Rutledge Part 59

"Read it to me--I can't--I don't understand," I faltered, putting back the letter in his hand. He looked at me hesitatingly a moment, then read it aloud:

"I promised you freedom. Well! I have been a coward not to have given it to you sooner; but when you read this, there will be such a gulf between us, that you may well grant a little pity to the cowardice that only feared death as a separation from you--that only clung to life as sweetened by your love.

"It is trite to tell you of my love--to tell you to be happy--to say I forgive the coldness that you strove to hide--and to ask forgiveness for the pain I have given you. You know all this--better, much better than at this dreadful hour I can tell you--and though you can never know in its fullness the agony that the parting inflicts on me, there is no need that you should realize it: I have done enough to make you miserable already. Forget all this black dream; it will soon be over, and be again the happy girl I found you.

"But one thing more. Would you know who it is to whom you had affianced yourself--to whose life you had promised to unite yours--whose name you had promised to bear? It is a good name--_mon ange_--an ancient name--an honorable! Ask your proud host if it is not; ask him if there is a better in the country, or one that a woman need be prouder to bear. It is no new name to your ears; it is _Rutledge;_ the only name I have any claim to, though, perhaps, my host would say that was but a slender one: did his sister lose the ancient and honored name she was born with, when she lost her honor, when she stepped down from her high place, and stooped to sin? Or did she drag down that name with her in her fall? Did it cling to her, like a robe of mockery and scorn, only making her shame the greater; did it descend with the heritage of infamy, to the child of her shame? Or did it die with her, and has her neglected grave the only right to bear the record of it? Ask our host--he can tell you more of it than I. But tell him I am not inclined to dispute it with him: I am not as proud of the name as he; tell him I loathe--I execrate it! I could almost wish to live to show him my contempt for it--to show him what a low wretch could share with him his inheritance and his pride. If he doubts it--if he questions whether the same blood runs in our veins, show him the only souvenir I have to leave you--the picture of my father. Ask him if he remembers Alice Rutledge's lover. He will not need more d.a.m.ning proof; it came to me like a message from the dead--it may go to him as such. Tell him that a murderer wrenched it from his victim's dying grasp; that it has struck awe to his guilty soul at every glance; that it has hurried him on to perdition. But if he longs to be more certain, show him these two letters; one that I have worn next my heart for years--the other, that I found between the leaves of a forgotten book in this ghastly room.

"The G.o.d whom you believe in bless you, and, if he has the right--forgive me!

"VICTOR."

"I don't understand--what does he mean--where has he gone?" I said, wildly, pressing my hand to my head. "I am so bewildered, I can't think.

Oh! don't look so awfully! There must be some mistake. You can't believe that--that--oh! heaven help me!"

My companion did not speak; my eyes searched his blanched face in vain for comfort--a wild impulse seized me; I grasped the candle in my hand, and, with a hasty look around the apartment, hurried to the bed and drew aside the curtains.

I did not swoon or cry; I did not even drop the candle from my hand, nor loose the grasp with which I held back the curtains; but, with glazed eyes and freezing veins, gazed steadily at what lay before me. Pale with the unmistakable pallor of death, one arm thrown above his head, the other buried in his bosom, his dark tangled curls lying distinct against the pillow, his manly limbs rigid--a crimson stream that had stained his breast, and was creeping down upon the bed, gave awful proof that Victor and I had indeed parted forever--that my wretched lover lay dead before me.

Brought so suddenly to my sight, there was nothing in that moment of the remorse and the lingering tenderness that after the first shock nearly deprived me of reason; it was only horror--staring, ghastly horror--at the sight of his dead body--at the thought of his lost soul; the words that rang in my head, and the first that struggled to my lips were: "G.o.d have mercy on his soul! G.o.d have mercy on his soul!" Dead--without a prayer--dead--by his own hand--cast out forever from G.o.d's mercy--a wailing, d.a.m.ned, lost soul through all eternity. I stood as if turned to stone; my companion, in an agony of grief and consternation, had thrown himself on his knees beside the bed; his iron fort.i.tude broken down before this awful judgment that, laying bare the anguish of the past, had interwoven itself so strangely with the present; the unerring retribution that had worked out this end to sins so long ago committed.

But no sob or cry came from my lips; no tears dimmed my riveted eyes. I heard the broken words that burst from him as in a dream, and neither knew nor felt that there was anything in this world but blank horror--hopeless consternation--till from a slight movement of the candle, I caught the shine of a trinket that the unhappy man had worn around his neck. Bending forward, I saw in a moment what it was. A little ring of mine, and a link of the broken bracelet, worn on a chain next his heart while living, now wet with blood, was lying still above the heart that beat no more. At that sight a pa.s.sion of tears came to my relief. His tender and devoted love, the miserable return I had made, the unkindness of our parting, my shameful injustice and deceit, the cruelty of his sufferings, all rushed over me and shook me with a tempest of tears and sobs. I threw myself beside him on the bed, and covered his cold hand with tears and caresses; wild with pain and remorse, I laid my cheek against his on the pillow, and implored him to forgive me, to speak to me but once, to say I had not killed him; with incoherent pa.s.sion I called heaven to witness that I really loved him--that I would have been true to him--that I would have died for him--that I had nothing else to live for or to love.

It was long before, worn out by excess of weeping, I yielded to my companion, and was led faint and almost unresisting from the room. With a few words of pity, he left me in my own apartment, reluctantly turning away from me, so wretched and so lonely. But I shook my head; I did not want any one, I had rather be by myself.

"No one can do you much good, it is true," he said sadly. "G.o.d help you!" and he left me.

I stood motionless for some minutes after the door closed upon him.

Then, stung by some fresh recollection and by the added terrors of solitude, I paced rapidly up and down the room, and flinging myself on my knees by the bedside, I prayed incoherently and pa.s.sionately for Victor--for myself--for pardon and for death. I could not endure one thought or one occupation long: before I rose from my knees my resolution was taken; my brain would have given way if I had not had some necessity for exertion, some design to carry out. And strange and sudden as my determination was, I doubt whether I could have done anything wiser and better. There was one uncontrollable longing uppermost--to escape from this place, to hide myself forever from all who had ever known me here.

Stealthily and hurriedly, for Kitty was sleeping in the dressing-room, I went through my preparations. They were not many; there were some letters to be burned and one to be written, some clothes to be selected and made up into a package, a trinket to be clasped round Kitty's arm, and a coin slipped in her hand, and I was ready. I looked at my watch; it was half-past three, the faint grey dawn was just streaking the eastern sky, I must go. Where should I put my letter? I sat down and hurriedly wrote the address, then with a momentary indecision, the first that had marked my rapid movements since my resolution was taken, I opened and read it over:

"You will not be surprised when you find that I have gone away. You can understand, if you will think a moment about it, and try to realize what I should have to endure in concealing and controlling my feelings, that it is the only thing I could do. My life with Mrs. Churchill has grown so intolerable that I had before this resolved it should not continue.

And now is the best time to do what at any other moment would be painful, but which at this, is only a relief. Inquiries and investigations as to where I go, will be just so many cruelties; will you do this last of many kindnesses, and help to cover my retreat, and keep them from any attempts to find me? It would kill me to have to face any of them now; will you not trust me enough to help me to the only comfort possible to me now, solitude and rest? You are ingenious, you can divert them from it, if you try; it is not as if they had any instincts of affection to guide them in finding me out. You need not let them know that I did not project the pastime of last night to accomplish a premeditated flight. If you ever had any kindness for me, do not try to find me out yourself, _do not let them_. You may trust me when I promise you I will do nothing rash, nothing that you would not approve if I could tell you. I promise you that I will remember my religion and my womanhood, and spend what length of life G.o.d sentences me to, as penitently, patiently and reasonably as He will grant me grace to do. If you will show this proof of confidence and friendship, you will never repent it.

"G.o.d knows, you have little reason to trust in me: but I am changed--I am much changed--I will not deceive you now. If you will believe in me this once, and shield me from exposure, and leave me in peace where I may choose to go, I will pledge you my word that as soon as I shall ascertain that you have sailed for Europe, I will write you fully and truthfully where I am, and what I intend to do, and will from that time make no secret of my place of abode and my plans.

"There is another thing--but I need not ask it of you. You, for your own sake are concerned to keep this cruel secret that I have so long been hiding, a secret still. It pa.s.ses now from my hands to yours. Perhaps I should be insensible to disgrace and ignominy; they cannot harm _him_ now: but oh! shield me from them, save his memory from shame. Do not let the world know of it till that day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed; when G.o.d shall commit all judgment to His Son, who is more merciful than man--more compa.s.sionate and more just.

"You have helped me hitherto, though I did not know whose hand was smoothing my way; do not give up now, despairing. Kitty and Stephen will be faithful, no one else need know the secrets of that dreadful room.

"I am not so selfish as you think. I do not forget that you are only less miserable than I am, as you have only grief and not remorse to bear. Heaven send you the peace I have no right to ask for myself."

I folded my letter quickly and sealed it; then with one more look at Kitty, and one hurried glance around the familiar room, I put out the candle, took the package from the table and stole out. Where should I put my letter? It must be within reach of no other hand than his; no one must know that I had written to him. The hall--no words can tell its gloom, the early dawn just turning its darkness into spectral dimness.

If inevitable detection had been the result, I could not have helped the hurried, incautious steps with which I crossed it, and listened at Mr.

Rutledge's door. Within the inner room I heard a step pacing restlessly up and down, but no other sound. He was awake, then; I stooped, and softly tried the handle of the door. It was locked; he would be the first to open it; so I slipped the letter under it, and springing up, fled down the stairs and through the hall, without a look behind, with no thought but that of escape, no fear so strong as that of detection. I had forgotten everything now but flight.

It was Heaven's mercy and nothing else, as poor Kitty would have said, that no one was aroused by the loud sliding of the bolts, that required all my strength to move; I hardly stopped to pull the heavy door to, after me; I should not have heard, if the whole household had been in pursuit, for the wild throbbing of my heart, the maddening pressure on my brain, the choking fear, kept me insensible to sight and sound. I flew on, through the shrubbery, across the unfrequented, dark orchard; my feet tangled in the rank, wet gra.s.s that lay in the field beyond it, my light dress tore to fragments in the thicket that bordered the western extremity of the park; but on, till the thickest of the forest sheltered me; then sinking exhausted and panting upon the ground, I hid my eyes and shuddered at the terrors I was flying, and the dismal blank, and dread uncertainty of what was beyond.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

"Vous qui pleurez, venez a ce Dieu, car il pleure.

Vous qui souffrez, venez a lui, car il guerit.

Vous qui tremblez, venez a lui, car il sourit.

Vous qui pa.s.sez, venez a lui, car il demeure."

ECRIT AU BAS D'UN CRUCIFIX.

The years that have pa.s.sed since that night, have been long and strange years. At first they were too strange and hopeless and blank to be borne without repining; I knew but too well the curse that turns life into a burden and a dread, and makes the wretched soul cry in the morning, "would G.o.d, it were evening," and in the evening, "would G.o.d, it were morning!" I knew what it was to dread solitude, and yet to shrink from the reproach of any human face; to hate life, and yet to fear death; to know to the fullest the terrors of remorse and the bitterness of repentance.

I have pa.s.sed through this howling wilderness, pa.s.sed through it once and forever; it lies black and horrible behind me; when I look back, I cross myself and murmur a prayer; but beyond--thank G.o.d's good grace--lies a plain path; over it shines the steady star of faith, the cold, clear light of duty fills the sky, the still air breathes peace; the promise is faint of the life that now is, but of that which is to come, of the bliss that never tires, the joy that never ceases, the majesty of the Glory that fills the heaven beyond the dividing limit of that horizon, I can dream and hope, till the dream fills my soul to satisfaction, and the hope grows strong as life itself.

The daily routine of my life is easily described, and the occupations that served to soothe and sustain me will not take many words to paint.

The refuge I had sought upon my flight from Rutledge, was not distant; Mr. Shenstone's compa.s.sion was the first I asked; he heard, fresh from its occurrence, the awful story of Victor's death, the not less awful story of his life. I needed no truer friend than he; and though it opened anew the recollection of his own early trial, I did not suffer from the a.s.sociation it awoke; he was only tenderer and kinder.

Mr. Rutledge regarded my request. Whether he suspected my retreat or not, I could not tell, but in the confusion and excitement that ensued upon the discovery of my flight, I have reason to believe he influenced the direction of the search that was inst.i.tuted, and did not thwart the general idea, that I had fled to the city to rejoin Victor, who, it was soon learned, had not sailed when he had appointed. All was mystery and confusion, but this idea saved me from pursuit here, and gave something for suspicion to fasten and feed upon, and out of which to build up an effigy, to receive the maledictions and reproaches of the world. All this was less than indifferent to me; while they were searching for me with venom and wrath, and bemoaning my iniquities with dainty horror, and execrating my hypocrisy, and settling my fate, and clearing themselves forever of any further part or lot in me, I was much nearer the other world than this; so near indeed, that when after long weeks of hovering between this and the unseen, I gradually awoke to the knowledge that I was still to stay in life, I had so far lost my interest in it, that it gave me hardly a moment's concern to find that Mrs. Churchill had discovered my place of retreat, and had written in almost insulting language to Mr. Shenstone, forbidding my return to her, and casting me off forever. Mr. Shenstone seemed sadly distressed to communicate this to me; the languid smile with which I received it, rea.s.sured him.

"She could not have done me a greater favor, sir; she has saved me the trouble of saying that I would not return to her, and she knew it very well. She is glad to be rid of me, and hurried to spare her dignity the rebuff that she knew it would receive as soon as I was able to put pen to paper."

But there was a harder task to perform; my promise to Mr. Rutledge was yet unfulfilled. I understood from Mr. Shenstone that he had sailed for Havre a fortnight after I had left Rutledge, and I dared no longer delay my promised communication to him. A very brief and simple letter told him all that was necessary. In the course of the winter there came an answer to it, short but kind, with nothing wanting in consideration and interest, characteristic and manly, yet with a shade of formality and restraint, differing from all phases of our former intercourse; ever so slight a shade, it is true, but it made me put this his last letter away, with the same feeling that I think I should have had, if I had just turned away from my last look at him in his coffin. He was dead to _me_, at least.

Occasional letters, indeed, came from him to Mr. Shenstone, generally with some mention of my name; Mr. Shenstone always showed them to me; they brought back old times, and made me restless and vaguely sad for a day or two, then the _dead_ feeling would come back, and all would be the same as before. As time wore on, the letters grew almost imperceptibly shorter and less explicit; he was travelling--he was here--at such a time he should be there--such places pleased him--such spots were changed since his former visits; then would follow some general directions about the farm--remembrances to Mrs. Arnold and to me--kind inquiries into Mr. Shenstone's own health--renewed a.s.surances of friendship--and so the letter would end.

Of my aunt's family I rarely heard. They went abroad the year after we parted; I saw occasionally by the papers their residence at Paris, or their journeying in Italy; and Grace's marriage with a Frenchman of good family came to my knowledge through the same means. Why Josephine still lingered unmarried I could only conjecture. Phil Arbuthnot returned to America after spending a year with them in Paris, and I believe has never rejoined them.

So much for these once prominent partic.i.p.ators in my interest, and now of myself. In the home I had chosen I was soon as necessary as I was occupied; Mrs. Arnold saw life and usefulness receding from her now with less pain, that she saw one younger and stronger, able to take up the duties that she had reluctantly laid down. There was no chance for time to hang heavy on my hands; besides the occupations of the house, there were unnumbered calls upon my energies in the parish. Mr. Shenstone was no longer young, almost an old man now, and though his energy never flagged, his strength did, and I found many ways of relieving him, and inducing him to save himself and depend on me. I have no doubt he saw it was the kindest thing he could do for me, and so the more willingly yielded the duties to me. No one that sets himself or herself earnestly at work, with a sincere desire to do right, and to atone for the past, but will, sooner or later, feel the good effect of such effort; his languor will yield before the invigorating glow of exercise, his nerves will regain the tone they had lost, his pulse will beat with something of its old vigor; he will, though never again the same man, be once more a man, be free from the corroding melancholy that threatened to be his ruin, and be ready to look on life with steadier, wiser eyes than in his youth. Such reward work brings; no matter how plain and coa.r.s.e and unattractive the work may be, no matter if, in itself, it has no interest and no charm, the will, the duty, the spirit in which it is done, will give it its interest and its charm, and will bring it its certain reward. Youth can hardly see this, misery cannot at first acknowledge it, but none ever faithfully and patiently tried it, without finding the truth of it.

There is a lonely grave in the very heart of the pine forest, unmarked by cross or stone, above which no prayers but mine have ever been said, which the dark moss covers thickly, and around which the trees sound their everlasting dirge. I have not learned to be tranquil there; years more of faith and prayer may take the sting out of that sorrow, and bring me to leave it utterly in His high hand who seeth not as man seeth. If prayer could avail, after the grave had shut her mouth upon any of the children of men, if fast and vigil, tears and penance, could mitigate the wrath decreed against them, I might hope, I might stand by that desolate mound with a less despairing heart. I have tried to realize that G.o.d's ways are not as our ways, that nothing is impossible with him, that His mercy is as incomprehensible as is His power; and that our puny prayers, however they may chasten and purify ourselves, are not needed, and not efficient in influencing His sentence on our brothers' souls.

There is enough to do among the living. "Let the dead Past bury its dead." There are souls yet unsentenced to be prayed for and to be gained, there are children to be brought to baptism and to be led aright, there are dark homes of poverty and sin to be invaded with the light of truth and love; there is doubt to be won to faith, ignorance to be enlightened, sluggish indolence to be roused, G.o.d's church to work for, His honor to be extended, our most holy faith to be spread and reverenced; there is no need to languish for want of work, or to waste tears and prayers upon that which is already in the hands of Almighty Love and Almighty Power.

Yes; I believe I was, through it all, happier than Mrs. Churchill, haggard and worn in a service whose nominal wages are pleasure and ease; and than Josephine, wasting her youth in the pursuit of an ambition that had rewarded her as yet by nothing but vanity and vexation of spirit. A gay hotel in Paris, and a secluded country parsonage--on the one hand wealth, the pleasures of society, the admiration of the world, on the other seclusion, the annihilation of every hope that had its root only in this earth, the love only of the poor, the aged and the suffering, yet I would not have exchanged their gaiety for my peace, their prosperity for my adversity.

"What should we do without you, child?" said Mr. Shenstone, kindly, one day as I was leaving him. "What should we do without these young eyes and this young zeal? I am afraid the village would begin to tire of its old pastor, and to fret about his old ways and his new negligences, if we had not this fresh enthusiast to throw herself into the breach, and to save both flock and pastor from discouragement and disgust. You have a.s.similated yourself strangely to those you have fallen among. Tell me truly, my dear child, are you never weary of this dull life--never tired of the companionship of two solitary, sad people, old and spiritless? We are apt to forget--you cheer and comfort us--we must depress and sadden you."

"You? Oh, Mr. Shenstone! You know to whom it is I owe it that I have conquered depression and sadness. You have done everything for me; may I do nothing for you? It is little enough, surely, but it is my greatest pleasure."

"If it is--then go," he said, with a sad smile on his wan, furrowed face. "Go and fulfill the duties that G.o.d has taken out of my hands, and I will try to be patient and stay at home in idleness. I will try to remember,

'They also serve who only stand and wait.'

But G.o.d knows, it is the hardest kind of service!"

Every day lately had been adding to his languor; I watched with anxious foreboding his slow step and altered tone. It was the twenty-fourth of December, and I knew that the contrast of his present inactivity at this holy season, to former diligence, must be a keen trial to him with his stern rules of duty. I left the house with a sigh, and went out into the clear, still air of the winter afternoon, with the energy of youth and earnestness in my veins, and thought, wonderingly, of the different grades of trials, the "anguish of all sizes" that G.o.d's elect must pa.s.s through,