Rutledge

by Miriam Coles Harris

A dark frown contracted his brow; a forbidding compression of the lips renewed the dread that had begun to lessen under his patient kindness. During the five minutes that he stood thus by the window, we were, I suppose, as entirely forgotten as one of us, at least, desired to be. The trivial Present fell back into insignificance and oblivion before the iron domination of some stern memory, that touched with ruthless hand, his tenderest affection, that humbled his pride, and baffled his indomitable will. This much I could see, in the restless light of his dark eye, as it wandered over the familiar scene; child as I was, I could not but see the suffering in his face. At last, with an effort, he threw off the tyrant memory, and abruptly turning, quitted the room. Something almost as human as a sigh escaped from Mrs. Roberts' blue lips, as his steps echoed across the hall, and his door closed heavily.

With me, the day passed quietly and pleasantly enough; Mrs. Roberts took the precaution to leave Kitty alone with me as little as possible, always managing to come in, when Kitty had got nicely fixed with her sewing at the furthest window, and find some excuse to send her away for half an hour or so. But as Kitty had brought me some books from the library, and as I felt too lazy and indifferent to object to anything, I did not much mind her surveillance.

The chicken soup that Kitty brought me for my dinner, was the very nicest ever administered to hungry convalescent; and after the meal was concluded, and the afternoon sun shut out, I made up for all deficiencies in last night's repose by a very satisfactory sleep; from which I awoke with a start, to find that I had slept "the all-golden afternoon" quite away, and that twilight was stealing over the quiet lake, and the rich autumn woods. I smoothed back the tumbled hair from my face, and leaning against the window, looked thoughtfully out. The sun had but just gone down, and left the horizon still glowing with his light, without a single cloud to break the unruffled calm of sky and lake. Not a breath of wind stirred the dead leaves that lay thick beneath the trees in the park—not a sound broke the stillness. How hushed and silent the dark house was! How much more to the past did it seem to belong, than to the living actual present. And turn my eyes or thoughts whichever way I might, they still reverted to some thing that would remind me of the strange story I had heard that morning, still brought before me the desolate room, where the dust of years lay on all traces of her, who, banished, or wronged, or fled, had darkened forever the home she left. With her, it seemed, had vanished the gaiety, the life of the house; following fast upon her absence had come death and desolation; and the sole survivor of this, her ancient race, grew stern and silent at the merest allusion to her.

My young brain grew feverish and impatient at the baffling mystery, and refused to entertain any other thought or interest. A vague dread and superstitious awe crept over me as the twilight waxed dimmer and greyer, and the dying fire smouldered on the hearth, and the stillness remained unbroken. Where was everybody; or had I slept over a few years, and were they all dead? And was I the only living thing in the great house—another Princess in another Day-dream, only wakened without the kiss, and the prince gone off in a huff?

I laughed aloud, but my laughter had a very hollow sound, and only made the succeeding silence more ghastly; it was very foolish, but I was exceedingly uncomfortable. Why didn't Kitty come? I could not find a bell. I searched in vain for matches; the fire was past service, and could not for its life, have raised flame enough to light a candle. Every minute the room grew darker and chillier, every minute the silence grew more and more oppressive. I began to think of what Kitty had said of the voice that still called "Alice" through the vacant halls; and then I wondered whether this were not the very room in which the father died; and then I tried not to listen or hear anything, and the next moment found myself with strained ear, watching for the lightest sound.

At last I could endure it no longer, and groping my way to the door, opened it, and held my breath, as I listened for some sound to indicate that I was not the only thing that breathed and lived within the gloomy walls. But such sound was wanting; a more vacant, drearier silence reigned without than within the room; through the long hall and distant corridors, not a footfall, not a motion; the rustle of my own dress awoke the only echoes. I dared not look toward the end of the hall that I had learned so much to dread; but starting forward and leaning over the balusters I called "Kitty," in a voice that would fain have been stentorian, but was in actual fact a whisper. No answer, of course, and the faltering whisper seemed to float down the dreary vacancy with mocking lightness and unconcern. I called again, this time desperation overcoming the choking terror.

Then there was a sound of some one moving, a door opened on the opposite side of the hall, a light appeared, and Mr. Rutledge's voice said, "What is it?"

What was it, indeed; it would have been difficult to say just what it was, and so I found it.

"Oh! it is you. I beg your pardon. Do you want Kitty?"

I said yes, and that I had been asleep, and just waked up a little while since, and could not find any matches. My white cheeks told the rest. Mr. Rutledge explained that Kitty had been sent to the post-office, and had not returned yet; he was very sorry she had not been at hand to attend to me, and coming across the hall, brought a light to my door. Very much ashamed of my fears, I went in to get my candle.