well as mercy in heaven, for you.'

"'Never peace; I have no right to hope for that, only a chance of pardon before I die.'

"'A sure hope of pardon, if you verily repent, and a sure sense of peace, if you strive to put in deeds, the repentance that G.o.d has put in your heart.'

"'There is nothing left in life for me to do,' I said, with a bitter sigh.

"'So I thought once,' he said, 'but I have learned that G.o.d never leaves a soul on earth, without leaving some work for it to do, to keep it from despair, some sin to be atoned for, some duty to be fulfilled. Can you think of none?'

"'None,' I said; 'there is nothing left for me, my repentance comes too late; there is none left but my weary self, to profit by it.'

"'There is a work I know of waiting for you, Rachel Arnold,' he said, in a voice that thrilled through and through me. It all came upon me then; with a low cry, I started up and sprang toward the door; but he interposed.

"'Let me go,' I cried; 'I cannot face you in this world! Wait, before you bring your accusation, till we are at G.o.d's tribunal! Let me go, and I will never offend your sight again. Oh! why are you not dead, like all the rest? Why are you left to drive me back to despair again?' And in an agony I sank down at his feet.

"'I am left,' he said, raising me up, 'to guide you back to peace and duty; to tell you of G.o.d's infinite loving kindness, and to show you how much of hope there is for you, in this world and in the next; and to a.s.sure you, if you need the a.s.surance, that I as utterly forgive you, as I hope for G.o.d's forgiveness for myself.'

"'You never would say so,' I murmured, 'if you knew all.'

"'I know enough to understand your remorse; the rest you can tell to G.o.d; I say again, from my soul, I forgive you.'

"But I never raised my face, nor looked at him, till I had told him all, and he had said again:

"'With all my heart I forgive you. The past is cancelled; stay here, and help me in the work that G.o.d has set us to do, and obliterate the sins that this place has seen, by faithful striving in the labor of restoring it to his service again.'

"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Arnold, in a trembling voice, "can you fear him after that?"

"No," I exclaimed, with tears; "let me see him now."

CHAPTER XIII.

"Make no enemies; he is insignificant indeed that can do thee no harm."

LACON.