Part 5 (1/2)
”I did not say you were near alike.”
”Oh, but in size I mean. I know we don't look alike. Josephine used to be such a thin, dark, old-looking little girl, that I cannot imagine her tall and grown-up.”
”I think,” continued Mr. Rutledge, ”that she is still rather slighter than you are; though your additional shade of health and robustness will, I fancy, soon be lost, under the influence of town habits and constant dissipation.”
”Are they very gay? Does my aunt go a great deal into society?” I asked.
”They did in Paris, and I fancy it will be the same in New York. In fact, there is little doubt of it.”
”I wonder,” I said, leaning my cheek on my hand, and looking thoughtfully into the fire--”I do so wonder whether I shall like it.”
”Ah! my child,” he said rather sadly, ”you need not waste much wonder upon that; you will like it but too well. Wonder, with a shudder and a prayer, how you will bear the ordeal.”
He sighed, and pressed his hand for a moment before his eyes; then catching my wistful look, he continued in a lighter tone:
”But I do not mean to frighten you; people, you know, are very apt to preach against what they are tired of, and inveigh against the world after they have 'been there,' and have seen its best and its worst, and tasted eagerly of both; and have spent years in its service, and are only disgusted when they find that it will yield them no more. They have no right to discourage you young things, just on the threshold, eager and impatient for you don't know what of glory and delight.”
”Why, yes; I'm sure they have a right to warn us, if they see our danger. I am sure it is their duty.”
”Oh!” he said, with one of his quick laughs, ”it would be a thankless task; they would not be heeded. You all have to go through it, and how you come out is only a question of degree--some more, and some less tainted--according to the stuff you're made of.”
”I don't want to believe that.”
”You want to believe, I suppose, that you can go into the fire and not be burned; that you can go into the world and not grow worldly; that you can spend your youth in vanity, and not reap vexation of spirit; that you can go cheek by jowl with hollowness, and falsehood, and corruption, and yet keep truth and purity in your heart! You want to believe this, my little girl, but you must go to some one who has seen less, or seen it with different eyes from me, to hear it.”
”I want to believe the truth, whether it's easy or hard, and I had rather know it now, at the beginning, if I've got to know it, than when it is forced upon me by experience.”
”Wisely said, _ma pet.i.te;_ self-denial, hard as it is, is easier than repentance; but there are few of us who would not rather take our chances for escaping repentance and 'dodge' the self-denial, too. Is not that the way?”
”I don't know; I suppose so. But, if the world is really as dangerous as you say, why should kind mothers and friends take the young girls they have the charge of, into it? Why should my aunt, for instance, take Josephine into society, the very gayest and most brilliant?”
An almost imperceptible smile flitted across my companion's face at my question, but he answered quite seriously:
”A great many different motives actuate parents; the princ.i.p.al, I suppose, are such as these: The children, they reason, are young, and they must have enjoyment; and so they cram them with sweets till they have no relish for healthier food. Sorrow, they say, comes soon enough; let them be happy while they may; and so they fit them for bearing it by an utter waste of mind and body in a mad pursuit of pleasure. And then, they must be established in the world; their temporal interests must be attended to. And the myriads offered up on that altar, it would freeze your young blood to know of! And then,” he continued, with an amused look at my perplexity, ”then there is another very potent reason why they cannot be kept in the nest--for before they are well fledged, the willful little brood will try their wings, and neither law nor logic will suffice to keep them back. Now, even you, sensible and correctly-judging young lady as you have this evening discovered yourself to be, would, I fear, not bear the test of a trial; I am afraid your courage would droop before the self denial of the first ball or two, and you would soon be drawn into the vortex without a struggle.”
”I don't think so,” I said. ”I am pretty sure that if I resolved not to go into society--being convinced that I ought not--I should be able to keep my resolution. And even if I should see that it was best for me not to go out till I am older, but to stay at home and study and improve myself, this winter, at least, I know I could do it. If I thought that b.a.l.l.s and parties were wrong, I am certain I should never go to one.”
”That would be carrying the thing too far. Do not suppose that I mean anything like that. What I condemn is the wholesale worldliness--the unwearied career of folly that I have seen so much of, utterly excluding all cultivation of heart or intellect--utterly ignoring all beyond the present. That's the snare I would warn you of, my little friend. I know perhaps, better than you do, the trials that lie before you; so when I tell you that you will have need of all the courage, and self-denial, and resolution that you are mistress of, to keep you from that darkest of all lives--the life of a worldly woman--you must remember, I have seen many plays played out--have watched the opening and ending of more careers than one, the bloom and blight of more than one young life.”
A pause fell--a long and thoughtful one--while my companion, shading his eyes from the firelight, gazed fixedly upon vacancy, and some time had pa.s.sed before he shook off the momentary gloom, and resumed, in a lighter tone:
”That accident was a miserable business, was it not? Keeping you a prisoner in this dull old place, and knocking I don't know how many plans of mine in the head. And it is impossible to tell how many days it may be before I am able to travel, even if you should be. Perhaps, however, I may succeed in finding an escort for you, as I suppose you are impatient to be in New York.”
”Oh, I beg you will not take any trouble about it; I like it here very well. I am not in the least hurry, and I hope you will not go a moment before you are fit, on my account.”
My effort at civility was rewarded by a smile to which no one could be indifferent; and in reply, Mr. Rutledge said that he was glad to find me so philosophical; that I must amuse myself as well as I could, and he should tell Mrs. Churchill, when he wrote, that I was in a fair way of being made a strong-minded woman; between Mrs. Roberts' austere example in the conduct of the household, and his own invaluable moral lectures, my mind would be in no danger of rusting during my captivity. ”Not to mention,” he added gravely, ”very able and improving mental exercise in the criticism of the most eminent living historians.”
I hung my head at this last cut, administered, however, so daintily, that it was impossible to resent it; and being on the rack till he should get away from the subject, I quickly reverted to his letter to my aunt, asking when he should write, and desiring permission to inclose a note to her at the same time. He should probably write to-night, he said, glancing up at the bronze clock, which pointed to nine.
”Writing, however, with my left hand, is a business requiring much time and application, and possibly I may not attempt it till to-morrow morning.”
Blus.h.i.+ng very much, I said I wished I could be of service in writing that or any other letters for him; it would give me great pleasure. He thanked me for the offer, but considered it, he said, entirely too much to ask of me. I must remember I was still an invalid. I laughed at the idea, and the result was, that in five minutes I was seated at the library table, with a portfolio before me, writing a letter to my aunt at Mr. Rutledge's dictation.