Part 9 (1/2)

And with a mist of tears before my eyes, I turned over its well-remembered pages. Rutledge, Mrs. Roberts, were all faded away, and I was in a dim sick-room, where, on a little table by the bed a Bible and Prayer-book and Taylor's ”Holy Living and Dying,” had lain day after day, and week after week, the guides and comforters of a dying saint.

Again I was a child, half frightened at I knew not what, in that tranquil room, half soothed by the placid smile that always met me there. Again the choking sensation rose in my throat, the nameless terror subdued me, as when longing to do something loving, I had read aloud, till my tears blinded me, in this same book. I had never seen it since then; since I had been away at school; but those five years of exile were swept away at a breath as I opened it. I sat down, and, shading my eyes with my hand, glanced over paragraphs that I knew word for word, and that made my heart ache to recall. After a while, however, the bitterness of the first recognition pa.s.sed away, and it became a sort of sad pleasure to read what brought back so vividly the love and grief of my childhood.

”Shall I read aloud to you?” I said, looking up.

”I shall be very glad to hear you,” she answered, in a softened tone.

I do not know whether she divined the cause of my unsteady voice, but it is not unlikely that she did, or the book may have had some similar a.s.sociation for herself, for after I had read nearly an hour, and closed it, she said, with a voice not over firm:

”I am very much obliged to you, young lady; that is a book that, for whatever cause we read it, is good for young and old.”

”I shall be very glad to read in it again to you whenever you would like to hear me, Mrs. Roberts,” I said, as I rose to go. She accompanied me to the door, and held the light till I had crossed the hall to my own room.

If I had not done her any good by the effort I had made, at least I had done some to myself.

CHAPTER VII.

”He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak; 'tis charity to shew.”

It was a lovely afternoon, milder than November often vouchsafes, and perfectly clear. The sun was pretty low, and its slanting beams lighted the smooth lake and threw long shadows across the lawn and over the garden, through the winding paths of which I was now sauntering. The last two days having been marked by no improvement in Mr. Rutledge, he had, of course, not been out of his room, and I had been left pretty much to myself, and had improved the time in perfecting my knowledge of the out-door attractions of the place, and from stable to garden, I now knew it thoroughly. Delightful days those were, saving the occurrence of a little loneliness and ennui that would creep over me as evening approached; delightful days, when, without a thought of care for present or future, I wandered unchecked over the loveliest spot I had as yet seen. A long avenue led from the house to the gate; the lawn on the right sloped down to the lake, a lovely sheet of water surrounded on three sides by woods; and around as far as the eye could reach, stretched wide fields, rich with cultivation, and woodlands where one could almost fancy the axe had never resounded. Further, however, than the gate, and the lake, and the boundaries of the lawn, I had never dared to venture. Dared, though, is not exactly the term; for if I had even thought of the word in that connection, I should probably have gone miles in an opposite direction, to prove that, as to that, I _dared_ go anywhere. But I had a sort of chivalrous respect for what I was certain would be the wishes of my protector, now _hors de combat_, and determined, therefore, to stay within the grounds.

Which were ample enough to satisfy any reasonable young person, certainly, and picturesque enough, and well kept enough for the most fastidious. That particular afternoon, as the declining sun lighted up the dark ma.s.sive house, and the fine old trees, nearly bare though they were, and the winding paths of the garden and broad fields beyond, Rutledge seemed to me the realization of all I had ever dreamed or read, of beauty and of stateliness. I walked slowly down the garden; the faint smell of some lingering grapes on the arbor overhead perfumed the air; the dead leaves rustled under my feet, alone breaking the stillness peculiar to an autumn afternoon, unprofaned by the many murmurs of insect-life, or the animating song of summer bird. You might listen for hours, and a nut dropping off the tree among the dry leaves, or the tinkling of a cow-bell, acres off across the fields, or the letting down a pair of bars somewhere about the farm, would be all the sounds that would break the serene silence.

But just when I was speculating on this, I heard another and a very distinct sound, and looking whence it proceeded, discovered it to be the shutting of the hall door, and presently some one descended the steps and walked leisurely toward the garden. ”Hurrah!” I exclaimed aloud, ”it's Mr. Rutledge!” And I ran down the path, followed closely by a little terrier, who had introduced himself to my notice at the barn, and not being unfavorably received, had attended my movements ever since. It was not till I was within a few yards of Mr. Rutledge, that the recollection of that unlucky ”hero” business brought me to a sudden stand-still, and took all the cordiality out of my greeting. He had seen me coming, and was waiting for me, evidently, however, somewhat at a loss to account for my sudden shyness, putting it down, it is probable, though, to the score of childishness and folly along with the rest of my shortcomings and absurdities.

”I see,” he said, extending his hand, ”that you've been getting better as industriously as I have been getting worse. You begin to look quite like the little girl I brought away from St. Catharine's.”

”I am as well as possible, sir. How is your arm?”

”It isn't _my_ arm! it is Doctor Sartain's. I don't take any of the responsibility of it. I do not think, however, it could possibly be much worse, as far as I can be supposed to judge.”

He spoke lightly, but I perceived in a moment that he was looking very much paler than when I had last seen him.

”Ought you to be out, sir, if you still suffer from it?”

”I suppose not,” he answered, as we walked slowly down the path; ”but to tell you the truth, I was tired of the house, and _cote qui cote_, determined to get a breath of fresh air.”

I couldn't help remembering a certain scene in the library not many days ago, and giving him rather a wicked look, made him remember it too.

”I had n.o.body, however, you see, to make me stay in and by showing a little firmness at the risk of putting me in a bad temper, keep me from doing an imprudent thing.”

”I should have supposed, sir, that Mrs. Roberts would have been in her element on such an occasion. I thought she always adopted the opposition ticket.”

”By the way,” he said, laughing, ”how do you and Mrs. Roberts get on?

You weren't very much charmed with her at first sight, were you?”

”I do not adore her yet, sir, but I don't think she's quite as dreadful as I did.”

”You thought, poor child,” he continued in the same tone, ”that you were in a dreary prison. Absurd as it was, I could not help feeling dreadfully sorry for you; and ought to feel so yet, I suppose, only I've had no time lately to feel sorry for anybody but myself.”