CHAPTER VII.

"He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak; 'tis charity to shew."

It was a lovely afternoon, milder than November often vouchsafes, and perfectly clear. The sun was pretty low, and its slanting beams lighted the smooth lake and threw long shadows across the lawn and over the garden, through the winding paths of which I was now sauntering. The last two days having been marked by no improvement in Mr. Rutledge, he had, of course, not been out of his room, and I had been left pretty much to myself, and had improved the time in perfecting my knowledge of the out-door attractions of the place, and from stable to garden, I now knew it thoroughly. Delightful days those were, saving the occurrence of a little loneliness and ennui that would creep over me as evening approached; delightful days, when, without a thought of care for present or future, I wandered unchecked over the loveliest spot I had as yet seen. A long avenue led from the house to the gate; the lawn on the right sloped down to the lake, a lovely sheet of water surrounded on three sides by woods; and around as far as the eye could reach, stretched wide fields, rich with cultivation, and woodlands where one could almost fancy the axe had never resounded. Further, however, than the gate, and the lake, and the boundaries of the lawn, I had never dared to venture. Dared, though, is not exactly the term; for if I had even thought of the word in that connection, I should probably have gone miles in an opposite direction, to prove that, as to that, I _dared_ go anywhere. But I had a sort of chivalrous respect for what I was certain would be the wishes of my protector, now _hors de combat_, and determined, therefore, to stay within the grounds.

Which were ample enough to satisfy any reasonable young person, certainly, and picturesque enough, and well kept enough for the most fastidious. That particular afternoon, as the declining sun lighted up the dark massive house, and the fine old trees, nearly bare though they were, and the winding paths of the garden and broad fields beyond, Rutledge seemed to me the realization of all I had ever dreamed or read, of beauty and of stateliness. I walked slowly down the garden; the faint smell of some lingering grapes on the arbor overhead perfumed the air; the dead leaves rustled under my feet, alone breaking the stillness peculiar to an autumn afternoon, unprofaned by the many murmurs of insect-life, or the animating song of summer bird. You might listen for hours, and a nut dropping off the tree among the dry leaves, or the tinkling of a cow-bell, acres off across the fields, or the letting down a pair of bars somewhere about the farm, would be all the sounds that would break the serene silence.

But just when I was speculating on this, I heard another and a very distinct sound, and looking whence it proceeded, discovered it to be the shutting of the hall door, and presently some one descended the steps and walked leisurely toward the garden. "Hurrah!" I exclaimed aloud, "it's Mr. Rutledge!" And I ran down the path, followed closely by a little terrier, who had introduced himself to my notice at the barn, and not being unfavorably received, had attended my movements ever since. It was not till I was within a few yards of Mr. Rutledge, that the recollection of that unlucky "hero" business brought me to a sudden stand-still, and took all the cordiality out of my greeting. He had seen me coming, and was waiting for me, evidently, however, somewhat at a loss to account for my sudden shyness, putting it down, it is probable, though, to the score of childishness and folly along with the rest of my shortcomings and absurdities.

"I see," he said, extending his hand, "that you've been getting better as industriously as I have been getting worse. You begin to look quite like the little girl I brought away from St. Catharine's."

"I am as well as possible, sir. How is your arm?"

"It isn't _my_ arm! it is Doctor Sartain's. I don't take any of the responsibility of it. I do not think, however, it could possibly be much worse, as far as I can be supposed to judge."

He spoke lightly, but I perceived in a moment that he was looking very much paler than when I had last seen him.

"Ought you to be out, sir, if you still suffer from it?"

"I suppose not," he answered, as we walked slowly down the path; "but to tell you the truth, I was tired of the house, and _coûte qui coûte_, determined to get a breath of fresh air."

I couldn't help remembering a certain scene in the library not many days ago, and giving him rather a wicked look, made him remember it too.

"I had nobody, however, you see, to make me stay in and by showing a little firmness at the risk of putting me in a bad temper, keep me from doing an imprudent thing."

"I should have supposed, sir, that Mrs. Roberts would have been in her element on such an occasion. I thought she always adopted the opposition ticket."

"By the way," he said, laughing, "how do you and Mrs. Roberts get on? You weren't very much charmed with her at first sight, were you?"

"I do not adore her yet, sir, but I don't think she's quite as dreadful as I did."

"You thought, poor child," he continued in the same tone, "that you were in a dreary prison. Absurd as it was, I could not help feeling dreadfully sorry for you; and ought to feel so yet, I suppose, only I've had no time lately to feel sorry for anybody but myself."

"Indeed, sir, I think you are the fittest subject," I said a little nettled. "I am as contented as possible, and shouldn't mind staying here a year."

"You like Rutledge, then?"

"Yes," I returned, "but I hardly dare say so, after the way in which Mrs. Roberts snapped me up about it the other night."

"How was that," he asked, with some curiosity.

I related the peculiar manner in which she had received my admiration of it, and ended by asking him if he could imagine what was the cause of it.

"Oh," he said, carelessly, "you must not mind what she says, and make all excuses for her. She has had a great deal of trouble, and is naturally of a nervous and irritable disposition, and living here alone has increased all her peculiarities in a very great degree."

"In a very uncomfortable degree," I said; and Mr. Rutledge was continuing, when his further remarks were cut short by the desertion of two of the party, to wit, the terrier and myself. Now I had no intention of being rude, but looking down at that moment, I discovered that Tigre had possessed himself of one of my gloves, and was gnawing and shaking it with unspeakable _goût_. I made a motion to take it from him, whereon the rascal darted away down the path, then paused an instant, and before I could reach him, was away again toward the barn. I could not surrender so, and forgetting everything but the chase, tore after him at the top of my speed. To see the way in which that little object "streaked" along, looking back at me out of the corners of his eyes! Four legs naturally get over the ground faster than two, and Tigre had the start of me besides, but I had graduated in running at St. Catharine's, and was not to be beaten by such an antagonist as this. It was a steeple chase of no unexciting character.

"We staid not for brake, and we stopped not for stone."

A ditch intervened, but proved no obstacle, and on we tore, till we reached the low fence that separated the grounds from the outbuildings. Tigre shot under it--I took it at a flying-leap. He was making for the barn, and once there, he would baffle me; some favorite hole or inaccessible cranny would shelter him from my pursuit, and hide forever from human gaze my ill-fated glove. This goading thought sustained my flagging energy in the same proportion that the nearness of the goal reanimated that of Tigre. On, on, with desperate resolve! Stephen leaned on his spade to witness the issue of the race, Michael paused, the currycomb in his suspended hand, to see the result; and both involuntarily ejaculated, "Pretty well done!" as on the very threshold of the barn, I sprang upon my opponent and wrested the glove from his determined teeth! And in a frantic romp, we rolled together over and over on the hay, Tigre's active paws and nose in my very face, his excitement carrying him beyond all bounds of decorum, and mine, alas! making me as forgetful of all proprieties; till an approaching footstep recalled me to my senses.

Throwing down Tigre, I sprang up, and hastily shaking the hay from my dress, and pushing back my disordered hair, prepared myself for the lecture I knew I deserved, and "cut and dried" a very impertinent rejoinder. I might have saved myself the trouble; Mr. Rutledge did not take any more notice of me than if I had been Tigre's four-legged and shaggy compatriot. Passing through the barn, he called up one of the men, and gave him orders about the storing of some grain; sent for another upon the question of supplies; talked with Stephen about the state of the grape-vines; with Michael about the condition of the colts; inspected the poultry-yard; pronounced upon the cattle; equally a connoisseur, and thoroughly at home on every point.

During this time, I leaned thoughtfully against the barn door, and reviewed my own conduct, and that of Mr. Rutledge. Of course, I had been unladylike and all that--I knew it as well as anybody; but then, I was old enough to do as I liked, and who had a right to reprove me? Well, nobody _had_ reproved me. But then, I knew just as well what he thought of me; I knew he considered me rude, disrespectful, childish; and it would have been ten times less hateful of him to have been angry and done with it, than to have taken no notice of me in any way, just as if he had at once dropped me out of his esteem, consideration and recollection altogether. Angry, humbled, but rebellious, I lingered a long while near him, with a hope that he would say something that I could resent, but no such chance was afforded me. Mr. Rutledge's whole mind was given to his business; and sullenly enough, I called to Tigre and turned toward the house. It was unlucky that I did not know how to whistle--I longed to whistle a tune, and put my hands in my pockets with a jaunty and defiant air as I passed Mr. Rutledge on my way to the house. As it was, I was obliged to content myself with the significant attitude alone, that was meant to convey tones of don't-care sauciness and indifference.

I did not feel at all like going indoors when I reached the house, though it was growing dark very rapidly; and with Tigre at my heels, paced for a long while up and down the stone walk before the steps of the piazza. The sound of Mr. Rutledge's approaching footsteps, far from checking my walk, quickened it considerably, and calling to Tigre, just as he reached the terrace, I started at a brisk pace down the avenue. Mr. Rutledge stopped and called me; I went on, pretending not to hear. He called again, and this time there was no avoiding it. I turned sharply round and said:

"Did you speak, sir?"

"It is too late for you to be out; you will take cold."

"I am not afraid, sir, I shall soon be in;" and I turned away.

"But it is too late," repeated Mr. Rutledge, in a voice I could not mistake. "You must excuse my interference, but I should prefer your coming in now."

I looked down the avenue, the moon was just rising, though day had not quite faded in the west; I wondered what would be the result if I dared rebel; I almost determined I would. But I glanced toward the house; Mr. Rutledge stood holding the door open for me with a resolute quietness that made resistance impossible. With a bad enough grace I turned back, ran up the steps, and passed through the doorway without raising my eyes, and never stopped till I had gained the second story, and locked myself into my own room. Most bitter and most extravagant tears I shed of course, very angry and very implacable resolves I made; and finished off by a violent fit of contrition and humility under the influence of which I started to my feet, and remembering that it was long past tea-time, hastily smoothed my hair, and followed by my little favorite, ran quickly down the stairs and paused a moment at the library door. All contrition, I half opened it, and looking in, with a most April-like face, whereon smiles and tears contended, said humbly:

"May Tigre and I come in, sir?"

Mr. Rutledge sat reading by the fire; tea was on the table. He looked up a moment, then resumed his book.

"Without doubt; tea is waiting."

I came up to the fire, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece. If he would only look up, and not be so hopelessly cold and indifferent! My penitent speeches fled at the sight; I could never tell him how ashamed and sorry I felt, while he looked so. He did not look any otherwise, however, all through the uncomfortable meal, that I thought never meant to end; nor during the uncomfortable hours that succeeded the uncomfortable meal, that seemed to stretch out, like a clown's leg, indefinitely and interminably.

I had time to realize and become very well acquainted with the fact, that I had forfeited the newly-acquired position of companion, and had sunk to the capricious child again. He had just begun to treat me like a reasonable creature, and to talk to me for something besides the kindness of amusing me, and now by my own folly, I had made an end to all this, and compelled him to see in me nothing but childishness and self-will.

Mr. Rutledge, after tea, had taken up his book again, and pushed across the table to me some new reviews that had come that day, saying, perhaps I might find something amusing in them. That meant I was to amuse myself. That meant there was to be no talking, no reading aloud, no dictating of letters.

"It's all Tigre's fault, the little villain!" I ejaculated, mentally, pushing him angrily down from my lap, as I took up the literature assigned me. The discarded favorite uttered a low whine, looked pleadingly up in my angry face, then walked over to his master, and putting his paws on the arm of his chair, wagged his tail, and looked imploringly for permission to spring up. But an impatient "Off, sir!" made him withdraw abashed, and, standing on the rug between us, he gazed wonderingly from one to the other. If it had not been for the precedent of "the dog in the manger," and the proverbial comparison of all cross people to "Hall's dog," I should have been certain that such scenes were entirely new to Tigre, and that in the bosom of his family bad tempers were unknown. As it was, he looked very much mystified and considerably shocked; and at length concluded to lie down where he was, at an equal distance from both antagonists, to whose movements, however, he lent an attentive eye and ear. But there was not much to repay his watchfulness; for beyond an occasional symptom of fatigue on my part, and the periodical turning of the leaves of Mr. Rutledge's book, dire and entire quiet reigned.

At last, at half past nine, I sprang up, determined to put an end to such an evening; and with a firm resolution not to say more than the one necessary word, "good night," I looked furtively toward my companion. He had closed the book, and leaning his face on his hand sat looking into the fire. Just so he had looked the other night when I had felt so sorry for him; and perhaps I felt the least bit sorry now. To my good night, he replied, carelessly, "Good night;" then, looking up at the clock, said:

"It is early yet."

"But I am very tired," and I moved toward the door. "I forgot to ask you, sir," I said, turning back, "whether you had any letters you would like to have answered?"

"No, thank you; none of any importance. You need not stay."

Contrition, pity, good resolutions, etc., all rushed over me; making three steps back into the room, and swallowing down the rebellious pride and temper, I came out with--

"If I am a child, sir, I am old enough to know when I have done wrong, and not too old to be willing to acknowledge it. I am very well aware that I have been rude and disrespectful to you, and I hope you will have the goodness to excuse it."

He looked at me for a moment with a puzzled air, as if he had not quite expected the sudden humiliation; though I am not sure that my attitude implied so much of humiliation as it did of determined conscientiousness. After a moment's quiet scrutiny, which I bore unflinchingly, he said:

"I am not quite sure that I understand to what you allude, nor how I come to be entitled to pass judgment on your conduct. Pray explain."

The blood mounted to my temples as I answered:

"I acknowledged my faults to you, because they were committed against you; because to you I owed respect, attention, and courtesy, which I failed to show. I owed this to you as my elder, my host, and the person who, in a manner, had charge of me."

"You seem to have analyzed your duty pretty thoroughly, I must acknowledge! You have stricter views of duty than most persons of your age."

"I don't resent the sarcasm, sir; I know it is well merited."

"I did not intend it sarcastically. I say again you have shown a habit of mind, that, if persevered in, will lead you to a high standard of excellence."

"My failures in duty, since I came here, sir, have been too conspicuous to let me understand you literally."

"You judge yourself severely; I cannot recall any very flagrant offences."

"They would not," I said, as steadily as I could, "be likely to make the same impression on you as on me; with me they were matters of conscience; with you they were, I hope, only occasion of momentary surprise, or better, of indifference and inattention."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Rutledge, "I have watched you attentively since you came here, and have taken quite a strong interest in all you have said and done."

"You are kind," I exclaimed, nettled more at the tone than the words. "Then I shall have to be doubly careful while I have the honor to be under your eye."

He went on, as if he had not heard me: "It has appeared to me that you are in most respects"----

"I must beg," I exclaimed, with an impatient gesture, "that you will defer your summary till I am in a better frame of mind to bear it. Just now, it wouldn't be as profitable as you, no doubt, desire to make it."

"I should be sorry," he replied, "to spoil the humility you have taken such pains to get in order for the occasion, and will not say a word to interfere with it."

"Do you know humility when you see it, sir?" I could not help saying under my breath.

"I learned a good deal about it when I was young," he answered, "and thought, till I came to years of discretion, that I knew all that could be taught in regard to it. But I have since discovered that there is more spurious coin bearing that stamp than almost any other; false pride, wounded vanity, morbid self-love, all get themselves up under the title of humility, and pass current very readily."

I bowed. "Wounded vanity fits me, I think. May I retire, sir, if you have nothing further to say?"

"But I have," he exclaimed, suddenly changing his tone. "I have a great deal more to say." And, taking my hand, he drew me down into the chair beside him, and looking at me with a mixture of kindness and mirth, he said:

"So you are beginning to feel ashamed of yourself, are you? You are such an absurd child, it is impossible to be angry with you, or tired of you, for you are never two minutes alike. Upon my word you're quite a study!"

He did not let go my hand, and though I turned my face away, I could not escape his eyes.

"The uncertain glory of an April day," he exclaimed. "Why, a minute ago you were angry, then you were pleased, now you are frightened, and I suppose you will wind up with a burst of tears. How is one to take you?"

For this style of lecture I had not any retort ready, so I only hung my head, and was silent.

"One moment you are a woman, intelligent and sensible, the next a pettish child. One day you show a sympathy, a tact, a depth of feeling, that go to one's very heart; the next, capricious, silly, and childish, you destroy it all. Sometimes you amuse yourself with Tigre, sometimes with me. And," he continued, after a pause, "sometimes you talk too much, and sometimes, as at present, for instance, too little. Well?" he went on, interrogatively, having elicited no reply. "Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself? Then go!" he exclaimed, throwing my hand from him. "I am tired of you; you've been one thing too long; you've been silent exactly two minutes."

I got up very quickly, and retreated toward the door.

"What?" said Mr. Rutledge, rising and standing by the fire. "You are going? Why, we have but just made up."

"I am not quite positive that we have," I answered, lighting my candle. "It's rather a one-sided make-up, it strikes me."

"How so? You surely haven't any complaint to make of me, after all my unexampled goodness to you?"

"Of course not!" I exclaimed; "nothing to say about your treating me like a baby, and expecting me to behave like a woman, making me talk to make you laugh, and putting my French and my temper to the hardest tests you could think of; and then, after I've vexed you by a little inattention, pushing me aside, as if I weren't capable of understanding a reproof, and turning your back on me for a whole evening. _I_ have nothing to complain of, of course! Good night, sir."

"Stay a moment! You take away my breath with all that catalogue. _I_ tease you! _I_ laugh at you! Impossible!"

"So I said, sir; and now, if you please, good night."

"Ah! I see I must get you away to your aunt; I shall spoil you if I keep you here much longer. You are getting very saucy; Miss Crowen wouldn't own you."

"I am afraid you are right there," I said, with a little sigh; "I don't think I am improving very much."

"Well, then," he said, seriously, "suppose we determine to do better for the future, and instead of trifling and teasing, be good sensible friends. Will that suit you?"

"I think it would be about as one-sided a friendship as the reconciliation was."

"Why? Are you not willing to be my friend?"

"Of course I am; but friendship implies equality, and all that sort of thing, and the power to help each other. Now, you know the absurdity of my being your friend, as well as I know it, and you are laughing at me."

"Do I look as if I were laughing at you?" And indeed he did not.

"Well, but," I continued, "you know perfectly well I like you, and would do anything in the world to serve you, but that cannot make up for my inability to do it, you see."

"You can do a great deal to help me," he answered. "There are a hundred ways in which you can prove yourself my friend."

I laughed incredulously.

"You doubt it?" he said. "Listen, little girl. I have not many friends. I do not choose to believe in many people. I choose to believe in you; therefore you can do me a kindness by keeping alive in my heart a little faith in human nature. I have many cares to harass me in the present; much that is sad to remember of the past. By your youth and cheerfulness you can brighten the one; by your gentleness and sympathy you can soothe the recollections of the other. Youth is gone from me forever, but you can be the link between it and me, and keep it in sight a little longer. You can show me what I once was, earnest, hopeful, and trusting, and so keep me from forgetting what I should be. Above all, you can be honest, and never deceive me; and faithful, and never withdraw from your allegiance. This is what you can do for me: now, what can I do for you?"

I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come, so he helped me to them.

"You find it difficult to enumerate my duties? Something like this, perhaps, is what you will require of me. I must be careful not to wound the sensitiveness of one naturally much more susceptible to unkindness than myself. I must bear patiently with childish faults, and not forget the indulgence due to youth. I must be just and unflattering, and when my maturer judgment suggests amendment, it is my duty, is it not, to point it out? For having been over the same ground that you are to travel, I can give you many hints that will make your path an easier one, if you will but receive them. And finally, I am to have your interest always at heart, and to observe the same faith and truthfulness toward you that I expect you to maintain toward me. Will you subscribe to that? Is it what you would require of me?"

"Yes, that is fair, I think."

"Well, then, give me your hand upon it, and remember the compact is sealed; we are friends henceforth! Stay, what shall we have as a reminder of this promise? Some pledge, some security is necessary, for we might forget, in the lapse of years, you know."

He went up to an escritoire in a distant corner of the room, and unlocking it, took from a secret drawer two or three little boxes, and from these selecting one, replaced the others, turned the key, and came back to the table. The box contained a bracelet of curious foreign coins, handsomely mounted--a very unique and elegant ornament. This Mr. Rutledge proceeded to fit around my wrist, and with my assistance (having the use of only one hand) clasped.

"Are you willing to wear it always," he said, "_in memoriam_?"

"Yes."

"Well, then good bye to liberty!" and he turned a tiny gold key that I had not noticed in the clasp, and took it out. I must confess to a feeling not unlike bondage when the lock was snapped and the key withdrawn; and involuntarily exclaimed:

"But what if I want to take it off?"

"You must not want to, the thing is irrevocable," he said coolly, fastening the key upon his watch-chain, "help me with this. I have but one hand, you know."

"I don't altogether like the idea," I said obeying him nevertheless, and arranging the little key on his chain.

"You should have thought of that before," he said with a laugh. "It is too late to retract. You may well look serious," he continued noticing my expression. "You forgot, when you made it, what a solemn thing a promise was; but now you'll have something to remind you of its weight, and of the impossibility of getting rid of it. There's no danger now that you'll forget you promised to be my friend; you are bound, irrevocably, solemnly, forever!"

"I thought you weren't to tease," I exclaimed shaking my arm. "It's a very pretty thing, but I shall hate it if I feel that I must wear it always, and that I can't take it off when I want to."

"That's exactly what I meant to guard against. If you could take it off whenever you were tired of it, you would of course soon throw it aside, and there would be an end of compact, friendship and all. I hope you know me better than to suppose I would be satisfied with such an arrangement! _Now_, no matter how many little obstacles in the way of oceans, mountains, and other imbecile contrivances of Nature for the separation of friends, intervene, I shall feel as if I had a check upon your conduct, a guardian of my place in your affections that will make me quite easy about it. For you know of course, the legends that are related of such gifts. I hope you are not superstitious, but you remember the power attributed to them; how such a pledge will surely take the giver's part, and grow tighter and tighter till the pain is unendurable should the wearer, in her inmost heart, harbor a thought of treachery or faithlessness."

"I suppose, sir, having my arm amputated in case I changed my mind, would free me from the obligation of wearing it, would it not?"

Mr. Rutledge shook his head gravely.

"I am not of the opinion that it would; but I hope we shall not have to proceed to any such extreme measures."

"Oh, it's my left arm, I shouldn't mind very much. You manage so well with one, that I should feel encouraged by your example, if my handcuff should grow too unbearable."

"Still there are advantages in possessing the use of both, that I would not advise you to give up unnecessarily. For instance, if you wanted a cigar from the case on the top of that étagère, which cannot be reached down without two hands, your temper would be severely tried in having to ring for Thomas to get it for you, or having to depend upon the uncertain charity of a most capricious friend who might or might not, be in the humor to serve you."

"But I shouldn't be likely to want a cigar," I said as standing in a chair I lifted down the case, and took out one.

"There are matches on the mantelpiece," he said nonchalantly as I handed it to him. I brought the matches, drew one, and held it for him, as he lit his cigar.

"Anything more sir?"

"Nothing but the evening paper, which you interrupted me in reading, half an hour ago."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but you haven't had a paper in your hand since tea," I said, hunting among the piles of books and papers on the table for it. "Here it is. Good night."

"Doesn't common kindness suggest your staying to read it for me."

"No sir, it hasn't suggested it as yet," I replied as I took up my long neglected candle. "It suggests 'good-night,' sir," and the door closed between us before he could answer.

The moon was making my room so bright, that I soon put out the candle as superfluous, and wrapping my dressing gown about me, sat in the bay window for a long, long while, watching the soft shadows on the lawn, and the silvery smoothness of the lake. Ah! how hateful it would be to leave this quiet place, and go among strangers again! The idea of city life had never been altogether attractive, but now seemed most distasteful. Altogether, my new home in New York did not to-night attract my errant fancy, neither did the old school life draw it back regretfully, from a Present so sufficing that I did not ask myself why it was better than Past or Future; nor why my fancy, usually so eager on the wing, should lie so contentedly in so calm a nest.