Part 21 (1/2)

”That we should start to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock.”

I struggled hard to keep up, under the unexpected blow, and answered, as I bit my lip and choked down the tears:

”Very well, sir, I will try to be ready in time.”

”The doctor says it will be perfectly safe,” continued Mr. Rutledge, quietly.

”And there is no appeal from his opinion,” I interrupted, tartly.

”I am so much better myself,” he went on, as if he had not heard me, ”that there is no imprudence in my attempting it; and I can see no objection to complying with your aunt's request immediately. Indeed, I feel that I could not do otherwise.”

His indifferent way of speaking of what to me was such a vital matter, roused my pride less than it wounded my sensitiveness, and I had much ado to master myself enough to say:

”If you had had the goodness to tell me before, I need not have wasted this evening, but could have spent it in packing.”

”You cannot have much to do, I am sure. Kitty can pack everything in the morning, and I thought it was best not to worry you by telling you of it before.”

”I must go up immediately, however,” I said, rising.

”I cannot let you go yet,” he said, detaining me. ”Do you remember this is the last evening you are to spend at Rutledge?”

”And what of that?”

”You ought to be sorry.”

I shrugged my shoulders, and said, it was a pity I could not gratify his taste for the pathetic.

”Ah, nonsense, child!” he said, with a sudden change of manner, ”we have so little time left, it's foolish to waste any of it in idle pretences.

You may as well cry; I know you are sorry enough, I know you can hardly keep back your tears.”

That broke down all my self-control; burying my face in my hands, I burst into a pa.s.sion of tears. There was no use in attempting to command myself, and indeed I never thought of it. Mr. Rutledge took my hand, and attempted to draw it away from my face, then suddenly relinquis.h.i.+ng it, walked rapidly once or twice across the room, returned, and sat down by me.

”You will make it harder than ever for me to let you go, if you cry so bitterly,” he said, after a pause. ”You will soon forget your grief, and be as happy in your new home as you have been here, while I shall, for a long while, miss you, and be lonely without you. Do you not see I have the most to regret?”

I shook my head, while the sobs came more chokingly than ever.

”Foolish child!” he said, ”this is but a transitory feeling with you; it will vanish in the suns.h.i.+ne of to-morrow. In a week, you will have forgotten all about Rutledge.”

Now my anger mastered my tears, and looking up, I exclaimed:

”You are always telling me I am a child! You are always treating me as if I were a senseless plaything! I am tired of it; I could almost hate you for it!”

He looked at my flas.h.i.+ng eyes with a strange intentness, as if he would read me through and through. ”But you are a child; it would be folly for me to treat you otherwise; how can I know that your affections and sensibilities are other than those of any ardent, impetuous child?”

With an impatient gesture, I interrupted him; and turning away, hid my face on the sofa again.

”That is the way!” he exclaimed. ”No child could be more changeable; one moment, I have half a mind to think you are a woman, and the next, you turn away, and pout, and cry.”

”You shan't have that to say of me again!” I exclaimed, conquering my tears with a huge effort, and raising my head. ”I will be cold enough, if that's what you want. I won't trouble you with my tears again, even if you try to make me cry, as you did a little while ago. I can be as indifferent and unkind as you are yourself, if that will be any proof of my maturity and wisdom.”