Part 22 (1/2)

”You have never told me about your home. Were you happy there?” he asked, kindly. ”Tell me about it.”

It seemed strange when I remembered it, but it did not seem so at the time, that I should tell him what I had never told to the dearest of my confidants, had never before put into words; but there was a sympathy in his tone that was irresistible; for the time, my grief seemed his; I did not wonder why his interest was so strong in my recollections; I did not think it strange that tears shone in his eyes when they filled mine, nor that his voice trembled as he told me of his sympathy; he was my friend; he was kinder and better than any one else in the world; that was enough.

”Poor little homesick child, you must have been miserable enough, among so many strange faces, with such an aching heart. It was a cruel thing to send you off so far, without a single familiar face to comfort you, and so soon after such a shock.”

”Aunt Edith thought it was best for me, I suppose. Perhaps it was; that is, if it is best for anything living to be wholly miserable, it was very good for me. And now,” I went on, turning to him, beseechingly, ”how can you know whether it's best for me to be sent away from here? I shall be dreadfully homesick there, I know; I shall be so strange and forlorn among all those gay people; I know you will be sorry if you don't let me stay. I know you will say, when it is too late, 'she was right after all; I should not have made her go.' You will miss me, I know you will. Think how dreary the long evenings will be, and how lonely!”

”Ah! Don't appeal to my selfishness; let that slumber if it can; don't make my duty any harder than it is already. Be a good, self-denying child, as you have always been, and go because I think it is best for you, and because it is your duty to go, and mine to send you. Will you try?”

”Yes,” I said, sadly, ”if there's no help, I will try to make the best of it, and think as little as possible about what might have been, and as much as possible about what I ought to do.”

”That's my brave little friend again! You haven't been with Mr.

Shenstone without profit. He has made you already as philosophical as himself.”

”If I could be near Mr. Shenstone,” I said, with a sigh, ”there would be some chance of my learning to control myself and be good. One can hardly help doing right, with his teaching.”

”It may seem so to you,” he answered, ”and I acknowledge it is a great a.s.sistance; but, alas! good counsel cannot accomplish the warfare. If it could, those who have the benefit of Mr. Shenstone's would be fortunate indeed; but we have to struggle and conquer for ourselves; no one can do it for us.”

”But you do not mean to say that it isn't the greatest advantage and comfort to have the advice and guidance of such a wise and holy man? You do not mean that you do not think Mr. Shenstone the best and the most devout of men?”

Mr. Rutledge smiled at my enthusiasm.

”Do not be afraid that Mr. Shenstone will suffer at my hands. He has been my guide and counsellor ever since I was younger than you; and so, you see, I have reason to know, experimentally, the value of his counsels, and the possibility of not doing right in spite of them. He is the n.o.blest of men, the most clear-sighted and wise of counsellors, and my nearest and truest friend, and yet, for all that, I have often gone contrary to his rules, and, no doubt, often grieved his kind heart. But, so it goes! The human heart, you are aware, my young friend, is the very perversest of all created things. Now, at this very moment, would you believe it, I am doing what that same good and wise Mr. Shenstone has warned me not to do; and, moreover, mean to continue doing it.”

I looked in astonishment.

”I wonder at you, sir. You will be sorry in the end. Mr. Shenstone, I am certain, knows better than you do.”

”How can you possibly know? You cannot tell anything about the right of the case.”

”No, of course I don't know anything about it; but from the nature of things, Mr. Shenstone is the most likely to be right. He's older than you, he's a clergyman, and--well--you will not be angry, but I think he is much less likely to be governed by his wishes than you, much more likely to see the right, and give up everything else for it, and to look at things clear of the mists that other people see them through. You know what I mean,” I continued, ”even though I don't express it very well; and oh! Mr. Rutledge, I am sure you must see, if you think about it at all, that it is very unwise in you to reject Mr. Shenstone's advice. The time may come when you'll regret it.”

”Nevertheless, I shall do it.”

From perversity, perhaps, as much as anything else, I continued to urge what I thought right. There was quite a fascination in contradicting and opposing Mr. Rutledge; it gave me a giddy sense of elation to think I dared do it, and though I did not gain my point, it diverted me from the thoughts of to-morrow's pain, till the clock struck, and I started up in alarm.

”It's only eleven, Cinderella; there's no need for such a frightened look. There is an hour left of your last evening at Rutledge.”

”No, indeed; Kitty is waiting for me, and there is so much to be done before to-morrow at ten o'clock. Good night, sir.”

”Ah, I see you are in a hurry; you are tired. Why didn't you go before?

Ten is your usual hour.”

The clock had struck another half hour before my last evening at Rutledge was ended--before the last good night was spoken at the library door, and, with a sad enough heart, I ascended the stairs, and traversed the dreary hall, where not even ghostly terrors would have had power to startle me from the heavy grief that was lying at my heart.

My room was cheerless; the candle died flickeringly as I opened the door; the fire was dead long since; poor Kitty, tired with waiting, had fallen asleep on the rug, with one of the sofa pillows under her head. I covered her softly with some shawls, wrapped one about myself, stole to the bay window, and leaning my forehead against the pane, cried as if my heart would break.

CHAPTER XV.