Rutledge

by Miriam Coles Harris

I did not swoon or cry; I did not even drop the candle from my hand, nor loose the grasp with which I held back the curtains; but, with glazed eyes and freezing veins, gazed steadily at what lay before me. Pale with the unmistakable pallor of death, one arm thrown above his head, the other buried in his bosom, his dark tangled curls lying distinct against the pillow, his manly limbs rigid—a crimson stream that had stained his breast, and was creeping down upon the bed, gave awful proof that Victor and I had indeed parted forever—that my wretched lover lay dead before me.

Brought so suddenly to my sight, there was nothing in that moment of the remorse and the lingering tenderness that after the first shock nearly deprived me of reason; it was only horror—staring, ghastly horror—at the sight of his dead body—at the thought of his lost soul; the words that rang in my head, and the first that struggled to my lips were: "God have mercy on his soul! God have mercy on his soul!" Dead—without a prayer—dead—by his own hand—cast out forever from God's mercy—a wailing, damned, lost soul through all eternity. I stood as if turned to stone; my companion, in an agony of grief and consternation, had thrown himself on his knees beside the bed; his iron fortitude broken down before this awful judgment that, laying bare the anguish of the past, had interwoven itself so strangely with the present; the unerring retribution that had worked out this end to sins so long ago committed.

But no sob or cry came from my lips; no tears dimmed my riveted eyes. I heard the broken words that burst from him as in a dream, and neither knew nor felt that there was anything in this world but blank horror—hopeless consternation—till from a slight movement of the candle, I caught the shine of a trinket that the unhappy man had worn around his neck. Bending forward, I saw in a moment what it was. A little ring of mine, and a link of the broken bracelet, worn on a chain next his heart while living, now wet with blood, was lying still above the heart that beat no more. At that sight a passion of tears came to my relief. His tender and devoted love, the miserable return I had made, the unkindness of our parting, my shameful injustice and deceit, the cruelty of his sufferings, all rushed over me and shook me with a tempest of tears and sobs. I threw myself beside him on the bed, and covered his cold hand with tears and caresses; wild with pain and remorse, I laid my cheek against his on the pillow, and implored him to forgive me, to speak to me but once, to say I had not killed him; with incoherent passion I called heaven to witness that I really loved him—that I would have been true to him—that I would have died for him—that I had nothing else to live for or to love.

It was long before, worn out by excess of weeping, I yielded to my companion, and was led faint and almost unresisting from the room. With a few words of pity, he left me in my own apartment, reluctantly turning away from me, so wretched and so lonely. But I shook my head; I did not want any one, I had rather be by myself.

"No one can do you much good, it is true," he said sadly. "God help you!" and he left me.

I stood motionless for some minutes after the door closed upon him. Then, stung by some fresh recollection and by the added terrors of solitude, I paced rapidly up and down the room, and flinging myself on my knees by the bedside, I prayed incoherently and passionately for Victor—for myself—for pardon and for death. I could not endure one thought or one occupation long: before I rose from my knees my resolution was taken; my brain would have given way if I had not had some necessity for exertion, some design to carry out. And strange and sudden as my determination was, I doubt whether I could have done anything wiser and better. There was one uncontrollable longing uppermost—to escape from this place, to hide myself forever from all who had ever known me here.

Stealthily and hurriedly, for Kitty was sleeping in the dressing-room, I went through my preparations. They were not many; there were some letters to be burned and one to be written, some clothes to be selected and made up into a package, a trinket to be clasped round Kitty's arm, and a coin slipped in her hand, and I was ready. I looked at my watch; it was half-past three, the faint grey dawn was just streaking the eastern sky, I must go. Where should I put my letter? I sat down and hurriedly wrote the address, then with a momentary indecision, the first that had marked my rapid movements since my resolution was taken, I opened and read it over:

"You will not be surprised when you find that I have gone away. You can understand, if you will think a moment about it, and try to realize what I should have to endure in concealing and controlling my feelings, that it is the only thing I could do. My life with Mrs. Churchill has grown so intolerable that I had before this resolved it should not continue. And now is the best time to do what at any other moment would be painful, but which at this, is only a relief. Inquiries and investigations as to where I go, will be just so many cruelties; will you do this last of many kindnesses, and help to cover my retreat, and keep them from any attempts to find me? It would kill me to have to face any of them now; will you not trust me enough to help me to the only comfort possible to me now, solitude and rest? You are ingenious, you can divert them from it, if you try; it is not as if they had any instincts of affection to guide them in finding me out. You need not let them know that I did not project the pastime of last night to accomplish a premeditated flight. If you ever had any kindness for me, do not try to find me out yourself, do not let them. You may trust me when I promise you I will do nothing rash, nothing that you would not approve if I could tell you. I promise you that I will remember my religion and my womanhood, and spend what length of life God sentences me to, as penitently, patiently and reasonably as He will grant me grace to do. If you will show this proof of confidence and friendship, you will never repent it.

"God knows, you have little reason to trust in me: but I am changed—I am much changed—I will not deceive you now. If you will believe in me this once, and shield me from exposure, and leave me in peace where I may choose to go, I will pledge you my word that as soon as I shall ascertain that you have sailed for Europe, I will write you fully and truthfully where I am, and what I intend to do, and will from that time make no secret of my place of abode and my plans.

"There is another thing—but I need not ask it of you. You, for your own sake are concerned to keep this cruel secret that I have so long been hiding, a secret still. It passes now from my hands to yours. Perhaps I should be insensible to disgrace and ignominy; they cannot harm him now: but oh! shield me from them, save his memory from shame. Do not let the world know of it till that day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed; when God shall commit all judgment to His Son, who is more merciful than man—more compassionate and more just.