Rutledge Part 58

"Delightful!" cried the youngest Miss Mason.

"I'm ready for anything," said Phil, getting up and shaking himself.

"I'm afraid you will not find any oak chests," said Mr. Rutledge, discouragingly.

"Oh! yes, we will," cried Grace, "chests, and crannies, and closets, and wardrobes, and trap-doors without number. A regiment of soldiers might be hid away in this house and n.o.body the wiser."

Everybody was in the spirit of it now, and it was useless to oppose.

"Who shall hide first?" demanded Grace.

"Oh, your cousin, of course!" cried the captain. "She proposed the game."

I was voted in by acclamation.

"And you must take somebody with you, it will make it more exciting, but you must hide in separate places," added Grace.

"Very well; the captain must go out with me, and you must all go into the parlor, and promise, on your honor, to stay there five minutes by the clock, and then we give you leave to find us."

"We promise," said Ellerton; "but remember, you are to hide somewhere in the house, and to surrender yourselves in half an hour if you are not found before."

"Always provided," said the captain, shutting the parlor-doors upon them, "that we're not smothered in some old chest in the meantime."

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

"Sweetest lips that ever were kissed, Brightest eyes that ever have shone, May sigh and whisper, and _he_ not list, Or look away, and never be missed Long or ever a month be gone."

"Where shall we go?" said the captain, in a whisper, as we paused in the hall irresolutely.

"What do you think of the dining-room, behind the tall clock for one of us?"

The captain shook his head.

"They'll look there the first thing; it will not do. But in the second story, there's a huge old wardrobe that I've noticed at the north end, that would be a capital place for one."

"Yes, I know where you mean, but I think it's locked, and we haven't the key, and it would take too long to hunt up the housekeeper and get it.

There's the lower part of a bookcase in the library empty. Captain McGuffy, if you only could get into it! Not even Mr. Rutledge knows about it. Mrs. Roberts only cleared the books out of it last week, and you'd be as safe as possible. Do try if you can't arrange it, and I'll go somewhere upstairs; I know a place."

Captain McGuffy consented, and we hurried to the library. The hiding-place was not so large as I had fancied, but still my companion agreed to risk it. He doubled up like a jack-knife; it was perfectly wonderful to me how he ever got his long limbs into so small a compa.s.s.

"Are you comfortable?" I asked, smothering a laugh.

"Don't shut the door tight," he whispered, hoa.r.s.ely. "I can't stand this long."

I had no time for more lengthened condolences, but hurried off to dispose of myself. The second story was entirely clear; the servants were all downstairs; Mrs. Roberts was busy about supper. I resolved to hide behind the linen-press outside her door; but first, I thought, if I were quick, I could go one instant to Victor's door, whisper my excuses, and promise to come back when they were all gone. It was rather a dangerous thing to do, but the moment I heard the parlor-door open, I could fly to my hiding-place; I dared not lose this chance.

Moving aside the wardrobe with some effort, I tapped low at the door.

Again--and no answer. "Victor," I whispered at the key-hole, "come to the door one moment;" but not a sound from within.

Apprehension of I do not know what new danger overcame my prudence, and I wasted the few precious seconds I had to spare in irresolution. When it was too late to effect my escape, I heard the door of the parlor burst open, and Josephine's voice crying, "Allons!" They separated to all parts of the house, Grace, Janet, and Ellerton flying up the stairs.

There was but one thing for me to do: I hurriedly pulled the wardrobe after me into its place, opened the door, entered, and closed it stealthily behind me. Only when I was in it, did I realize the folly of what I had done. The room was as dark and silent as the grave; such a silence and such a darkness as would have chilled a stouter heart than mine. I whispered Victor's name--there was no answer. Had he fled, then, and was I alone in this horrid room--shut up in it for hours perhaps?

No! I would risk all and grope my way out, no matter if I encountered them all. I could endure this no longer. All Kitty had told me--all I ever fancied of the ghastly terrors of the room--crowded into my mind, and, starting forward, I attempted to find the door, but in my bewilderment and the utter blackness around me, I must have turned away, instead of toward it. My outstretched hand struck against an icy surface; I screamed and started back, my foot slipped and I fell, striking my temple heavily against some projection. The fall and the blow stunned me for awhile; then returning consciousness suggested all that they had mercifully absolved me from. Alice Rutledge's neglected, dishonored room--Alice Rutledge's sin-troubled spirit haunting it--the curses that had been spoken in it--the agony that had been endured in it--the years of silence that had pa.s.sed over it--and now, a murderer's hiding-place--a murderer with crime fresh upon him. And oh! the horror of that crime! It seemed almost as if it had been me instead of Victor who had done it. My brain seemed reeling--had I not been there--had I not seen--heard--that of which I never lost the memory--or was it only haunting me from another's lips? Was _that_ avenging ghost here, too--within the limits of this dreadful room? Was that a touch of human hand upon my breast?--was it fancy, or--or--was that a breath upon my cheek? A thousand horrid whispers--hollow laughter--dying shrieks--filled the air; within these accursed walls, it was weird and unearthly all; without, I heard, but as through triple dungeon walls, the voices of those I had left behind; I heard their steps overhead, their searching, high and low, in every nook and corner for me; I heard them call my name, and pause for answer. I tried to call, but a nightmare stifled my voice. As one might feel who had buried himself yet living--who had pulled the coffin-lid down on his own head, and heard the devils eagerly filling the grave up and laughing at their work--and at each new shovelful of heavy clay had felt the distance between him and life grow shorter, and felt the weight press heavier and heavier, and the horror and the darkness grow tighter and tighter around him, and the remorse, and the helplessness, and the terror--so I felt that hideous night, and so I feel whenever I remember it.

The house quieted, I heard the carriages drive away, then the faint good-nights, and the closing of the many doors, and all grew into repose. That was cruel; they had forgotten me--they had given me up easily! But I would make them hear--I would get out of this sepulchral place, and I started to my feet. Just then the handle of the door turned, and a ray of light streamed across the room. It was Mr. Rutledge who entered; but the sternness and whiteness of his face repressed the cry of joy with which I had started forward. The light, though, had put all the ghastly train to flight, and I breathed freer as I looked around and saw that he and I were alone in the room. He closed the door, and pressing his hand for a moment before his eyes, looked up and around the apartment. I suppose he had never been in it since it had been closed upon the flight of his sister, and since his father's curse had doomed it to desolation. I followed his glance around the dim and dusky walls--the familiar pictures--the disordered, time-stained ornaments--the tall, canopied bed--the open wardrobe. A low groan escaped his lips, and sinking on a chair, he bowed his head in his hands upon the table. Some sound from me at last aroused him, and looking up, he said:

"I knew I should find you here. What evil spirit brought you to this place! Are you alone?"

"Yes," I faltered, coming to him, "I am alone. Take me out, for the love of heaven! I have been in such terror--Victor is not here--I have"----

I stopped, with an exclamation of alarm. I had betrayed my secret.

"It is better that he has gone," he said, but without any surprise; "it could not have been kept up much longer. I hope, for your sake, he may be safe. Flight would have been better a week ago. I could have managed it, but you would not trust me. Did you really think," he continued, rising slowly from his seat, and looking at me with an expression compounded of bitterness, and tenderness, and sadness, "did you really think I did not know you were hiding your lover in my house--that you were dying a thousand deaths in the midst of this careless crowd? Why, child," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, and looking into my eyes, "I know every expression of this face better than I know my own. I know its flashes of fear, its white mantle of despair, and its crimson glow of love, too well to be deceived. If I had needed confirmation of my suspicions on the morning after Dr. Hugh's murder, that Victor Viennet was the guilty man, I should have had only to have looked in your face. And from that dreadful day to this, I have read there each event as it has come to pa.s.s. I have helped you in your lover's cause, though you did not know it. I have worked day and night to mislead his persecutors, to allay the suspicions and blind the eyes of the authorities; and I have nearly succeeded. There is very little danger now, if he is prudent and dexterous in his flight. Do not tremble so; you need not fear for him. By this time he is probably beyond the only part of his journey that was attended with much risk."

I burst into tears; it was so hard to hear him say all this, and talk to me as if I had nothing to be miserable about, now that Victor was safe.

Ah! this was but the beginning. A life-time lay before me full of such hours as this.

"It is a heavy fate, poor child," he said, compa.s.sionately. "I would have saved you from it if I could."

"You don't know half how heavy!" I sobbed. "If you did, you wouldn't think it a sin for me to pray to die."

"Take the harder penance, and submit to live. Death doesn't always come for the asking. G.o.d has sent you a terrible trial, but he will help you through it if you will only keep that in mind."

"No, no. G.o.d did not send it. I have brought it on myself--it is all my own deed! Oh! if you only knew"----

"I do know. I know you are disappointed in the man you love--that you have found weakness where you fancied strength: but I know that, woman-like, you still love, if possible, more tenderly than before your idol was shattered, and that you are shrinking now from the prospect of a long and uncertain separation. I pity you, believe me, I pity you; but these are griefs that time has a cure for. Do not talk of despair till you have felt what it is to be unloved and unblest--to be without an interest on earth, with but a slender right to hope in heaven--to be thwarted in all you undertake, balked of all you desire--till you have seen another and an unworthier hand take down your crown of life, and wear it careless in your sight."

"Perhaps I know all that as well as you," was on my lips, but I only hid my face and turned away. He did not understand the gesture, and said sadly, after a pause:

"Why are you so wretched? I have a.s.sured you there is little danger, and what is there so insupportable in the separation of a year or two? Or is it something in the manner of parting; were you unprepared to find him gone? Did he leave no good bye?"

"No," I said, glad to have some excuse for my tears; "I never dreamed of his going--it is too unkind! And I shall never forgive myself either; when I saw him last, there was some misunderstanding, and I have not explained it to him! He has gone away in despair and in anger! Oh, I shall never, never forgive myself!"

"You may overrate the cause," said my companion, "perhaps he may have found it more prudent to fly now, and could not wait to see you. Look about the room, there may be a letter somewhere, or he may have left one with Kitty."

"Kitty knows nothing of it, and I do not see any letter."

"What is that little package--beyond you--there on the table?"

I seized it, and, bending eagerly over the light, read my name upon it.

My hand trembled so that I could hardly open it. Within the first paper there was a letter; my eyes glanced hurriedly over it, but from another wrapping something dropped, one sight of which served to make me grasp the table for support, and drop the letter on the floor.

"What is it?" cried my companion, starting forward, and picking up my letter, leading me to a chair.