RUTLEDGE

By

MIRIAM COLES HARRIS

NEW YORK:

DERBY & JACKSON, 498 BROADWAY.

1860.

CHAPTER I.

"Heavily hangs the broad sunflower,
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger lily."

TENNYSON.

It was the gloomy twilight of a gloomy November day; dark and leaden clouds were fast shutting out every lingering ray of daylight; and the wind, which moaned dismally around the house, was tossing into mad antics the leaves which strewed the playground. The lamps were not lighted yet; of visible fires the pensionnat of St. Catharine's was innocent; a dull black stove, more or less gigantic, according to the size of the apartment, gloomed in every one, and affected favorably the thermometer, if not the imagination. We paced untiringly up and down the dim corridor—Nelly, Agnes and I—three children, who, by virtue of our youth, ought to have been let off, one would have thought, for some years yet, from the deep depression that was fast settling on our spirits. In truth we were all three very miserable, we thought—Nelly and Agnes, I am afraid, more so than I, who in common justice ought to have participated deeply in, as I was the chief occasion of, their grief.

My trunk was packed and strapped, and stood outside the door of my dormitory, ready for the porter's attention. In it lay my school-books, closed forever, as I hoped; and souvenirs innumerable of school friendships and the undying love of the extremely young persons by whom I was surrounded.

From them I was to be severed to-morrow, as was expected, and

"It might be for years, and it might be for ever,"

as Nelly had just said, choking up on the last sentence. I did feel unhappy, and very much like "choking up" too, when I passed the great windows, that looked into the playground, and remembered all the mad hours of frolic I had passed there; when I took down my shawl from the peg where it had hung nightly for five years, and remembered, with a thrill, it was "the last time;" when the lid of my empty desk fell down with an echo that sounded drearily through the long school-room; when I thought "where I might be this time to-morrow," and when Agnes' and Nelly's arms twined about me, reminded me of the rapidly approaching hour of separation from those who had represented the world to me for five years—whom I had loved and hated, and by whom I had been loved and hated, with all the fervor of sixteen. The hatreds now were softened down by the nearness of the parting; all my ancient foes, (and they had not been few), had "made up" and promised forgiveness and forgetfulness entire; and all ancient feuds were dead. All my friends now loved me with tenfold the ardor they had ever felt before; all the staff of teachers, who had, I am afraid, a great deal to forgive, of impatient self-will, mad spirits and thoughtless inattention, were good enough to forget all, and remember only what they were pleased to call the truth and honesty and courage, that in the years we had been together, they had never known to fail.

They little knew how their unlooked for praise humbled me; and how far more deeply than any reproach, it made me realize the waste of time and talents that I had to look back upon.

So, most unexpectedly to myself, I found that I was going off with flying colors; that all were joining to deplore my departure and laud my good qualities; and that, from being rather a "limb" in the eyes of the school, and a hopeless sinner in my own, I was promoted, temporarily, to the dignity of heroine at St. Catharine's.

It was with a very full heart that I remembered all this; and deeper feelings than I had known since my childhood were stirred by the kindness I was certain was as undeserved as it was unexpected. But such a future dawned before me, that tender regret struggled hard with giddy hope for the mastery. In almost every girl's life, leaving school is a marked and important event; and imagination has always a wide, and generally well-cultivated field for its powers, even when home and future are as certain as things mundane can be. But in my case there was so much room for dreaming, so much raw material for fancy to work up, that a tamer and less imaginative child than I was, would have been tempted into castle-building. The sad event that five years before had placed me, a stunned, bewildered, motherless child, in the midst of strangers, had largely developed the turn for dreaming that such children always possess. The sympathy and love that God provides for every child that is born into the world, withdrawn, they turn "not sullen, nor in scorn," but from an instinct He has himself implanted, inward, for their sympathy and counsel. So it happened, that though Nelly and Agnes, and a dozen merry girls beside, were my sworn friends and very firmest allies, none of them knew anything of the keen wonder and almost painful longing with which I pictured the future to myself. They knew, of course, the simple facts, that as I had no father or mother, I was to go and live with my aunt, who had been in Europe until this summer and whom I had not seen since my mother died; that she had three daughters, one older, two younger than myself; that she had sent me some pretty things from Paris, and was, probably, very kind, and I should have a very nice time.

They knew only these bare beams and framework of the gorgeous fabric I had reared upon them; they little knew the hours of wakefulness in which I wondered whether I should be happy or miserable in that new home; whether my aunt would love me as I already most ardently loved her; whether the new cousins were at all like Nelly and Agnes; and whether they were prepared to value the wealth of affection I had in reserve for them. But time would soon settle all this into certainty; and my aunt's last letter, containing all the final arrangements for my journey, I at present knew by heart. The only possible shade of uncertainty about my starting, lay in the chance of the gentleman who was to be my escort, being detained by business a day or two longer at C——, and not arriving to-night, as had been considered probable.

Nelly built greatly upon this possibility, and as the twilight deepened, and the moaning wind and growing darkness pressed more and more upon us, we turned to that as our only chance of comfort. Nelly had said, for the twentieth time, "I am sure he will not come till to-morrow, it is too late for him now," when a sharp ring at the bell made us all start, and sent the blood swiftly enough through my veins, and, I suppose, no less swiftly through my young companions'; for Nelly convulsively clasped me round the neck and burst into tears, while Agnes said, in a choking voice, "I'm certain of it!" And for three dreadful minutes of suspense we stood motionless, holding our breath, and watching for the first token of the approach of the messenger who should confirm or confute our forebodings.

At last, steps echoed along the hall, and bearing a dim candle, which blinked nervously at every step, appeared the Biddy who officiated as waiter at St. Catharine's. She had a card in her hand, and our end of the corridor seemed her destination, and our party the party she was in search of.

"Well?" said Agnes, making a distracted effort to break the silence, as Biddy groped stupidly and slowly toward us. "A gentleman," she said, "a gentleman to see you, miss," and she handed me the card. "I knew it," said Agnes, with a deep sigh, as, per favor of the blinking candle, the three heads, clustered over the card, made out the name, "Mr. Arthur Rutledge."

"Oh, I am so frightened!" I said, sitting down on the lowest step of the stairs. "Girls, what