Rutledge Part 33

"No matter, sweetheart; if Mahomet brings his work, and sits down by the mountain, that will do as well, will it not?"

"I don't know what you mean," said the child, uneasily.

"She means to plague you, Esther; she's been scolded this morning, and she's in bad humor," said Grace.

"Don't throw stones, Miss Grace," I retorted. "I wasn't sent away from the table, if I was scolded."

"Mamma'll never forget your performance last night, the longest day she lives," continued Grace. "I never saw her half so angry before. In fact, from all accounts, you must have got it from all quarters, but what Mr.

Rutledge said was the worst."

"What did he say, pray?"

"_Wouldn't_ you like to know!" she cried, in her teasing, school-girl fashion.

"I don't believe you could tell me, if I did."

"I could if I wanted to," she exclaimed. "I heard mamma and Josephine talking it over this morning. The door of the dressing-room was open a crack, and I heard every word. Now, honey, _don't_ you wish I'd tell you?"

"I don't want to hear half as much as you want to tell me," I returned, trying to be unmoved.

"Oh! don't be uneasy on my account," she said. "I haven't the least idea of telling you. Only, I didn't suppose Mr. Rutledge could be so severe, and on 'his little friend,' too!"

"That--for Mr. Rutledge!" I exclaimed, with a disdainful snap of my fingers. "I don't care the fraction of a pin for his opinion!"

"I'll tell him," cried Grace, with delighted eyes.

"Do," I answered; and hiding my burning face on the pillow with Esther, I said:

"What shall we do to amuse ourselves this morning, Essie? Shall I tell you a story?"

"Yes," said Esther, looking pleased.

"Ask her to tell you about the ball last night, and Mr. Victor Viennet,"

said Grace, as she went out of the door.

"No," said the little girl, "I'd rather have her tell me about the little dog Tigre at Rutledge, and how he used to stand outside of her door, and whine to come in. Won't you now?"

"Oh, that's tiresome, Essie," I said, "I'll tell you something else."

"Then tell me about the boys that stole the chestnuts, and about the lake, and the great trees, and the artemisias and the grapevines in the garden. Tell me, won't you now?" she went on, coaxingly.

"You'd rather hear a fairy story, Esther," I said; "or something out of your pretty Christmas book, I am sure."

"No," said Esther, "I want to hear about the country, I wish they'd take me to the country," she continued, wearily; then, raising herself on her elbow, and looking at me earnestly, she said, "do you believe they ever will? Do you believe I'll be made to always stay in this nursery, without any flowers or birds, or anything I like? If I should die in it, would I stay in it always, or would they take me out? Tell me, would they?"

"Of course, Essie," I said, half impatiently, uncomfortable under her earnest eyes. "I do not like to hear you talk so. You know, I've told you often, that there's a home for us where we shall go after we die, better than any home here, where good children are, and holy men and women; and it's all a great deal brighter and happier than anything we can imagine; so don't trouble yourself to think about it; only be good."

"But I am not good," she said, with a sort of agony in her voice; "you know I am not."

"Essie," I said, soothingly, drawing her toward me, "n.o.body is good. I am not, and you are not, and n.o.body is; but if we are sorry when we're wrong, and ask G.o.d to forgive us, and help us, He will, you may be sure.

Why, Essie, He loves you, little foolish girl as you are, more than you can possibly tell. He loves you, and he would not let you perish for anything."

"Are you sure of that?" she said, eagerly.

"Perfectly sure," I answered.

"Madame ordered," said Felicie, "that Miss Esther should be kept perfectly quiet. She's talking too much, and exciting herself. It would be better to have the room darkened, and let her go to sleep."

"I can't go to sleep, and she shan't go away," exclaimed the child.

"I haven't the least idea of going, Essie; so lie down, and I'll tell you about the country."

And, till my own heart ached as hers did, in its narrow city bounds, I told her of the country, and how soon the first warm spring days would loose the ice-bound brooks, and let the pines see themselves once more in the lake. And in the lots, the violets would be springing up thickly in the moist sod, and the faint green would be coloring the meadows and lawns, and the skies would be soft and blue, and the slow, warm wind would waft along the fleecy clouds, and stir the budding trees, and linger over the soft, wet earth, and creep into cold and wintry houses, and into cold and wintry hearts, and stir all things with a sense of warmth and ecstasy.

Throughout the day I hardly left my little cousin; she was feverish and restless, and never closed her eyes or rested a moment. About four o'clock, however, I went down to practise for an hour, and when I came upstairs again, she had fallen asleep. Her mother, coming up at the same time, was much relieved to find her sleeping, and Felicie gave a very satisfactory account of her; so that she dressed for the dinner in comparative comfort. The doctor's visit had occurred while I was downstairs, and had been a very hurried one. Grace and I dined alone, very sociably and cheerfully, Grace reading a French novel, and I "the Newcomes," in all the pauses of the meal.

I went upstairs as soon as it was over, and found Esther still asleep.

It was a wet, miserable evening. The rain was dripping slowly and heavily from the roof to the window-sill, and from the window-sill to the piazza below. A thick, suffocating fog, possessed the earth, through which the distant lights blinked drearily; even the noises of the streets sounded m.u.f.fled and subdued. It was so warm, that the low soft-coal fire in the grate seemed oppressive; yet, when I opened the window, there was a damp, choking heaviness in the air that was worse, even, than the dry heat of the room. It seemed as if the spirit of the fog was sitting a night-mare on my breast, and pressing down with a hand like lead the beating of my heart, and stopping my very breath. There was no shaking off the weight, nor driving away the gloomy fancies that the hour bred. It was in vain that I lit the gas, and closed the blinds, and laying my ball-dress on the bed, tried to interest myself in my preparations for the evening. Between me and all pleasant antic.i.p.ation, there hung a black pall of presentiment, and no effort of my will could put it aside. The very struggle to free myself from it, seemed to make the gloom close thicker around me. The house was so still; the servants were all downstairs; the ticking of the clock on the nursery mantelpiece was all the sound that broke the stillness, and that, so regular, so monotonous, was worse than silence. It was a time

"For thought to do her part,"

for conscience and reason to be heard. Should I go into the world and try to forget it? Should I leave the little helpless child asleep there, in charge of a woman I distrusted and disliked, and go where music and pleasure would drown the dread for her that was gnawing at my heart?

What, that was good for hours of trial, had I learned in my short experience of pleasure? What, that I could remember with satisfaction, had occurred in the two nights of gaiety that I had just pa.s.sed through?

What, in the flatteries of Victor Viennet, in the admiring eyes of strangers, in the envy of my cousin, that I could dare to remember in church--on Sunday--under a quiet evening sky--or on a fresh, pure early summer morning? Alas! it was out of tune with all of these; there was utterly a fault about it--it turned to ashes as I grasped it. It was not true pleasure. It was not a worthy pursuit. As far as I had followed it already, it had led me into sin, into pride, insincerity and anger. It had done me no good. I felt that. Had I the courage to put it away from me now? Could I say, without an effort, I will keep myself out of the way of seeing Victor Viennet again? I will never remember but to condemn the hours that I have spent with him? Could I return to the dull routine I had formerly marked out for myself, without an effort that would cost me many tears? But if I could not do this, what was my religion worth?

If this self-denial was so hard, did it not prove that the world had got a very tight hold of my heart, and that the sooner I wrenched myself from its grasp the better?

On the other hand, there was no definite reason why I should not go, there was only this vague feeling of uneasiness about Essie that tormented me and kept me back, and this unsettled question about the profitableness of going into the world. How should I decide? My affection for my little cousin tugged strongly at my heart. Pride and inclination pulled as fiercely the other way. A feeling that I did not give a name to, but which was stronger than either, prompted me to follow my own desires, and leave Essie to her fate. What business was it of mine? If other people neglected their children, and left their duties for their pleasures, why need I concern myself? Why need I take upon myself their discarded responsibilities?

At last I stole on tiptoe to the bed again, to see if she still slept.

Not much sleep in those frightened eyes.

"Why! Essie, my pet, when did you wake up?"

With a sigh of relief, and a little relaxing of the look of terror, she raised herself up, and saying hurriedly, "how still it is! I thought you had gone away," she twined both small hands tightly round my wrist.

"Oh, no!" I said, sitting down by her, "it isn't time yet. I shall not go for an hour or two."

"Don't go at all, please don't go," whispered the child, panting for breath, and clinging to me in an agony. "If you knew how awful it was to be alone, and how still the room was, you wouldn't leave me, indeed you wouldn't. Besides," she went on hurriedly, "how can you tell what'll become of me while you're gone? n.o.body else loves me, n.o.body else is good to me. I am troublesome and wicked--only G.o.d and you care anything about me."

It was useless to soothe or reason with her now. I knew little of illness, but I saw in a moment that the wild delirium of fever was burning in my little companion's veins, and raging in her brain. I was frightened at the strength of the little hands that fastened themselves on mine, and the hurry and wildness of the broken sentences she uttered.

All I could do, was to promise that I would not go, and a.s.sure her that there were no "ugly shadows" on the wall--that n.o.body was coming to take her away--that it was all because her head ached so. But when Felicie appeared, it was a less easy matter to control her. She screamed, and hid her face, and cried to me to send her away--she hated her--she gave her horrid stuff--she made her angry, and a thousand other vehement exclamations in alternate French and English. The nurse, with a subdued glare of anger in her eyes, would fain have soothed her, for her voice, shrill with the strength of fever, could easily have been heard downstairs, and Mrs. Churchill had come home and was now in her dressing-room. My alarm had overcome my pride by this time, and loosing my hands from the child's grasp, I gave her into Felicie's charge, and ran downstairs.

The door of the dressing-room was locked, and it was some minutes before I was admitted, and during those minutes, my alarm had time to cool, and when at last I entered the room, it was with a full recollection of the last rebuff I had received when I pleaded Esther's cause, and a cold determination to do my duty and no more.

"Why are you not dressed, if you intend accompanying us?" she said.

"I do not intend going this evening," I answered; "and I came, Aunt Edith, to say that I think you had better see Esther before you go out; she has a great deal of fever, and is very much excited."