Part 21 (2/2)

”Indifferent? Ah, there you show your childishness and ignorance more plainly than you think! Culpably indifferent and unkind!” he said, with a short laugh. ”But,” with a softening of his voice, ”whatever there may have been of neglect or unkindness in my manner, remember, when you think of it hereafter, that there was nothing that answered to it, in my heart; remember that I shall never cease to feel the strongest interest in you, the kindest affection for you; remember, whenever you need a friend, you have promised to appeal to me. And remember, too,” he continued, in a lighter tone, ”all the rest of the engagements that you entered into, of which that bracelet is to be the souvenir. I have the greatest faith in it; I shall never feel very far separated from you, with this little key so near my heart,” he said, touching the trinket on his chain.

”As for me,” I exclaimed, bitterly, ”I shall have to wear this bracelet as I've promised to; but I shall try my best to forget the giver and all about him! As for the promises, I don't care _that_ for them!” And in emphatic contempt I snapped my fingers.

Mr. Rutledge smiled, as if he knew enough about my indignation to bear up under it, and said, coaxingly and low:

”Ah, surely you're not going to desert me already; my little friend is the one thing in the world I care for, just now; what would be the result, if she were to turn faithless?”

I averted my head. ”You should have been prepared for that when you took a child into your friends.h.i.+p.”

”Ah! that rankles still, I see. Well, now, turn your face toward me, and look up, while I a.s.sure you, solemnly you know, and most sincerely, that I do not think you are childish in most things, that I do believe you are honest and true, and altogether, excepting a few pardonable caprices, as good a friend as one need desire. Doesn't that satisfy you?

What could I say more flattering?”

”Oh! as to saying, you are unrivalled at that; it's the doing that you are deficient in. It's all very fine for you to call me your friend, and say how lonely you shall be without me, and all that style of thing; and then, in the next breath, tell me to get ready to go away to-morrow, and remark that you cannot see the least objection to my aunt's plan--and look and laugh just as usual. That doesn't seem much like meaning what you say, surely!”

”But what,” he said, ”would you have me do? If it made me perfectly miserable to part with you, it is still my duty to do it. Tell me any way of getting out of it.”

”Let me stay at Rutledge,” I exclaimed, turning toward him with pleading eyes; ”just let me stay here. I hate New York, I hate society, I don't even know my aunt; and here I am so happy, and I have just got used to it all, and am beginning to feel at home, and it is cruel to take me to another strange place! I will be so good and useful; I will study and improve myself, and help Mrs. Arnold with the school-children and the poor people, and keep Mrs. Roberts' accounts, and read to you, and write your letters, and be just as good and obedient as possible; not in the least self-willed, not a bit unlady-like. Just try,” I went on, coaxingly; ”you will not know me, I shall be so amiable!”

”But,” he said, with a strange mixture of fondness and irony in his tone, ”what would _Madame votre tante_ say to such an arrangement?”

”She would say, of course, that if I wanted to, I was very welcome to stay; she has daughters enough already, and not having seen me, she can't be expected to know whether she wants me or not.”

”Very well; supposing for a moment, that your aunt had given her consent, and that there was no obstacle in the way of your remaining here, how many weeks do you suppose it would be before you would begin to think regretfully of the gay life you had given up, and the pleasures you had put out of your power, before you would begin to sigh for companions of your own age, and excitements greater than your life here could offer? Believe me, it would not be long before you would be thoroughly 'aweary' of the quiet routine of Rutledge, and thoroughly tired of your bargain.”

I protested against this injustice, and exhausted every argument to prove my superiority to such fickleness, but Mr. Rutledge remained unconvinced.

”I do not say you are more fickle than are all other untamed young things of seventeen; it isn't your fault that you are not older and wiser; it is my misfortune. In the nature of things, you cannot stay forever ignorant and innocent, and indifferent to the world--

”'Let the wild falcon soar her swing, She'll stoop when she has tired her wing.'”

”It's very strange,” I said, ”that you should tell me I must put myself in the way of the very temptations that you were so earnest in cautioning me against not long ago. Why must I go into society, when I don't want it? Why must I try the snares of the world, when, in reality, I am best content away from it?”

”You must first know what it is you renounce, my pretty child; you must first see what other places are like, before you can judge whether Rutledge will content you, and what other friends are like, before you can tell how worthy of your affection this first one is. Wait till you are a little older; wait a year or two, and then if you still turn to Rutledge, it is your home forever.”

Wait a year or two! If he had said, ”Wait till the early part of the twentieth century,” it could hardly have seemed a more insupportable term of banishment.

”Ah!” he said, with a sigh, ”a year or two seems an age to you now; when you have pa.s.sed through as many as I have, you'll begin to realize how short they are, how very small a part of a life they form, and how very quickly they pa.s.s.”

I shook my head. ”They would go soon enough if there was anything pleasant to mark them; but if they are to be pa.s.sed in longing for their end, they will be ages indeed.”

”No fear that the next two or three years of your life will be pa.s.sed in that way, my friend. It would be a heavy blow, indeed, that would take the elasticity out of your spirit, and daunt the courage that I know will make your life a worthy one. Be true to yourself; keep your heart pure, and the world will not hurt you; you will only see how far it is from satisfying you.”

”Oh!” I exclaimed, ”if I might never have to go in it! If I could _only_ stay here. You can't understand how miserable it makes me to go among strangers again. And I am so fond of this place! You need not be afraid that I shall get tired of it; I don't get tired of people and places when once I like them. Do you suppose I ever was tired of my own dear home, or ever would have been, if I had not been taken away from it?”

And at that recollection the tears came blindingly into my eyes.

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