Part 42 (1/2)

”Only this morning,” her mother went on, ”she said to me, 'I was so worried, mamma, I couldn't sleep last night, for Mr. Rutledge has trusted to my taste about the decorations, and if he should be disappointed, I should be perfectly miserable.' Did you ever hear of anything so silly?” she continued, with a light caress.

”Never,” said Mr. Rutledge, looking admiringly at Josephine's averted conscious face. ”Am I so very terrible, then?”

”No,” said Josephine with a pretty shyness, ”oh no! but then, you know--you see--I should be so sorry to disappoint or displease you. I know you wouldn't say a word, but I should be perfectly miserable if you were not pleased.”

”Where are you going, Phil?” asked Grace, as her cousin strode out into the hall.

”Anywhere, Gracie,” I heard him say, under his breath. ”It doesn't make much difference where.”

Poor Phil! There was a sharp pain at his honest heart, I knew. I watched him from the window, as with hasty strides he crossed the lawn, and disappeared into the woods. But Josephine didn't see; Mr. Rutledge was sketching a plan for the decorations, and she was leaning over the paper with fixed attention.

”If those people are coming to lunch,” said Ella Wynkar, getting up from a tete-a-tete chat with the captain, ”it is time we were dressed to receive them. Come, Josephine, it would never be forgiven, if we should not be ready.”

”Yes,” exclaimed Mr. Rutledge, starting up and looking at his watch, ”I had forgotten about that. They will be here in half an hour. Miss Josephine, did you ever effect your toilet in half an hour, in your life?”

”You shall see!” cried Josephine, dancing out of the room. Mrs.

Churchill followed, with a laughing apology for her daughter's wild spirits; since she had been at this delightful place, she had, she declared, been like a bird let loose.

”The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods,”

I longed to say to my aunt, would hardly know how to enjoy them. The miserable prisoner that had spent all its life, in narrow cramped limits, on the sill of a city window, hopped on a smooth perch, and eaten canary-seed and loaf-sugar since its nativity, would hardly be at home in wide, sunny fields, or ”groves deep and high,” would shudder to clasp with its tender claws the rough bark of the forest twigs, and would be doubtful of the flavor of a wild strawberry, and think twice before it would stoop to drink of the roaring mountain-stream. It would, I fancy, before nightfall, creep miserably back to its cage, as the fittest, safest, most comfortable place for its narrowed and timid nature.

”So!” said Victor, looking at me with a curl on his handsome lip, as the drawing-room was vacated by all but ourselves. ”Are you going to spend an hour of this splendid fresh morning in making yourself fine?”

”Not if I know myself intimately!” I exclaimed, cramming my work, thimble, and scissors into my workbox, and springing up. ”I do not fancy devoting three hours to those tiresome Mason girls nor their horse-and-dog brothers. I shall never be missed, and I am going to the village for a walk.”

”Why to the village?” said Victor, following me, and reaching down my flat hat from the deer's horns that it had been decorating in the hall.

”Why will you not come to the lake and let me row you up to the pines?”

”I ought to have paid my devoirs to the housekeeper at the Parsonage the very day I arrived,” I answered, as we descended the steps. ”She is a great friend of mine, and she will be hurt if I neglect her any longer.

Indeed, it's a very pleasant walk, and you'll be repaid for taking it, if we should find Mr. Shenstone at home. He is so kind, and the very best man in the world.”

”That's the clergyman?” said Victor, making a grimace. ”I don't affect clergymen, as a general thing, but for your sake I will try to be favorably impressed; your friends I always try to admire; our host, for instance, who just pa.s.sed down the terrace, without so much as a look toward us, though he could not possibly have avoided seeing us. Why do you bite your lip?” continued he, watching me narrowly. ”I cannot learn the signs of your face. Pale and red, smiling and frowning, like any April day. There! what chord have I touched now? The thought gave you actual pain.”

”Nothing!” I exclaimed, hurriedly. ”There's Stephen on the lawn. I want to talk to him,” and I ran across to where he stood, leaning on his rake, watching us. While I talked to him, Victor threw himself upon the heap of new-cut hay at a little distance from us, and played with Tigre.

I saw that Stephen's eyes often wandered to where he lay, his hat off, the wind lifting the dark hair from his handsome face.

”If I might make so bold,” said Stephen, in a low tone, as I was turning away, ”has that young gentleman lived long in this country?”

”I do not know, really,” I said, with a laugh. ”Shall I ask him, Stephen?”

”No, Miss, I shouldn't like you to ask him; but I should like to know.”

”I'll find out for you sometime,” I said, as I nodded a good bye and rejoined Victor.

It was, as he said, a splendid day--all sultriness dissipated by the strong wind. We had a beautiful walk through the woods, though I couldn't quite forget ”our rustic friend,” as Victor called his unknown enemy; but he made such a joke of it that it was impossible to have much feeling of alarm connected with it. The village, however, he seemed not to care to visit.

”Had I not better wait for you here?” he said, lingering as we pa.s.sed out of the woods into the lane that led to the village.