As Gertrude's eyes, after greedily devouring the manuscript, fell upon its closing words she sprang to her feet, and the next instant she has run down the staircase, run out of the hall door, and approached the summer-house from the opposite entrance to that at which Mr. Amory, with folded arms and a fixed countenance, is watching for her coming.
So noiseless is her light step, that before he is conscious of her presence, she has thrown herself upon his bosom and, her whole frame trembling with the vehemence of long-suppressed agitation, burst into a torrent of passionate tears, interrupted only by frequent sobs, so deep and so exhausting that her father, with his arms folded around her, and clasping her so closely to his heart that she feels its irregular beating, endeavours to still the tempest of her grief, whispering softly, as to an infant, "Hush! hush, my child! you frighten me!"
And, gradually soothed by his gentle caresses, her excitement subsides, and she is able to lift her face to his and smile upon him through her tears. They stand thus for many minutes in a silence that speaks far more than words. Wrapped in the folds of his heavy cloak to preserve her from the evening air, and still encircled in his strong embrace, Gertrude feels that their union of spirit is not less complete; while the long-banished man, who for years has never felt the sweet influence of a kindly smile, glows with a melting tenderness which hardening solitude has not the power to subdue. At length Mr. Amory, lifting his daughter's face and gazing into her glistening eyes, while he gently strokes the disordered hair from her forehead, asks, in an accent of touching appeal, "You will love me, then?"
"Oh, I do! I do!" exclaimed Gertrude, sealing his lips with kisses. His hitherto unmoved countenance relaxes at this fervent assurance. He bows his head upon her shoulder, and the strong man weeps. Her self-possession all restored, at seeing him thus overcome, Gertrude places her hand in his, and startles him from his position by the firm and decided tone with which she whispers, "Come!"
"Whither?" exclaims he, looking up in surprise.
"To Emily."
With a half shudder and a mournful shake of the head, he retreats instead of advancing in the direction in which she would lead him—"I cannot."
"But she waits for you; she, too, weeps and longs and prays for your coming."
"Emily!—you know not what you are saying!"
"Indeed, my father; it is you who are deceived. Emily does not hate you; she never did. She believed you dead long ago; but your voice, though heard but once, has half robbed her of her reason so entirely does she love you still. Come, and she will tell you, better than I can, what a wretched mistake has made martyrs of you both."
Emily, who had heard the voice of Willie Sullivan, as he bade Gertrude farewell on the door-step, and rightly conjectured that it was he, forbore making any inquiries for the absent girl at the tea-table, and thinking it probable that she preferred to remain undisturbed, retired to the sitting-room at the conclusion of the meal, where (as Mr. Graham sought the library) she remained alone for more than an hour.
The refined taste which always made Emily's dress an index to the soft purity of her character was never more strikingly developed than when she wore, as on the present occasion, a flowing robe of white cashmere, fastened at the waist with a silken girdle, and with full drapery sleeves, whose lining and border of snowy silk could only have been rivalled by the delicate hand and wrist which had escaped from beneath their folds, and somewhat nervously played with the crimson fringe of a shawl, worn in the chilly dining-room, and thrown carelessly over the arm of the sofa. Supporting herself upon her elbow, she sat with her head bent forward, and apparently deep in thought. Once Mrs. Prime opened the door, looked around the room in search of the housekeeper, and, not finding her, retreated, saying to herself, "Law! dear sakes alive! I wish she only had eyes now, to see how like a picter she looks!"
A low, quick bark from the house-dog attracted her attention, and steps were heard crossing the piazza. Before they had gained the door, Emily was standing upright, straining her ear to catch the sound of every footfall; and, when Gertrude and Mr. Amory entered, she looked more like a statue than a living figure, as with clasped hands, parted lips, and one foot slightly advanced, she silently awaited their approach. One glance at Emily's face, another at that of her agitated father, and Gertrude was gone. She saw the completeness of their mutual recognition, and with instinctive delicacy, forbore to mar by her presence the sacredness of so holy an interview. As the door closed upon her retreating figure, Emily parted her clasped hands, stretched them forth into the dim vacancy, and murmured, "Philip!"
He seized them between both of his, and with one step forward, fell upon his knees. As he did so, the half-fainting Emily dropped upon the seat. Mr. Amory bowed his head upon the hands which, still held tightly between his own, now rested on her lap, and, hiding his face upon her slender fingers, tremblingly uttered her name.
"The grave has given up its dead!" exclaimed Emily. "My God, I thank thee!" and she flung her arms around his neck, rested her head upon his bosom, and whispered, in a voice half choked with emotion, "Philip!—dear, dear Philip! am I dreaming, or have you come back again?"
She and Philip had loved each other in their childhood; before that childhood was passed they had parted; and as children they met again. During the lapse of many years she had lived among the cherished memories of the past, she had been safe from worldly contagion, and had retained all the guileless simplicity of girlhood—all the freshness of her spring-time; and Philip, who had never willingly bound himself by any ties save those imposed upon him by necessity, felt his boyhood come rushing upon him, as, with Emily's soft hand resting on his head, she blessed Heaven for his safe return. She could not see how time had silvered his hair and sobered and shaded the face that she loved.
And to him, as he beheld the face he had half dreaded to encounter beaming with the holy light of sympathy and love, the blind girl's countenance seemed encircled with a halo not of earth. And, therefore, this union had in it less of earth than heaven. Not until, seated beside each other, with their hands still fondly clasped, Philip had heard from Emily's lips the history of her hopes, her fears, her prayers, and her despair; and she, while listening to the sad incidents of his life, had dropped upon the hand she held many a kiss and tear of sympathy, did either fully realise the mercy so long delayed, so fully accorded now, which promised even on earth to crown their days.
Emily wept at the tale of Lucy's trials and her early death, and when she learned that it was hers and Philip's child whom she had taken to her heart, and fostered with the truest affection, she sent up her silent praise that it had been allotted to her apparently bereaved and darkened destiny to fulfil so blessed a mission. "If I could love her more, dear Philip," said she, while the tears trickled down her cheeks, "I would do so, for your sake, and that of her sweet, innocent, suffering mother."
"And you forgive me, then, Emily?" said Philip, as both having finished their sad recitals of the past, they gave themselves up to the sweet reflection of their present joy.
"Forgive? Oh, Philip! what have I to forgive?"
"The deed that locked you in prison darkness," he mournfully replied.
"Philip!" exclaimed Emily, "could you for one moment believe that I attributed that to you?—that I blamed you, for an instant?"
"Not willingly, I am sure, dear Emily. But, oh, you have forgotten that in your time of anguish, not only the obtruding thought but the lip that gave utterance to it, proclaimed how you refused to forgive the cruel hand that wrought you so much woe!"
"You cruel, Philip! Never did I so abuse and wrong you. If my unfilial heart sinfully railed against the cruel injustice of my father, it was never guilty of such treachery towards you."
"That fiendish woman lied, then, when she told me that you shuddered at my very name?"
"If I shuddered, Philip, it was because I recoiled at the thought of the wrong you had sustained; and oh, believe me, if she gave you any other assurance than of my continued love, it was because she laboured under a sad error."
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Philip; "how wickedly have I been deceived!"
"Not wickedly," replied Emily. "Mrs. Ellis was in that instance the victim of circumstances. She was a stranger among us, and believed you other than you were; but, had you seen her a few weeks later, sobbing over her share in the unhappy transaction which drove you to desperation, and as we then supposed to death, you would have felt that we had misjudged her, and that she carried a heart of flesh beneath a stony disguise. The bitterness of her grief was united with remorse at the recollection of her own harshness. Let us forget the sad events of the past, and trust that the loving hand which has thus far shaped our course has but afflicted us in mercy."
"In mercy!" exclaimed Philip. "What mercy does my past experience give evidence of, or your life of everlasting darkness? Can you believe it a loving hand which made me the ill-fated instrument, and you the life-long sufferer, from one of the dreariest misfortunes that can afflict humanity?"
"Speak not of my blindness as a misfortune," answered Emily; "I have long ceased to think it such. It is only through the darkness of the night that we discern the lights of heaven, and only when shut out from earth that we enter the gates of Paradise. With eyes to see the wonderful working of nature and nature's God, I nevertheless closed them to the evidences of Almighty love that were around me on every side. While enjoying the beautiful gifts that were showered on my pathway, I forgot to praise the Giver; but, with an ungrateful heart, walked sinfully on, little dreaming of the deceitful snares which entangle the footsteps of youth. And therefore did he, who is ever over us for good, arrest with fatherly hand the child who was wandering from the road that leads to peace; and, though the discipline of his chastening rod was sudden and severe, mercy tempered justice. From the tomb of my buried joys sprang hopes that will bloom in immortality. From the clouds and the darkness broke forth a glorious light. Then grieve not, dear Philip, over the fate that is far from sad; but rejoice with me in the thought of that blessed and not far distant awakening, when, with restored and beautiful vision, I shall stand before God's throne, in full view of that glorious Presence, from which, but for the guiding light which has burst upon my spirit through the veil of earthly darkness, I might have been eternally shut out."
As Emily finished speaking, and Philip, gazing with awe upon the rapt expression of her soul-illumined face, beheld the triumph of an immortal mind, and pondered on the might, the majesty, and power of the influence wrought by simple piety, the door of the room opened abruptly and Mr. Graham entered.
The sound of the well-known footstep disturbed the soaring thoughts of both, and the flush of excitement which had mounted into Emily's cheeks subsided into more than her wonted paleness as Philip, rising slowly from her side, stood face to face with her father.
Mr. Graham approached with the scrutinizing air of one called upon to greet a visitor who, though an apparent stranger, may possibly have claims to recognition, and glanced at his daughter as if hoping she would relieve the awkwardness by an introduction. But the agitated Emily maintained perfect silence, and every feature of Philip's countenance remained immovable as Mr. Graham slowly came forward.
He had advanced within one step of the spot where Philip stood waiting to receive him, when, struck by the stern look and attitude of the latter, he stopped short, gazed one moment into the eagle eyes of his step-son, then staggered, grasped at the mantel-piece, and would have fallen, but Philip, starting forward, helped him to his arm-chair. And yet no word was spoken. At length Mr. Graham, who, having fallen into the seat, sat still gazing into the face of Mr. Amory, ejaculated in a tone of wondering excitement, "Philip Amory! Oh, my God!"
"Yes, father," exclaimed Emily, suddenly rising and grasping her father's arm; "it is Philip; he whom we have so long believed among the dead, restored to us in health and safety!"
Mr. Graham rose from his chair and, leaning heavily on Emily's shoulder, again approached Mr. Amory, who, with folded arms, stood fixed as marble. His step tottered with a feebleness never before observable in the sturdy frame of the old man, and the hand which he extended to Philip was marked by an unusual tremulousness. But Philip did not offer to receive the proffered hand, or reply by word to the rejected salutation.
Mr. Graham turned towards Emily and, forgetting that this neglect was shut from her sight, exclaimed half-bitterly, half-sadly, "I cannot blame him! God knows I wronged the boy!"
"Wronged him!" cried Philip, in a voice almost fearful. "Yes, wronged him, indeed! Blighted his life, crushed his youth, half broke his heart, and wholly blighted his reputation!"
"No," exclaimed Mr. Graham, who had quailed beneath these accusations, until he reached the final one; "not that, Philip!—not that! I never harmed you there; I discovered my error before I had doomed you to infamy in the eyes of one of your fellow-men."
"You acknowledge, then, the error?"
"I do, I do! I imputed to you the deed which proved to have been accomplished through the agency of my most confidential clerk. I learned the truth almost immediately; but too late, alas! to recall you. Then came the news of your death, and I felt that the injury had been irreparable. But it was not strange, Philip; you must allow that. Archer had been in my employment more than twenty years. I believed him trustworthy."
"No! oh, no!" replied Philip. "It was nothing strange that, a crime committed, you should have readily ascribed it to me. You thought me capable only of evil."
"I was unjust, Philip," answered Mr. Graham, with an attempt to rally his dignity; "but I had some cause."
"Perhaps so," responded Philip; "I am willing to grant that."
"Let us shake hands upon it, then," said Mr. Graham, "and endeavour to forget the past."
Philip acceded to this request, though there was but little warmth in the manner of his compliance. Mr. Graham looked relieved from a burden which had been oppressing his conscience for years, and, subsiding into his arm-chair, begged the particulars of Philip's experience during the last twenty years.
The outline of the story was soon told, Mr. Graham listening to it with attention, and inquiring into its particulars with an interest which proved that, during a lengthened period of regret and remorse, his feelings had sensibly softened towards the step-son, with every memory of whom there had come to his heart a pang of self-reproach.
Mr. Amory was unable to afford any satisfactory explanation of the report of his own death which had been confidently affirmed by Dr. Jeremy's correspondent at Rio. Upon a comparison of dates, however, it seemed probable that the doctor's agent had obtained this information from Philip's employer, who had every reason to believe that the young man had perished of the prevailing infection.
To Philip himself it was almost an equal matter of wonder that his friends should ever have obtained knowledge of his flight and destination. But this was easily accounted for, since the vessel in which he had embarked returned directly to Boston, and there were among her crew and officers those who could reply to the inquiries which the benevolent doctor had set on foot some months before, accompanied by the offer of a liberal reward.
Notwithstanding the many romantic incidents which were unfolding themselves, none seemed to produce so great an impression upon Mr. Graham's mind as the singular circumstance that the child who had been reared under his roof, and endeared herself to him, in spite of some clashing of interests and opinions, should prove to be Philip's daughter. As he left the room at the conclusion of the tale, and sought the solitude of his library, he muttered to himself, "Singular coincidence! Very singular! Very!"
Hardly had he departed before another door was timidly opened, and Gertrude looked cautiously in. Her father went quickly towards her, and, passing his arm around her waist, drew her towards Emily, and clasped them both in a long and silent embrace.
"Philip," exclaimed Emily, "can you doubt the mercy which has spared us for such a meeting?"
"Oh, Emily!" replied he, "I am deeply grateful. Teach me how and where to bestow my tribute of praise."
On the hour of sweet communion which succeeded we forbear to dwell—the silent rapture of Emily, the passionately-expressed joy of Philip, or the trusting, loving glances which Gertrude cast upon both. It was nearly midnight when Mr. Amory rose to depart. Emily, who had not thought of his leaving the spot which she hoped he would now consider his home, entreated him to remain; and Gertrude, with her eyes, joined in the eager petition. But he persisted in his resolution with firmness and seriousness.
"Philip," said Emily, laying her hand upon his arm, "you have not yet forgiven my father." She had divined his thoughts. He shrank under her reproachful tones, and made no answer.
"But youwill, dear Philip—youwill," continued she, in a pleading voice.
He hesitated, then glanced at her once more, and replied, "I will, dearest Emily, I will—in time."
When he had gone, Gertrude lingered a moment at the door, to watch his retreating figure, just visible in the light of the waning moon, then returned to the parlour, and saying, "Oh, what a day this has been!" but checked herself, at the sight of Emily, who, kneeling by the sofa with clasped hands, and with her white garments sweeping the floor, looked the very impersonation of purity and prayer. Throwing one arm around her neck, Gertrude knelt on the floor beside her, and together they sent up to the throne of God the incense of thanksgiving and praise!
When Uncle True died, Mr. Cooper buried his old friend in the ancient graveyard which adjoined the church where he had long officiated as sexton. But long before the time-worn building gave place to a modern structure the hallowed remains of Uncle True had found a quieter resting-place—even a beautiful piece of undulating woodland in the neighbourhood of Mr. Graham's country residence, which had been consecrated as a rural cemetery; and in the loveliest nook of this beautiful spot the ashes of the good old lamplighter found their final repose.
This lot of land, which had been purchased by Willie's liberality, selected by Gertrude, and by her made fragrant with summer rose and winter ivy, now enclosed also the forms of Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Sullivan; and over these three graves Gertrude had planted many a flower and watered it with her tears. Especially did she view it as a sacred duty and privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute of fresh garlands; and, with this pious purpose in view, she left Mr. Graham's house one beautiful afternoon about a week after the events narrated in the previous chapter.
She carried on her arm a basket, containing her offering of flowers; and, as she had a long walk before her, started at a rapid pace. Let us follow her, and briefly pursue the train of thought which accompanied her on her way. She had left her father with Emily. She would not ask him to join her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to visit the grave of Uncle True, for he and Emily were talking together so contentedly, it would have been a pity to disturb them; and Gertrude's reflections were engrossed by the thought of their tranquil happiness. She thought of herself, too, as associated with them both; of the deep and long-tried love of Emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection daily and hourly lavished upon her by her newly-found parent, and felt that she could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a lifetime.
She tried to banish the remembrance of Willie's faithlessness and desertion. But the painful recollection presented itself continually, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to repress it; and at last, ceasing the struggle, she gave herself up for the time to a deep and saddening reverie. She had received two visits from Willie since the first; but the second meeting had been in its character very similar, and on the succeeding occasion the constraint had increased instead of diminishing. Several times Willie had made an effort to speak and act with the freedom of former days; but a sudden blush, or sign of confusion and distress, on Gertrude's part, deterred him from any further attempt to put to flight the reserve which subsisted in their intercourse. Again, Gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him with frankness, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered her hand with such sisterly freedom, that he was emboldened to take and retain in his grasp, and was on the point of unburdening his mind of some weighty secret, when she turned abruptly away, took up some trivial piece of work, and while she seemed absorbed in it, addressed to him an unimportant question—a course of conduct which disconcerted him for the remainder of his stay.
As Gertrude pondered the distressing results of every visit, she half hoped he would discontinue them, believing that their feelings would be less wounded by a total separation than by interviews which must leave on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement.
Strange, she had not yet acquainted him with the event so interesting to herself—the discovery of her dearly-loved father. Once she tried to speak of it, but was so overcome at the idea of imparting to the confidant of her childhood an experience of which she could scarcely yet think without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that, should she on any topic give way to her sensibilities, she should lose all restraint over her feelings and lay open her whole heart to Willie.
But one thing distressed her more than all others. In his first attempt to throw off all disguise, Willie had more than intimated to her his own unhappiness; and ere she could find an opportunity to change the subject and repel a confidence for which she still felt herself unprepared, he had spoken mournfully over his future prospects in life.
The only construction which Gertrude could give to this confession was that it had reference to his engagement with Isabel, and it gave rise to the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty, he had impulsively bound himself to one who could never make him happy. The little scenes to which she herself had been a witness corroborated this idea, as, on both occasions of her seeing the lovers and overhearing their words, some cause of vexation seemed to exist on Willie's part. "He loves her," thought Gertrude, "and is also bound to her in honour; but he sees already the want of harmony in their natures. Poor Willie! It is impossible he should ever be happy with Isabel."
And Gertrude's sympathising heart mourned not more deeply over her own griefs than over the disappointment that Willie must be experiencing, if he had ever hoped to find peace in a union with so overbearing, ill-humoured, and unreasonable a girl.
Wholly occupied with these and similar musings, she walked on with a quickness she was scarcely herself aware of, and soon gained the shelter of the heavy pines which bordered the entrance to the cemetery. Here she paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches; and, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage-road at the right, and proceeded slowly up the ascent. The place, always quiet and peaceful, seemed unusually still and secluded, and save the occasional carol of a bird, there was no sound to disturb the perfect silence and repose. As Gertrude gazed upon the familiar beauties of those sacred grounds which had been her frequent resort during several years—as she walked between beds of flowers, inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and felt the solemn appeal, the spiritual breathings, that haunted the holy place—every motion that was not in harmony with the scene gradually took its flight, and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and half-joyful melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy dead.
After a while she left the broad road and turned into a little bypath, and then again to a narrower foot-track, and gained the shady and retired spot which had recommended itself to her choice. It was situated on the slope of a little hill; a huge rock protected it on one side from the observation of the passer-by, and a fine old oak overshadowed it upon the other. The iron enclosure, of simple workmanship, was nearly overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by Gertrude's hand, and the moss-grown rock was festooned by its tendrils. Upon a jutting stone beside the grave of Uncle True Gertrude seated herself, and after a few moments of contemplation sighed heavily, emptied her flowers upon the grass, and commenced weaving a graceful chaplet, which, when completed, she placed upon the grave at her feet. With the remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other mounds; and then, drawing forth a pair of gardening gloves and a little trowel, she employed herself for nearly an hour among the flowers and vines with which she had embowered the spot. Her work finished, she again placed herself at the foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back from her forehead the braids of her hair, and appeared to be resting from her labours.
It was seven years that day since Uncle True died, but Gertrude had not forgotten the kind old man. As she gazed upon the grassy mound that covered him, and scene after scene rose up before her in which that earliest friend and herself had whiled away the happy hours, there came, to embitter the cherished remembrance, the recollection of that third and seldom absent one who completed the memory of their fireside joys; and Gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflection, unconsciously exclaimed aloud, "Oh, Uncle True! you and I are not parted yet; but Willie is not of us!"
"Oh, Gertrude," said a reproachful voice close at her side, "is Willie to blame for that?" She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts with his mild sad eye fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying to his question, buried her face in her hands.
He threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and, as on the occasion of their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her to look him in the face, saying at the same time in the most imploring accents, "Tell me, Gerty, in pity tell me, why I am excluded from your sympathy?" But still she made no answer, except by the tears that coursed down her cheeks.
"You make me miserable," continued he. "What have I done that you have so shut me out of your affection? Why do you look so coldly upon me—and even shrink from my sight?" added he, as Gertrude, unable to endure his searching look, turned her eyes in another direction and strove to free her hands from his grasp.
"I am not cold—I do not mean to be," said she, her voice half-choked with emotion.
"Oh, Gertrude," replied he, relinquishing her hands and turning away, "I see you have ceased to love me. I trembled when I first beheld you, so lovely, so beautiful, and so beloved by all, and feared lest some fortunate rival had stolen your heart from its boyish keeper. But even then I did not deem that you would refuse me, at least, abrother'sclaim to your affection."
"I will not," exclaimed Gertrude eagerly. "Oh, Willie, you must not be angry with me! Let me be your sister!"
He smiled a most mournful smile, and said, "I was right, then; you feared lest I should claim too much, and discouraged my presumption by awarding me nothing. Be it so. Perhaps your prudence was for the best; but, oh Gertrude, it has made me heartbroken."
"Willie!" exclaimed Gertrude, with excitement, "do you know how strangely you are speaking?"
"Strangely?" responded Willie, in a half-offended tone. "Is it so strange that I should love you? Have I not for years cherished the remembrance of our past affection, and looked forward to our reunion as my only hope of happiness? Has not this fond expectation inspired my labours, and cheered my toils, and endeared to me my life, in spite of its bereavements? And can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds, beneath which lie buried all else that I held dear on earth, crush and destroy without compassion this solitary but all-engrossing——"
"Willie," interrupted Gertrude, her calmness suddenly restored, and speaking in a kind but serious tone, "is it honourable for you to address me thus? Have you forgotten——"
"No, I havenotforgotten," exclaimed he vehemently. "I have not forgotten that I have no right to distress or annoy you, and I will do so no more. But oh, Gerty! my sister Gerty (since all hope of a nearer tie is at an end), blame me not, and wonder not, if I fail at present to perform a brother's part. I cannot stay in this neighbourhood. I cannot be the patient witness of another's happiness. My services, my time, my life, you may command, and in my far-distant home I will never cease to pray that the husband you have chosen, whoever he be, may prove himself worthy of my noble Gertrude, and love her one-half as well as I do!"
"Willie!" said Gertrude, "what madness is this? I am bound by no such tie as you describe; but what shall I think of your treachery to Isabel?"
"To Isabel!" cried Willie, starting up, as if seized with a new idea; "and has that silly rumour reachedyoutoo? and did you put faith in the falsehood?"
"Falsehood!" exclaimed Gertrude, lifting her hitherto drooping eyelids and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look of earnest scrutiny.
Calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided nor quailed under, Willie responded unhesitatingly, and with a tone of astonishment not unmingled with reproach, "Falsehood! Yes. With the knowledge you have both of her and myself, could you doubt its being such for a moment?"
"Oh, Willie!" cried Gertrude, "could I doubt the evidence of my own eyes and ears? Had I trusted to less faithful witnesses, I might have been deceived. Do not attempt to conceal from me the truth, to which my own observation can testify. Treat me with frankness, Willie! Indeed, indeed, I deserve it at your hands!"
"Frankness, Gertrude! it is you only who are mysterious. Could I lay my whole soul bare to your gaze, you would be convinced of its truth, its perfect truth, to its first affection. And as to Isabel Clinton, if it is to her that you have reference, your eyes and your ears have both played you false, if——"
"Oh, Willie! Willie!" exclaimed Gertrude, interrupting him; "have you so soon forgotten your devotion to the belle of Saratoga, your unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your sight, the pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused you, and the fond impatience which threatened to render those few days an eternity?"
"Stop! stop!" cried Willie, a new light breaking in upon him, "and tell me where you learned all this?"
"In the very spot where you spoke and acted. Mr. Graham's parlour did not witness our first meeting. In the public promenade-ground, on the shore of Saratoga lake, and on board the steamboat at Albany, did I both see and recognize you—myself unknown. There, too, did your own words serve to convince me of the truth of that which from other lips I had refused to believe."
"Listen to me, Gertrude," said he, in a fervent and almost solemn tone, "and believe that in sight of my mother's grave, and in the presence of that pure spirit (and he looked reverently upward) who taught me the love of truth, I speak with such sincerity and candour as are fitting for the ears of angels. I do not question the accuracy with which you overheard my expostulations and entreaties on the subject of Miss Clinton's proposed journey, or the impatience I expressed at parting for her speedy return. I will not pause either to inquire where the object of all my thoughts could have been at the time that, notwithstanding the changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. Let me first clear myself of the imputation, and then there will be room for all further explanations.
"I did feel pain at Miss Clinton's sudden departure for New York, under a pretext which ought not to have weighed with her for a moment. I did employ every argument to dissuade her from her purpose; and when my eloquence had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, I availed myself of every suggestion and motive which possibly might influence her to shorten her absence. Not because the society of the selfish girl was essential, or even conducive, to my happiness—far from it—but because her excellent father, who so worshipped and idolized his only child that he would have thought no sacrifice too great to promote her enjoyment, was at the very time, amid all the discomfort of a crowded watering-place, hovering between life and death, and I was disgusted at the heartlessness which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived of all female tending, to the charge of a hired nurse and an unskillful though willing youth like myself. That eternity might, in Miss Clinton's absence, set a seal to the life of her father was a thought which in my indignation I was on the point of uttering, but I checked myself, unwilling to interfere too far in a matter which came not within my rightful province, and perhaps excite unnecessary alarm in Isabel. If selfishness mingled at all in my views, dear Gerty, and made me over-impatient for the return of the daughter to her post of duty, it was that I might be released from almost constant attendance upon my invalid friend, and hasten to her from whom I hoped such warmth of greeting as I was only eager to bestow. Can you wonder, then, that your reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart?"
"But you understand the cause of that coldness now," said Gertrude, looking up at him through a rain of tears, which like a summer sun-shower reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her happy countenance. "You know now why I dared not let my heart speak out."
"And this was all, then?" cried Willie; "and you are free, and I may love you still?"
"Free from all bonds, dear Willie, but those which you yourself clasped around me, and which have encircled me from my childhood."
And now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each other's ear the tale of mutual affection, planted in infancy, nourished in youth, fostered and strengthened amid separation and absence, and perfected through trial, to bless and sanctify every year of their after life.
"But, Gerty," exclaimed Willie as, confidence restored, they sat side by side conversing freely of the past, "how could you think for an instant that Isabel Clinton would have power to displace you in my regard? I was not guilty of so great an injustice towards you; for even when I believed myself supplanted by another, I fancied that other hero of such shining qualities as could scarcely be surpassed."
"And who could surpass Isabel?" inquired Gerty. "Can you wonder that I trembled for your allegiance when I thought of her beauty, her fashion, her family, and her wealth, and remembered the forcible manner in which all these were presented to your sight and knowledge?"
"But what are all these, Gerty, to one who knows her as we do? Do not a proud eye and a scornful lip destroy the effect of beauty? Can fashion excuse rudeness, or noble birth cover natural deficiencies? And as to money, what did I ever want of that, except to employ it for the happiness of yourself—and them?" and he glanced at the graves of his mother and grandfather.
"Oh, Willie! you are so disinterested."
"Not in this case. Had Isabel possessed the beauty of a Venus and the wisdom of a Minerva, I could not have forgotten how little happiness there could be with one who, while devoting herself to the pursuit of pleasure, had become dead to natural affections and indifferent to the holiest of duties. Could I see her flee from the bedside of her father to engage in the frivolities and drink in the flatteries of an idle crowd—or, when unwillingly summoned thither, shrink from the toils and watchings imposed by his feebleness—and still imagine that such a woman could bless and adorn a fireside? Could I fail to contrast her unfeeling neglect, ill-concealed petulance, flagrant levity, and irreverence of spirit, with the sweet and loving devotion, the saintly patience, and the deep and fervent piety of my own Gertrude? I should have been false to myself, as well as to you, dearest, if such traits of character as Miss Clinton constantly evinced could have ever weakened my love and admiration for yourself. And now, to see the little playmate whose image I cherished so fondly matured into the lovely and graceful woman, her sweet attractions crowned by so much beauty as to place her beyond recognition, and still her heart as much my own as ever! Oh, Gerty, it is too much happiness! Would that I could impart a share of it to those who loved us both so well!"
And who can say that they did not share it?—that the spirit of Uncle True was not there to witness the completion of his many hopeful prophecies? that the old grandfather was not there to see all his doubts and fears giving place to joyful certainties? and that the soul of the gentle mother whose rapt slumbers had even in life foreshadowed such a meeting, and who, by the lessons she had given her child in his boyhood, the warnings spoken to his later years, and the ministering guidance of her disembodied spirit, had fitted him for the struggle with temptation, sustained him through its trials, and restored him triumphant to the sweet friend of his infancy—who shall say that even now she hovered not over them with parted wings, realising the joy prefigured in that dreamy vision which pictured to her sight the union between the son and the daughter of her love, when the one, shielded by her fond care from every danger and snatched, from the power of temptation, should be restored to the arms of the other who, by a long and patient continuance in well-doing, had earned so full a recompense, so all-sufficient a reward?
The sunset hour was near when Gertrude and Willie rose to depart. They left the cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to that by which Gertrude had entered. Here Willie found the chaise in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to loosen the bridle by which he was fastened, had strayed to the side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the road, and, despairing of his master's return, seemed on the point of taking his departure. He was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and, as if glad after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half-an-hour to Mr. Graham's door.
As soon as they came in sight of the house, Gertrude, familiar with the customary ways of the family, perceived that something unusual was going forward. Lamps were moving about in every direction; the front door stood wide open; there was, what she had never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through the windows of the best chamber; and as they drew still nearer she observed that the piazza was half covered with trunks.
All these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the arrival of Mrs. Graham, and possibly of other company. She might perhaps have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling lady at the moment when she was eager for a quiet opportunity to present Willie to Emily and her father, and communicate to them her own happiness; but if such a thought presented itself it vanished in a moment. Her joy was too complete to be marred by so trifling a disappointment. "Let us drive up the avenue, Willie," said she, "to the side-door, so that George may see us and take your horse to the stable."
"No," said Willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate; "I can't come in now—there seems to be a house full of company, and besides I have an appointment in town at eight o'clock, and promised to be punctual;"—he glanced at his watch and added, "it is near that already. I did not think of its being so late; but I shall see you to-morrow morning, may I not?" She looked her assent, and, with a warm grasp of the hand as he helped her from the chaise, and a mutual smile of confidence and love, they separated.
He drove rapidly towards Boston, and she, opening the gate, found herself in the arms of Fanny Bruce, who had been impatiently waiting the departure of Willie to seize her dear Miss Gertrude and, between tears and kisses, pour out her congratulations and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steamboat—for this was the first time they had met since the accident.
"Has Mrs. Graham come, Fanny?" asked Gertrude, as they walked up to the house together.
"Yes, indeed; Mrs. Graham, and Kitty, and Isabel, and a little girl, and a sick gentleman—Mr. Clinton, I believe; and another gentleman—buthe'sgone."
"Who has gone?"
"Oh, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes, and a beautiful face, and hair as white as if he were old—and he isn't old either."
"And do you say he has gone?"
"Yes; he didn't come with the rest. He was here when I came, and he went away about an hour ago. I heard him tell Miss Emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in Boston, but perhaps he'd come back this evening. I hope he will, Miss Gertrude; you ought to see him."
They had now reached the house, and through the open door Gertrude could plainly distinguish the loud tones of Mrs. Graham's voice proceeding from the parlour on the right. She was talking to her husband and Emily, and was just saying as Gertrude entered, "Oh, it was the most awful thing I ever heard of in my life! and to think, Emily, of your being on board, and our Isabel! Poor child! she hasn't got her colour back yet after the fright. And Gertrude Flint, too! By the way, they say Gertrude behaved very well. Where is the child?"
Turning round, she now saw Gertrude, who was just entering the room, and, going towards her, she kissed her with considerable heartiness and sincerity; for Mrs. Graham, though somewhat coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occasion was such as to awaken them.
Gertrude's entrance having served to interrupt the stream of exclamatory remarks in which the excitable lady had been indulging for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging after her about the floor.
"Well!" exclaimed she, "I suppose I had better follow the girls' example and get some of the dust off from me! I'm half buried, I believe! But there, that's better than coming on in the horrid steamboat last night, as my brother Clinton was so crazy as to propose. Where's Bridget? I want her to take up some of my things."
"I will assist you," said Gertrude, taking up a little carpet-bag, throwing a scarf, which had been stretching across the room, over her arm, and then following Mrs. Graham closely, in order to support the heavy travelling-shawl which was hanging half off that lady's shoulders. At the first landing-place, however, she found herself suddenly encircled in Kitty's warm embrace, and, laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to the hugging and kissing that succeeded.
At the head of the staircase she met Isabel, wrapped in a dressing gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most discontented expression of countenance. She set the pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted Gertrude with a good grace. "I'm glad to see you alive," said she, "though I cannot look at you without shuddering; it reminds me so of that dreadful day when we were in such frightful danger. How lucky we were to be saved, when there were so many drowned! I've wondered ever since, Gertrude, how you could be so calm; I'm sure I shouldn't have known what to do if you hadn't been there to suggest. But, oh dear! don't let us speak of it; it's a thing I cant' bear to think of!" and with a shudder and shrug of the shoulders, Isabel dismissed the subject and called somewhat pettishly to Kitty—"Kitty, I thought you went to get our pitcher filled!"
Kitty, who, in obedience to a loud call and demand from her aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling-bag which Gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back quite out of breath, saying, "I did ring the bell twice. Hasn't anybody come?"
"No!" replied Belle! "and I should like to wash my face and curl my hair before tea, if I could."
"Let me take the pitcher," said Gertrude; "I am going downstairs, and will send Jane up with the water."
"Thank you," said Belle, rather feebly; while Kitty exclaimed, "No, no, Gertrude; I'll go myself."
But it was too late; Gertrude had gone.
Gertrude found Mrs. Ellis full of troubles and perplexities. "Only think," said the astonished housekeeper, "of their coming, five of them, without the least warning in the world; and here I've nothing in the house fit for tea; not a bit of rich cake, not a scrap of cold ham. And of course they're hungry after their long journey, and will want something nice."
"Oh, if they are very hungry, Mrs. Ellis, they can eat dried beef and fresh biscuit and plain cake; and if you will give me the keys I will get out the preserves and the best silver, and see that the table is set properly."
Nothing was a trouble to Gertrude that night. Everything that she touched went right. Jane caught her spirit and became astonishingly active; and when the really bountiful table was spread, and Mrs. Ellis, after glancing around and seeing that all was as it should be, looked into the beaming eyes and observed the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl, she exclaimed, in her ignorance, "Good gracious, Gertrude, anybody would think you were over-joyed to see all these folks back again!"
It wanted but a few moments to tea-time, and Gertrude was selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when Kitty Ray peeped in at the door and finally entered, leading by the hand a little girl neatly dressed in black. Her face was at first full of smiles; but the moment she attempted to speak she burst into tears, and throwing her arms round Gertrude's neck, whispered in her ear, "Oh, Gertrude, I'm so happy! I came to tell you!"
"Happy?" replied Gertrude; "then you mustn't cry."
Upon this Kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then laughed once more, and in the interval explained to Gertrude that she was engaged—had been engaged a week to the best man in the world—and that the child she held by the hand was his orphan niece, and just like a daughter to him. "And only think," continued she, "it's all owing to you."
"To me?" said the astonished Gertrude.
"Yes; because I was so vain and silly, you know, and liked folks that were not worth liking, and didn't care much for anybody's comfort but my own; and, if you hadn't taught me to be something better than that, and set me a good example, which I've tried to follow ever since, he never would have thought of looking at me, much less loving me, and believing I should be a fit mother for little Gracie here," and she looked down affectionately at the child, who was clinging fondly to her. "He is a minister, Gertrude, and very good. Only think of such a childish creature as I am being a minister's wife!" The sympathy which Kitty came to claim was not denied her, and Gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured her of her participation in her joy.
In the meantime little Gracie, who still clung to Kitty with one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of Gertrude, who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room at Saratoga.
Kitty was charmed with the coincidence, and Gertrude, as she remarked the happy transformation which had already been effected in the countenance and dress of the little girl, who had been so sadly in want of female superintendence, felt an added conviction of the wisdom of the young clergyman's choice.
Mr. Graham's cheerful parlour had never looked so cheerful as on that evening. The weather was mild, but a light fire, which had been kindled on Mr. Clinton's account, did not render the room too warm. It had, however, driven the young people into a remote corner, leaving the neighbourhood of the fire-place to Mrs. Graham and Emily, who occupied the sofa, and Mr. Clinton and Mr. Graham, whose arm-chairs were placed on the opposite side.
This arrangement enabled Mr. Graham to converse freely and uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest, while his talkative wife entertained herself and Emily by a recapitulation of her travels and adventures. On a table, at the further extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful engravings, recently purchased and brought home by Mr. Graham, and representing a series of European views. Gertrude and Kitty were turning them carefully over; and little Gracie, who was sitting in Kitty's lap, and Fanny, who was leaning over Gertrude's shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young ladies' explanations and comments.
Occasionally Isabel, the only restless or unoccupied person present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of some familiar spot, and exclaim, "Kitty, there's the shop where I bought my blue silk!" or, "Kitty, there's the waterfall that we visited in company with the Russian officers." And now the door opened, and, without any announcement, Mr. Amory and William Sullivan entered.
Had either made his appearance singly, he would have been looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company; but coming together, and with an apparently good understanding existing between them, there was no countenance present which expressed any emotion but that of surprise.
Mr. and Mrs. Graham, however, were too much accustomed to society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was contained in a momentary glance, and, rising, received their visitors with due politeness and propriety. The former nodded carelessly to Mr. Amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him to Mr. Clinton (without, however, mentioning the existing connection with himself), and was preparing to go through the same ceremony to Mrs. Graham, but was saved the trouble as she had not forgotten the acquaintance formed at Baden-Baden.
Willie's knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of introduction to all but Emily; and that being accidentally omitted, he gave an arch glance at Gertrude, and, taking an offered seat near Isabel, entered into conversation with her, Mr. Amory being in like manner engrossed by Mrs. Graham.
"Miss Gertrude," whispered Fanny, as soon as the interrupted composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at Willie as she spoke, "that's the gentleman you were out driving with this afternoon. I know it is," continued she, as she observed Gertrude change colour and endeavour to hush her, while she looked anxiously round as if the remark had been overheard; "is it Willie, Gertrude? is it Mr. Sullivan?"
Gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mischievous Fanny continued to ply her with such questions; and Isabel, who had jealously noticed that Willie's eyes wandered more than once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as rendered her confusion distressing.
Accident came to her relief, however. The housemaid, with the evening paper, endeavoured to open the door, against which her chair was placed, thus giving her an opportunity to rise, receive the paper, and at the same time an unimportant message. While she was thus engaged, Mr. Clinton left his chair with the feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question in a low voice to Willie, and receiving an affirmatory reply, took Isabel by the hand, and approaching Mr. Amory, exclaimed, with deep emotion, "Sir, Mr. Sullivan tells me you are the person who saved the life of my daughter; and here she is to thank you."
Mr. Amory rose and flung his arm over the shoulder and around the waist of Gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the newspaper to Mr. Graham, and who, not having heard the remark of Mr. Clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an upturned face. "Here," said he, "Mr. Clinton, is the person who saved the life of your daughter. It is true that I swam with her to the shore; but it was under the mistaken impression that I was bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom I little suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to another her only apparent chance of rescue."
"Just like you, Gertrude! Just like you!" shouted Kitty and Fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place in the little circle that had gathered round her.
"My own noble Gertrude!" whispered Emily, as, leaning on Mr. Amory's arm, she pressed Gertrude's hand to her lips.
"Oh, Gertrude!" exclaimed Isabel, with tears in her eyes, "I didn't know. I never thought——"
"Your child?" cried Mrs. Graham's loud voice, interrupting Isabel's unfinished exclamation.
"Yes, my child, thank God!" said Mr. Amory, reverently; "restored at last to her unworthy father, and—you have no secrets here, my darling?"—Gertrude shook her head, and glanced at Willie, who now stood at her side "and gladly bestowed by him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover." And he placed her hand in Willie's.
There was a moment's pause. All were impressed with the solemnity of the action. Then Mr. Graham came forward, shook each of the young couple heartily by the hand, and, passing his sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the library.
"Gertrude," said Fanny, pulling Gertrude's dress to attract her attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, "are you engaged?—are you engaged to him?"
"Yes," whispered Gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify Fanny's curiosity and silence her questioning.
"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" shouted Fanny, dancing round the room and flinging up her arms.
"And I'm glad, too!" said Gracie, catching the tone of congratulation, and putting her mouth up to Gertrude for a kiss.
"AndIam glad," said Mr. Clinton, placing his hands upon those of Willie and Gertrude, which were still clasped together, "that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom I have no words to thank, and no power to repay, has reaped a worthy reward in the love of one of the few men with whom a fond father may venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child."
Exhausted by so much excitement, Mr. Clinton now complained of sudden faintness, and was assisted to his room by Willie, who, after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the blessing of Emily upon his new hopes, and hear with wonder and delight the circumstances which attended the discovery of Gertrude's parentage.
For although it was an appointment to meet Mr. Amory which had summoned him back to Boston, and he had in the course of their interview acquainted him with the happy termination of a lover's doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took place in Mr. Graham's parlour, received in return the slightest hint of the great surprise which awaited him. He had felt a little astonishment at his friend's express desire to join him at once in a visit to Mr. Graham's; but on being informed that he had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Graham in Germany, he concluded that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possibly a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the only motives that had influenced him.
And now, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening passed rapidly away.
"Come here, Gerty!" said Willie, "come to the window, and see what a beautiful night it is."
It was indeed a glorious night. Snow lay on the ground. The air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick movements of the pedestrians and the brilliant icicles with which everything that had an edge was fringed. The stars were glittering too as they never glitter, except on the most intense of winter nights. The moon was just peeping above an old brown building—the same old corner building which had been visible from the door-step where Willie and Gerty were wont to sit in their childhood, and from behind which they had often watched the coming of the same round moon.
Leaning on Willie's shoulder, Gertrude stood gazing until the full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless ether. Neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same emotion as they thought of the days that were past.
Just then the gasman came quickly up the street, lit, as by an electric touch, the bright burners that in close ranks lined either side-walk, and in a moment more was out of sight.
Gertrude sighed. "It was no such easy task for poor old Uncle True," said she; "there have been great improvements since his time."
"There have, indeed!" said Willie, glancing round the well-lit, warm, and pleasantly-furnished rooms of his own and Gertrude's home, and resting his eyes at last upon the beloved one by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness—"such improvements, Gerty, as we only dreamt of once! I wish the dear old man could be here and share them!"
A tear started to Gertrude's eye; but, pressing Willie's arm, she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star just breaking forth from a silvery film which had hitherto half overshadowed it; the star through which Gertrude had ever fancied she could discern the smile of the kind old man.
"Dear Uncle True!" said she; "his lamp still burns brightly in heaven, Willie; and its light is not yet gone out on earth!"
In a beautiful town about thirty miles from Boston, and on the shore of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be immortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such sheets of blue transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of solid though ancient architecture. It had been the property of Philip Amory's paternal grandparents, and the early home and sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it was only with great reluctance, and when driven to the act by the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much-valued estate.
To reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a favourite scheme with Philip. His ample means now rendered it practicable; he lost no time in putting it into execution, and the spring after he returned from his wanderings saw the work in a fair way to be speedily completed.
In the meantime Gertrude's marriage had taken place; the Grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of compliment to Isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country-seat.
And Emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither dreamed of nor asked for outward change until Philip came to her one day and, taking her by the hand, said gently—
"This is no home for you, Emily. You are as much alone as I in my solitary farm-house. We loved each other in childhood, our hearts became one youth, and have continued so until now. Why should we be longer parted? Your father will not now oppose our wishes; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and gladden the lonely life of your grey-haired lover?"
But Emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smile of ineffable sweetness—
"Oh no, Philip! do not speak of it! Think of my frail health and my helplessness."
"Your health, dear Emily, is improving. The roses are already coming back to your cheeks; and for your helplessness, what task can be so sweet to me as teaching you, through my devotion, to forget it! Oh, do not send me away disappointed, Emily! A cruel fate divided us for years; do not by your own act prolong that separation! Believe me, a union with my early love is my brightest, my only hope of happiness!"
And she did not withdraw the hand which he held, but yielded the other also to his fervent clasp.
"My only thought had been, dear Philip," said she, "that ere this I should have been called to my Father's home; and even now I feel many a warning that I cannot be very long for earth; but while I stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish. No word of mine shall part hearts so truly one, your home shall be mine."
And when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring gales blew soft and made a gentle ripple on the water, Emily came to live on the hillside with Philip; and Mrs. Ellis came too to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which became henceforth her pride. She had long since tearfully implored, and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged Philip; and proved, by the humility of her voluntary confession, that she was not without a woman's heart.
Mrs. Prime pleaded hard for the cook's situation at the farm, but Emily kindly expostulated with her, saying—
"We cannot all leave my father, Mrs. Prime. Who would see to his hot toast, and the fire in the library?" and the good old woman saw the matter in the right light and submitted.
And is the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply-sorrowing exile happy now? He is; but his peace springs not from his beautiful home, his wide possessions, an honourable repute among his fellow-men, or even the love of the gentle Emily.
All these are blessings that he well knows how to prize; but his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet—a surer refuge from the tempest and the storm; for, through the power of a living faith, he has laid hold on eternal life. The blind girl's prayers are answered; her last, best work is done; she has cast a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul; and should her call to depart soon come, she will leave behind one to follow in her footsteps, fulfil her charities, and do good on earth until such time when he shall be summoned to join her again in heaven.
As they go forth in the summer evening to breathe the balmy air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the refreshing influences of a summer sunset, all things speak of a holy peace to the new-born heart of him who has so long been a man of sorrow.
As the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western light grows dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul; and the voice of nature around, and the still, small voice within whisper in gentlest, holiest accents—
"The sun shall be no more thy light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."
"Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."