Part 44 (1/2)
”Are these all your recruits, Miss Grace?” said Mr. Rutledge.
”Yes. Josephine and Ella are afraid of their complexions, or their tempers, or something, and won't come, and I can't find Captain McGuffy or Phil.”
Victor stood ready to hand me into the carriage; I immediately took possession of the back seat.
”This is a very selfish arrangement,” said Victor, discontentedly, as Grace was about to follow me. ”Miss Grace, you'd have a much better view of the country up there beside Mr. Rutledge.”
”And Grace might drive,” I added; ”she's so fond of horses.”
”As you please,” she said, with a shrug. ”I only go for ballast yet awhile, I know, and it's evident I'm not wanted here. Mr. Rutledge, do _you_ want me?”
”Miss Grace, my happiness will not be complete till you comply with Mr.
Viennet's disinterested suggestion;” and Grace mounted up beside him.
I had undertaken, in that drive, more than I was quite equal to. I had brought myself into the position that I had been avoiding all day, a tete-a-tete of the most unequivocal kind with a man whose devotion it was impossible to ignore, and I had gone too far to retract entirely. It was cruel to treat him with coldness, now that we were on the eve of a long separation, and to repel with indifference the tenderness that shone in his eloquent eyes and faltered in his low tones. Our companions left us entirely to ourselves; my awkward attempts to draw them into a general conversation were all frustrated by Mr. Rutledge's cool indifference, and Grace's cool impertinence.
The only time that Mr. Rutledge addressed a single remark voluntarily to me, was on our way home. We had driven around by Norbury, and were returning by way of the post-office. Suddenly drawing the reins, Mr.
Rutledge stopped for an instant on the brow of the hill.
”Do you remember this?” he said, abruptly, turning to me, and fixing his eyes on my face.
Remember it? My cheek was crimson with the recollection then; the scene would never fade but with life and memory. It was just here, that, in the glow of the autumn sunset, he and I had parted on that ever-to-be-remembered evening, when my willfulness had led me into such danger. Hemlock Hollow lay dark and dense below us. Far off at the left, the mill and bridge that had served as a landmark then, gleamed in the setting sun. The forest foliage was greener and thicker now, but the picture was the same; I could never have got it out of my memory if I had tried; and yet, when Mr. Rutledge asked me that sudden question, a wicked lie, or as wicked a prevarication, rose to my lips.
”Yes, I think I remember it. Didn't we go this way to the Emersons' the day of the fete?”
”I think we did--yes,” said Mr. Rutledge, with an almost imperceptible compression of the lips, as, bending forward, he startled the eager horses with a galling lash of the whip.
Grace was quite white with alarm as we reached the village.
”Mr. Rutledge, why _do_ you drive so frightfully fast? I am terrified to death.”
He drew the horses in a little, and, looking down at her, said:
”Were we going fast? I am sorry I frightened you; for my part, I thought we crept.”
He paused a moment at the Parsonage gate. Mrs. Arnold was in the garden; Mr. Rutledge called out to her that he had brought Mr. Shenstone's letters and papers, but had not time to stop to see him. She approached the carriage, looking so lady-like and attractive, with her soft, white hair smoothed plain under her neat cap, and her clinging dark dress, that Victor said, involuntarily to me:
”What an attractive-looking person! I never saw a gentler face.”
She was quite absorbed in attending to the message Mr. Rutledge left for Mr. Shenstone, and in her retiring modesty I do not think she ventured a look at us, till Victor, who had been watching her with interest, addressed some remark to her. She raised her eyes at the sound of his voice in a startled way, the same fluttering, frightened look transformed her quiet features, and trying in vain to command herself, she stammered some excuse, and turned away.
”Strange!” exclaimed Victor, as we drove on. ”Did you notice the odd way in which that person looked at me, both now and the other day?”
”It _is_ strange,” said Mr. Rutledge, thoughtfully. ”Can you account for it in any way?”
”In no way, sir. I do not think I ever enjoyed the happiness of meeting her before I visited this neighborhood; and since my residence in it, I cannot remember having done anything to have rendered myself at all an object of interest to her.”
”Who's that bowing so graciously to you?” interrupted Grace.
”Oh! Ellerton's medical adviser.”
”By the way, Mr. Viennet,” said Mr. Rutledge, turning rather abruptly to him, ”the doctor tells me he is an old friend of yours.”