Rutledge Part 45

"I a.s.sure you, Mrs. Churchill," said Mr. Rutledge, "I am very much annoyed at having caused you this anxiety. You will fancy me very careless, but it was a contretemps I had never dreamed of."

The whole party pa.s.sed out of sight into the hall. A group who stood near us and had been watching the scene, also moved on toward the door, but as they turned away I caught the words from one of them:

"It looks very much like it, and it will be an excellent thing on both sides; but I never thought till lately, that he would marry."

"Will you go in," said my companion.

"Yes, if you please," and we followed the crowd.

"Ah! you look like a different person," he said, smiling as we went into the light. I saw as we pa.s.sed a mirror that a bright spot was burning on each cheek, and my eyes were s.h.i.+ning unnaturally. "I could see you were dreadfully anxious about your cousin, and indeed I could not wonder at it."

"For the last time," said Victor in a low tone at my side, "will you dance with me?"

I yielded, and in a moment we were on the floor. Not an instant after that did I stop to think. If I had, my cheek would have paled to have found at the mercy of what fierce hatred, resentment and jealousy, my unguided soul then was, and whither they were hurrying me. To others, I was only a gay young girl, revelling in her first flush of triumph, thoughtless, innocent and happy. G.o.d help all such innocence and happiness!

It was the last dance; the carriage was already at the door. Mrs.

Churchill had limited us to five minutes; two or three were contending for my hand. Victor had hung around me all the evening, and I caught a gleam of his sad, expressive eyes. Josephine, on Mr. Rutledge's arm, pa.s.sed us at the moment. Turning toward Victor, I said to the others with a smile, "Mr. Viennet says this will be his last dance in America.

I think I must give it to him."

A flash of hope lighted up his handsome face. I trembled at what I had done as I took my place among the dancers. The words that I knew I must hear before we parted, I heard now. There was but a moment for the recital, but it sufficed. Was it that such homage soothed my wounded pride; or that, bewildered by this tempest of emotions, I had mistaken grat.i.tude for tenderness, kind regard for love? Whatever may have been my motive or excuse, the fact remained the same. Before I parted with Victor Viennet at the carriage door, I had accepted his love, and promised myself to him irrevocably.

How hot and still the night had grown! I leaned my forehead on the carriage window to cool its burning. The horses seemed to creep over the smooth road; I clenched my hands together to quiet their impatience. My companions, leaning back on the cus.h.i.+ons, slept or rested. This very tranquillity maddened me, and, holding my breath lest they should know how gaspingly it came, I wished and longed to be alone once more. I could not, did not dare to think till there were bolts and bars between me and the world. At last I caught sight of the welcome lights of Rutledge, and almost before the deliberate horses had stopped in front of the house, I burst open the carriage door, and flew up the steps.

"Have the others got home yet?" I asked of Kitty eagerly.

"No, Miss; but they'll be here in a minute. I see the lights of the barouche just by the park gate."

The other ladies paused in the parlor till the rest of the party should arrive; for me, I never stopped till I was within the sanctuary of my own room.

"No matter for undressing me to-night," I said to Kitty, who had followed me. "I can do all that is necessary for myself, and don't come till I ring for you in the morning; I am so tired I shall want to rest."

With a look of some disappointment she turned away, and I slid the bolt, with a trembling hand, between me and the outer world. But not between me and conscience, not between me and memory, not between me and remorse. I had thought, when once I am alone, this misery will vent itself in tears--this insufferable pain will yield to the relief of solitude and quiet. But I did not know with what I had to deal. I did not estimate what foes I had invoked--what remorse and regret were to be my comrades through the slow hours of that night.

With suicidal hand, it seemed to me, I had shut myself out forever from peace, forever from all chance of happiness. Nothing now but misery: the past, a sin and guilt to recall; the future, weariness but to imagine.

The promise I had given was to me as irrevocable and sacred as the marriage vow itself; and self-reproach only riveted the fetters more hopelessly, as I remembered the manly love of which I was so unworthy.

To draw back now, would but add perjury to my sins, and deal undeserved misery to the man I had deceived. No, hypocrisy became a duty now; he should never know the agony that I had wrestled with when I had first looked my engagement in the face. He should never know how the first hours of it had been blackened. But oh! plead repentance, I will bury this hateful secret in my heart; I will only live to serve him; I will make him happy; I will be a true and faithful wife.

True? questioned a voice within me; and with a miserable groan I hid my face, and owned that I must leave truth at the threshold of this new relation. I must enter it with a dead love in my heart, a false vow on my lips.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around-- * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear Till death, like sleep, might steal on me."

Sh.e.l.lEY.

"How late you have slept, Miss!" said Kitty, as she hurried up in answer to my bell. "I have been expecting you would ring for the last hour. Did you know, Miss, they are all at breakfast?"

"It will not take me many minutes," I said, sitting down for her to braid my hair. Kitty was in a desperate hurry this morning; her fingers trembled so she could hardly manage the heavy braids.

"The other young ladies are down some time ago," she said, with a sharp look at me in the gla.s.s. "I suppose if they were tired, they would get up this morning out of politeness to Mr. Viennet, as he goes away at ten, and he might think rather hard of it if they didn't take the trouble to come down in time to say good bye to him."

Encouraged, perhaps, by the color that suffused my face, she went on: "As for him, he's been up since daybreak, walking up and down the hall, and on the piazza, and starting and changing color every time a door opened or any one came on the stairs. I don't believe he wants to go away very much."

"Kitty, you are getting my hair too low; you're not thinking of what you are about."

Kitty blushed in her turn, and said nothing more, but hurried on my toilet. It was soon completed. I would thankfully have delayed it, but there was no longer anything to wait for, no longer the least excuse, and, to Kitty's inexpressible relief, I turned to leave the room. Kitty did not suspect with what a beating heart it was, though, and with what a blur before my eyes. I hardly saw the familiar objects in the hall, hardly distinguished a word in the hum of voices in the breakfast-room, as I paused an instant at the threshold. But there was no time for wavering now. I pushed open the door and entered.

There was a momentary hush on my entrance: Phil made a place for me beside him, saying:

"It is something new for you to be late. Aren't you well?"

"Dissipation doesn't agree with you, I fear," said Mrs. Churchill. "You look quite pale this morning."

"Mamma!" exclaimed Josephine, in a tone mock-confidential, just loud enough for every one to hear. "That is unkind! Surely, you remember what happens to-day!"

"Come, come, that's not fair," said Phil. "I thought you were more considerate, Joe. Let your cousin have her breakfast in peace."

"Don't let me keep everybody waiting," I said, faintly.

"Well, if you'll excuse us," exclaimed Josephine, starting up. "We have all finished." Then with a wicked look, "Mr. Viennet, you've been through your breakfast some time. Don't you want to take a farewell promenade on the piazza?"

Mr. Viennet bowed, and expressed his pleasure in rather a low voice.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, you're not going to forsake me, are you?" I asked, as the others rose.

"Of course not," said Phil. "I am always your very good friend when you'll allow me to be."

Josephine little knew how much I thanked her for her manoeuvre; though done from motives the least amiable, it was the kindest thing she could have thought of.

"Don't take that strong coffee," said Phil, noticing how my hand trembled, and subst.i.tuting for it a cup of tea; then putting everything within my reach, he sent the servant away, and began reading the paper himself.

If Phil Arbuthnot should ever prove himself my worst enemy, I never could forget the considerateness of that morning. He was tender-hearted and kind as a woman, and great, strong man as he was, there was a delicacy of feeling and gentleness about him, that suffered with everything weak and suffering, and strove, at all costs, to give aid and comfort. And aid and comfort, prompted by such a heart, could not fail to soothe. In his eyes, women were sacred; their influence over him unbounded. If he only had been thrown with those who could have elevated and purified, instead of narrowing and lowering his nature, how n.o.ble and large-hearted a man he might have been. He had sacrificed his profession, his prospects in life, and all that elevates and nerves a man, to his love for Josephine. How far she accepted it, how she meant to requite it, there is no need to say. I think she liked him; I think that she felt for him a tenderness that no one else could ever awaken in her heart. He had been her lover ever since they were girl and boy together, and in those young days, perhaps, she had fancied that the happiest thing in the world, would be to marry Phil. But such sweet romance had been scorched and shrivelled by the first breath of the world. Josephine had renounced such folly early; she was wise and prudent beyond her years, and she had been trained in a good school.

Some wondered that Mrs. Churchill could trust her daughter so constantly with a man of as pleasing an address as Phil; cousins were so apt to fancy each other. "I have perfect confidence in Josephine," said Mrs.

Churchill, proudly. It was not misplaced; Josephine Churchill might have been trusted with Cupid in person, if he had not been a desirable _parti_.

"What time is it?" I asked of Phil, in a low tone, after I had exhausted every device for prolonging my breakfast.

"Five minutes to ten," he answered, looking at his watch. "Shall we take a turn on the piazza, if you have finished?"

I followed him to the piazza. "It is too sunny for you," he said, as I screened my aching eyes from the light. "The parlor is pleasanter."

Ella was at the piano, playing some light air (very light, indeed, for the piano was not her forte), and chatting with Capt. McGuffy, who hung over her. Mrs. Churchill, Josephine, Grace, Ellerton, Victor and Mr.