Rutledge Part 8

"What shall I read, sir?"

"Anything you fancy."

"You are the most provoking man," I thought, as I looked up and down the shelves in search of a book. I shrewdly concluded that I might as well please myself in the choice, as it was not probable that Mr. Rutledge would attend to three words of what I read, even if he did not go to sleep. So recognizing an old friend in "Sintram," I took it from the bookcase, and sitting down in the window-seat, opened its familiar pages with some pleasure. Familiar, that is, they had been to my childhood, but it was some years since I had seen the book. It was not long, however, before I forgot myself and my auditor over the strange, wild, touching story. The dreary storm without, the growing gloom within, all added to the charm of its wild pathos. I read on, bending forward to catch the last grey light from the window, till, baffled by the rapidly-deepening twilight, I left it, and sitting down on a low seat by the fire, read on by its flickering light. If I had not been sure that no one was attending, I should have stopped for shame at the trembling of my voice, which I could not control, as I read the lines that tell to Sintram his release from terror and temptation:

"Death comes to set thee free-- O meet him cheerily As thy true friend; And all thy fears shall cease, And in eternal peace Thy penance end."

A low, quick-drawn sigh told me that I was not alone in my interest in the tale. I finished it, and dropping the book in my lap, sat resting my head on my hand, and gazing dreamily into the fire. Presently steps in the hall interrupted my revery, and I rose to put the book away. As I pa.s.sed Mr. Rutledge, he held out his hand, and, as I laid my own in it, he said, "thank you," and looked at me with the most mournful expression in his eyes. The tears rushed involuntarily into mine as I met his glance; I did not know which to pity most, Sintram or my companion. He saw the pity in my look, and remembered it, long after the emotion had pa.s.sed.

A servant entered at that moment, with the brightest of cheerful lamps; Mr. Rutledge ordered more wood on the fire, which presently blazed and crackled genially; the curtains were drawn, and the conquered twilight and moaning wind were banished from the room.

Mr. Rutledge roused himself from his abstracted mood, and I said to myself, "What can I do to keep him from thinking of the things that trouble him?" And, woman enough to like the task, I set myself to make the evening a pleasant one, and to keep all dullness and ennui away. And it was a very happy evening to me, and not a dull one, I am certain, to my host. I made tea with much less trepidation than on the evening before, and it proved almost magical in curing Mr. Rutledge's headache.

I could hardly believe the clock was right when it struck ten, the evening had seemed so short. I took my picture from the mantelpiece, and bidding my companion good night, ran upstairs two steps at a time, not remembering till I reached the top, that Miss Crowen had condemned the practice as unladylike. "I hope Mr. Rutledge wasn't listening," I thought with mortification. If Mr. Rutledge wasn't, Mrs. Roberts was, though, for I heard her door shut softly soon after I had reached my room, and presently she found an excuse for coming in upon me, which she did rather suddenly, as I was standing before the new picture, looking at it very earnestly, as I leisurely unbraided my hair. I went over to the gla.s.s, however, very quickly upon her entrance; and after her errand was over, she quite inadvertently, it would seem, glanced up at the picture, but _I_ knew she had seen it the first thing when she came in.

"Why," she exclaimed, looking surprised, "how came Mr. Rutledge's picture up here? It has always hung under his mother's in the dining-room. There must be some mistake," she continued, looking inquiringly at me.

An alarming truth began to dawn on my mind, a vivid blush spread over my face, and Mrs. Roberts never once took her eyes off me.

"I fancied it, and Mr. Rutledge said I might have it," I stammered. Mrs.

Robert's blue lips parted for an instant in a contemptuous curl; then, looking stonier than ever, she said:

"Yes, it is a good likeness; or was, at least, when he was a young man; he's sadly changed since then; he's an old and an altered man now, is Mr. Arthur Rutledge."

The housekeeper, saying this with emphasis, and having no excuse for staying longer, was obliged to withdraw.

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered, as I locked the door after her, "I know he's an old man, I know he's nearly forty years old: who better? for he told me so himself." And my cheeks scorched with blushes, as one by one, I recalled my foolish speeches. How stupid, how blind I had been. Why, as I looked at the picture now, there wasn't a feature in the face that could possibly have been mistaken for any one else, not a shade nor outline that was not characteristic. I could have cried with vexation.

How should I ever dare to look him in the face again? "My hero!" And I covered my face with my hands, and started up guiltily, and put it out of the way before I unlocked the door for Kitty.

CHAPTER VI.

"The Sundays of man's life Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King.

On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife; More plentiful than hope."

HERBERT.

"Mr. Rutledge's compliments, Miss, and he begs you will breakfast without him this morning; he isn't well enough to come down," said the servant, as I entered the dining-room next morning.

"Is his arm worse?" I asked.

"It pains him a good deal, Miss; and he's had a very bad night. Michael has ridden over to get the doctor." That was bad news, certainly; I wished very much I could do something for him; but as I couldn't, the next best thing was to eat my breakfast; which, however, was rather choky and unpalatable in all that grand solemnity, with the tall Thomas (Mr. Rutledge's own man, temporarily supplying the post of waiter) looking down at me. I broke down on the second slice of toast, and concluded to give it up and go into the library.

It seemed incredible that it had stormed yesterday; such splendid sunshine, such a clear sky, I thought, I had never seen before. I would have given anything for a race down the avenue in that keen, bracing wind, but I determined heroically that I would not stir out of the house till Mr. Rutledge gave me permission. But about eleven o'clock my reading was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Kitty, who, with her face all aglow with pleasure, announced to me that Mr. Rutledge had ordered the carriage for me to take a drive, if I felt like it; and sent word, that if I was willing, he thought Kitty had better accompany me. I tossed away my book, exclaiming, "it was grand," and, followed by Kitty, ran upstairs.

"How odd," she said, as in breathless haste she prepared me for the drive, "how odd that Mr. Rutledge shouldn't have sent word for Mrs.

Roberts to go with you, miss, isn't it?"

"Odd, but very nice, Kitty," I answered, with a grimace that made her laugh; and as the carriage drove to the door, we ran down the stairs, Kitty putting on her bonnet and shawl as we went. I am sure it would have eased for a moment Mr. Rutledge's pain, if he could have known the extent of the pleasure he had conferred on the two children who so delightedly occupied his carriage that morning. All Kitty's knowledge of it, I suspect, had hitherto been speculative, and I think one of the dearest wishes of her heart was gratified when she tried experimentally the softness of its new dark green cushions, and in her own proper person occupied the front seat, an honor whereof she had only dreamed before.

It was a perfect autumn day; the air was exhilarating, the sunshine brilliant, the scenery picturesque, and a great deal less than that would have sufficed to make me happy in those days; and before we reentered the park gate, three hours had slipped away in the most unsuspected manner. Kitty having gathered, at my request, an armful of the few gay autumn leaves remaining after yesterday's storm, I entertained myself, during the drive home, with arranging them in a bouquet. The glossy dark laurel leaves, and the varied and bright hues of the maple and sumac, with some vivid red berries, name unknown, made quite a pretty and attractive combination. As we reached home, I was seized with an audacious intention, which I put into execution before allowing myself time to "think better of it."

"Kitty," I said, "take this to Mr. Rutledge's door, and give it to Thomas for him, and say I hope he is better, and I am very much obliged to him for sending me to drive, and that I enjoyed it very much."

I was rather alarmed when Kitty had accomplished her errand, but it was too late to retract. That evening was a very long one; I went upstairs at nine o'clock, wondering at its interminable length.

The next day was Sunday. Mr. Rutledge was no better, and I went to church alone in the carriage, with only Kitty to attend me, Mrs.

Roberts, she said, not being able to leave "the master." It was a beautiful little church, Gothic, and built of stone, with nothing wanting to render it church-like and solemn. When I looked at the tablets on the wall, that recorded, one after another, the deaths of Warren Rutledge, and Maria, his wife, and Richard, their son, I could not help thinking it must be sad for him to come here, Sunday after Sunday, and see that; but then it's easier to think of such things in church than anywhere else; somehow, quick and dead do not seem so far separated there.

Why, I could not tell, but there I remembered a great deal more thoughtfully and thankfully than I had done before, the evening, not a week ago, when I had lain, living and unhurt, among the dead and dying.

It was strange, in the humored nervousness of the first day or two, and the returning health and spirits of the following, how little I had thought of it. And when Mr. Shenstone read his text: "Were there not ten cleansed? But where are the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to G.o.d, save this stranger," my heart smote me. I indeed had forgotten, and had taken carelessly, and without much thought, my preservation from a terrible death. I indeed had gone on without giving glory to G.o.d, without acknowledging the mercy by which I yet lived.

Mr. Shenstone's sermon was one that those who recognize only as eloquence, pathos and fire and pa.s.sion, would have p.r.o.nounced very far from eloquent. His manner was quiet, and not particularly impressive, his language simple and unostentatious. But he possessed the true kind of sermon eloquence--keen perception of spiritual things, and the clearest knowledge of the Christian life. He had learning and talents; but it was not by them alone that he gained so deep a reverence from his humble parishioners, so strong an influence over them. It was because his own hope was high, that he could elevate theirs. It was because learning and talents and fame were things indifferent to him, save as aids in the service he had entered, that he could descend to their level, to raise them more nearly to his own. They could grasp what he taught them, for it was "a reasonable religious and holy hope," a rule of life, sober, practical, and simple, that led to high things, but began with low. It was because his heart was in his work, that his work prospered; because the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, were his sworn and baffled enemies, and not his half encouraged and secret allies, that in his little flock he made such headway against them; because "through faith and prayer" he kept his own heart and life pure, he could see more clearly to guide them.

Thus it was, that though Mr. Shenstone hardly took his eyes from his notes, and used very few gestures, and those few awkward ones--though he preached quietly and unenthusiastically--though there were no ornaments of rhetoric, no efforts at oratory, it was a sermon that, to this day, I distinctly remember, and never, I fancy, shall forget. Keen, pithy, conclusive, no one could help acknowledging its power; kind, earnest, sincere, no one could doubt its spirit; full of a devotion the purest, a faith that pierced to heaven itself, a love that cast out all fear and slothfulness, no one could listen and not be better for the listening.

He put old truths in new lights, and gave to the familiar Gospel story a vivid interest, that often reading had made tame and unimpressive. He brought distinctly before the imagination the Samaritan village, through which the Saviour was pa.s.sing on his way to Jerusalem; the sad company of leprous men, cut off from the sympathy and society of their fellows, who attracted his notice. That they "stood afar off," not daring to approach him, was no obstacle to him; no distance could put them beyond the pity of that watchful eye, beyond the attention of that ear, ever open to the prayers of his people. They were marked, miserable, suffering men, and as such they cried with all their hearts and humbly, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!"

It was their one chance for restoration to home and kindred, no doubt they cried with all their hearts. They were considered beyond the reach of human aid; no doubt they cried humbly. And He "who hath never failed them that seek Him," had mercy on them and heard their cry and helped them. Sending them simply and unostentatiously to the ordained means of cure and cleansing, they, obeying eagerly and unquestioningly, were cured and cleansed. On their way to the priests, the hated disease left the bodies it had so long degraded and afflicted, and with the glow of returning health, they felt they were men once more, men without a curse and a reproach upon them. And with returning health came the pride, the self reliance that had been only slumbering, not dead, under the weight of the punishment laid on them. Without a thought of Him to whom they owed the power to do it, they hurried forward, one perhaps to his farm, another to his merchandise, long denied, absent, but unforgotten idols.

Among the crowd, but one remembered to be thankful, but one returned to give glory to G.o.d. And he was a Samaritan, but another name to Jewish ears, for infamy and contempt. No doubt he had been in a good school to learn humility among these proud Jews, who, even in their degradation, had probably never forgotten to revile and to persecute. And on him alone, of all the ten, rested the blessing and commendation, beside which the bodily cure was but a paltry gift. These things were written for our admonition; they had called for mercy in their extremity, they had been heard and their prayer granted, and they had forgotten whence came the mercy, and had used it only to harden themselves in worldliness and sin. Had this case no parallel in Christian times? Was Jewish ingrat.i.tude the last that had been offered to Divine love? Were there none, among the Congregation of Christ's flock, who in time of peril and temptation, had with all their hearts and humbly cried for mercy, which when sent they had forgotten to be thankful for? The vows made in a time of terror and despair, fade in the sunshine of returning prosperity, the blessing is used, the Giver is forgotten. Must not such a sin look black to Him who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity? Will it not provoke Him more surely than any other, to leave the ingrate forever to the idols of his choice, to let him see, when next comes peril and perplexity, how worthless and how frail they are, and how fearful a thing it is, to forfeit forever the protection of a G.o.d that can save.

If any such there were, let them repent while there was yet time, let them wash out the ingrat.i.tude that stained their souls, with penitential tears, and purify themselves with prayer and fast, and daily self-denial. Let them remember that mercy was not yet withdrawn, that a period was not yet put to His forgiveness; but how near the time might be, how short the term of their probation, none could tell, not even the angels in heaven.

Ah! I thought, as we pa.s.sed out of church, If I could always come to this little church, and hear Mr. Shenstone preach, there would not be much danger of my caring more than I ought for that wicked world Mr.

Rutledge talks about.

I had not yet learned that there is not much merit in doing well when there is no temptation to do evil, and that, though there was no harm, but great propriety, in wishing to be kept away from all chance of temptation, still, if my station in life lay in the world, the safest prayer would be, not to be taken out of the world, but to be kept from the evil.

In the afternoon, I went to church alone, and this time on foot, Kitty pointing me out a path across the fields that shortened the distance very considerably. I recognized Mrs. Roberts in the pew in front of me; and began to feel somewhat ashamed of my unreasonable aversion, as I caught sight of tears on her wrinkled cheeks, and heard a slight trembling in her usually harsh voice. Who knows, I thought, how much she may have suffered, and what heavy cares may have worn those wrinkles so deep, and made her so harsh and exacting? I really determined to be more charitable and patient, and that very evening, by way of bringing good desires to good effects, I went softly to Mrs. Roberts' door and knocked. Now it was one thing to feel the beauty and power of Christian charity and forbearance, under the influence of Mr. Shenstone's earnest voice, and in the solemn stillness of the dusky church, and another to realize it brought down to fact, before the door of Mrs. Roberts'

sitting-room, and under the influence of her grim "come in."

My courage was beginning to fail, and I felt tempted to make a precipitate retreat, letting the good resolutions evaporate as good resolutions too often do, in pretty sentiment. But remembering how very contrary this was to Mr. Shenstone's practical directions, after a moment's hesitation, I opened the door and entered. Mrs. Roberts was sitting by a small table with a small lamp upon it, reading a Bible, which, upon my entrance, she shuffled away, very much as if she were ashamed to be caught at it; then turned toward me with a look of surprise that was anything but agreeable. She could not avoid asking me to sit down, which I did, slipping into the first chair I reached, and stammering out something about thinking she was lonely, and that she might be glad of company for a little while. She stiffly replied she was too much used to being alone, to mind it at all, and thereupon ensued an awkward silence. The mahogany and haircloth looked dismaller than ever by the feeble light of the little lamp, and Mrs. Roberts' face looked colder and harder. How I wished myself out again! What possible good could my coming do? What could I talk about? Mrs. Roberts did not make any attempt to relieve my embarra.s.sment, but sat rigidly silent, wondering, in her heart, I knew, what brought me. I at last hit upon what seemed an unexceptionable topic, and said, what a nice day it had been.

Rather warm for the season, it had appeared to Mrs. Roberts. Then I rung the changes upon the lateness of the fall, the beauty of the woods, my admiration for the little church, the goodness of Mr. Shenstone, but all without producing the slightest unbending in my auditor. She simply a.s.sented or dissented (always the latter, I thought, when she conscientiously could), and beyond it I could not get. By and by, I said quite warmly, feeling sure that I should strike the right chord this time:

"What a fine old place this is! I like it better every day."

She gave me a quick, suspicious look, and replied quite snappishly:

"I shouldn't think it would be very pleasant to a young lady of your age."

"What does she mean by being so cross about it?" I pondered. "Is she afraid I am going to put it in my pocket and carry it away with me when I go. Really I think I've done my duty; she won't let me be kind, and now I can, without any scruple, say good night."

As I rose to go, my eye fell on a book on the table, the t.i.tle of which I stooped to read.

"Ah!" I cried, "'Holy Living and Dying;' how familiar it looks!"