Part 3 (2/2)

Then there was a sound of some one moving, a door opened on the opposite side of the hall, a light appeared, and Mr. Rutledge's voice said, ”What is it?”

What was it, indeed; it would have been difficult to say just what it was, and so I found it.

”Oh! it is you. I beg your pardon. Do you want Kitty?”

I said yes, and that I had been asleep, and just waked up a little while since, and could not find any matches. My white cheeks told the rest.

Mr. Rutledge explained that Kitty had been sent to the post-office, and had not returned yet; he was very sorry she had not been at hand to attend to me, and coming across the hall, brought a light to my door.

Very much ashamed of my fears, I went in to get my candle.

”Why,” he said, looking in; ”your fire is all out, it looks dreary enough; I am afraid you will take cold. You had better come down to the library and have tea with me. How will that do?”

”It will do very well,” I said decidedly; for as to staying up there all alone till Kitty came back, it was not to be thought of, and folding my shawl around me, I stepped out into the hall, and with great satisfaction, shut the door of my room, and followed Mr. Rutledge through the hall and down the stairs. I kept pretty close to him, as we descended into the vast chilly-looking lower hall, but the coldness of its marble pavement, and the darkness of its heavy panels, only made the library, as we entered it, doubly attractive. The fire that would have made any other room uncomfortable at that season of the year, only warmed pleasantly the wide and lofty apartment. As Kitty said, ”those great windows let in no end of air, and it took a power of wood to make it fit to stay in.” And a ”power of wood” now lay, ”a solid core of heat” upon the hearth, casting a warm glow over the book cases that lined the walls, and the huge windows with their crimson drapery. The room delighted me; there was such an air of comfort and elegance about it, and the warm fire and bright lamp took from it the look of old-fas.h.i.+oned grandeur that is so comfortless, but so universal, in houses that have remained unchanged for a generation or so.

”What a delightful room!” I could not help exclaiming, as my eyes wandered eagerly over the long rows of books, that stood one above another, from floor to ceiling, in every variety of binding, from the dusky calf of a hundred or so years ago, to the elegant morocco and gilt of to-day.

”Yes, it is quite a delightful room for any one who likes books,” said Mr. Rutledge, seating himself by the fire; ”do you like them?”

”That's rather a general question, sir,” I said, walking up to the case on the right side of the fireplace, where some more modern-looking volumes tempted my curiosity.

”So it is,” answered my companion, pus.h.i.+ng his chair a little further from the fire, and leaning back, shading his eyes with his hand. ”It _is_ rather general, I admit; but to reduce it to a more particular and answerable shape, are you fond of reading?”

”Some sort of books I like to read, sir.”

”What is the sort you like?”

”Why,” I said, rather puzzled, ”I like--why I can't tell you exactly--but I like books that amuse me, that are not dry and stupid.”

”There are so many different criterions of dryness and stupidity,” said Mr. Rutledge with an amused smile, ”that your answer, I must confess, doesn't give me much light; some people might consider as highly interesting, you know, what you and I might look upon as hopelessly dry and stupid.”

I thought, as Mr. Rutledge said, ”you and I,” that it was very polite in him to put it so, but that he probably knew as well as I, that we had very different tastes, and that my favorite books were as unknown and indifferent to him, as his literary proclivities were, in all probability, elevated above, and incomprehensible to me.

”For instance,” he said, ”I like natural history. Now, a great many persons think it very dull. How is it with you?”

”That's just a case in point,” I answered, with an effort not to care what he thought of me, ”I never could get interested in it at all.”

”I am not surprised; it is not very often attractive to those of your age and s.e.x. Now, leaving off the 'natural,' perhaps you're fond of history?”

I reflected a moment; but while ”White's Universal,” and ”Esquisses Historiques” were so vividly fresh and hateful, how could I honestly say I liked history? Yet I knew there were some historical works that I had as soon read as novels, but I did not know how to explain it; so I said, ”I don't like all history, by any means.”

”Neither do I,” said Mr. Rutledge; ”we agree on that point, and I am certain we shall on many others, if we can only get at them. Suppose you take any shelf, for instance, the lower one on your right, and let us see what we think of the contents. What's the first volume this way?”

I stooped down and read off the name, ”Hallam's Middle Ages.”

”Ah!” exclaimed my interlocutor, ”we have stumbled upon history in earnest. How do you stand affected toward 'Hallam's Middle Ages'?”

”I like it exceedingly, sir.” I responded very concisely, very much afraid of being pressed to give my reasons, which would have involved me in utter dismay and confusion, for in common with most very young persons, I liked because I liked, and disliked upon the same discriminating principle.

”What comes next?” asked Mr. Rutledge, to my great relief.

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