Mrs. Ellis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a couch at the side of the fire-place, with her coloured rags in one hand and the white in the other, commenced speaking of Gertrude.
"What are you going to do with her, Emily?" said she; "send her to school?"
"Yes. She will go to Mr. W.'s this winter."
"Why! Isn't that a very expensive school for a child like her?"
"It is expensive, certainly; but I wish her to be with the best teacher I know of, and father makes no objection to the terms. He thinks as I do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. I talked with him about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade at once, than half-educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit her for anything. He was willing I should manage the matter as I pleased, and I resolved to send her to Mr. W.'s. So she will remain with us for the present. I wish to keep her with me as long as I can, not only because I am fond of the child, but she is delicate and sensitive; and now that she is so sad about old Mr. Flint's death, I think we ought to do all we can to make her happy; don't you, Mrs. Ellis?"
"I always calculate to do my duty," said Mrs. Ellis, rather stiffly. "Where is she going to sleep when we get settled?"
"In the little room at the end of the passage."
"Then, where shall I keep the linen press?"
"Can't it stand in the back entry? I should think the space between the windows would accommodate it."
"I suppose it must," said Mrs. Ellis, flouncing out of the room, and muttering to herself, "everything turned topsy-turvy for the sake of that little upstart!"
Mrs. Ellis was vexed. She had long had her own way in the management of all household matters at Mr. Graham's, and had become rather tyrannical. She was capable, methodical, and neat; accustomed to a small family, and now for many years quiteunaccustomedto children; Gertrude was in her eyes an intruder—one who must of necessity be in mischief, continually deranging her most cherished plans.
She saw in the new inmate a formidable rival to herself in Miss Graham's affections; and Mrs. Ellis could not brook the idea of being second in the regard of Miss Emily, who, owing to her peculiar misfortune, and to her delicate health, had long been her special charge, and for whom she felt the greatest tenderness. Owing to these circumstances, Mrs. Ellis was not favourably disposed towards Gertrude; and Gertrude was not yet prepared to love Mrs. Ellis very cordially.
Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a meeting of bank-directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room. Willie detained Gertrude in the little library, and Emily was indulging in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on her hand; her face, usually so placid, was sad; and her whole appearance denoted despondency. As thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sank upon the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. Suddenly a hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual pre-occupation of mind had made Gertrude's approaching step unheard. "Is anything the matter, Miss Emily?" said Gertrude. "Do you like best to be alone, or may I stay?"
The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question, touched Emily. She drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, "O, yes, stay with me;" then observing, as she passed an arm round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added, "But what is the matter with you, Gerty? What makes you tremble and sob so?"
At this, Gertrude broke forth with, "O, Miss Emily, I thought you were crying when I came in, and I hoped you would let me come and cry with you; for I'm so miserable I can't do anything else."
Calmed herself by the agitation of the child, Emily tried to discover the cause of this new affliction. Willie had been to tell her that he was going away, going out of the country; as Gertrude expressed it, to the other end of the world—to India. Mr. Clinton was interested in a mercantile house in Calcutta, and had offered William the most favourable terms to go abroad as clerk to the establishment. The prospect was far better than he could hope for by remaining at home; the salary was sufficient to defray all his own expenses, and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming more dependent upon him. The chance, too, of future advancement was great; though the young man's affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest prompted. He agreed to the proposal, and whatever his own struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years' banishment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully about it to his mother and grandfather.
"Miss Emily," said Gertrude, when she had acquainted her with the news, "how can I bear to have Willie go away? How can I live without Willie? He is so kind, and loves me so much! He was always better than any brother, and, since Uncle True died, he has done everything in the world for me. I believe I could not have borne Uncle True's death if it had not been for Willie; and now how can I let him go away?"
"It is hard, Gertrude," said Emily, kindly, "but it is no doubt for his advantage; you must try and think of that."
"I know it," replied Gertrude—"I suppose it is; but, Miss Emily, you do not know how I love Willie. We were so much together; and there were only us two, and we thought everything of each other; he was so much older than I, and always took such good care of me. O, I don't think you have any idea what friends we are!"
Gertrude had unconsciously touched a chord that vibrated through Emily's whole frame. Her voice trembled as she answered, "I, Gertrude!not know, my child! I know better than you imagine, how dear he must be to you. I, too, had——" then she paused abruptly, and there were a few moments' silence, during which Emily got up, walked hastily to the window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and then returning, said, in a low voice which had recovered its usual calmness, "O Gertrude! in the grief that oppresses you now, you little realise how much you have to be thankful for. Think, my dear, what a blessing it is that Willie will be where you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant news of his friends."
"Yes," replied Gerty; "he says he shall write to me and his mother very often."
"Then, too," said Emily, "you ought to rejoice at the good opinion Mr. Clinton must have of Willie: the confidence he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. I think that is very flattering."
"So it is," said Gerty; "I did not think of that."
"And you have lived so happily together," continued Emily, "and will part in such perfect peace. O Gertrude! Gertrude! such a parting as that should not make you sad; there are so much worse things in the world. Be patient, my dear child; do your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting, that will repay you for all you suffer in the separation."
Emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. Gertrude's eyes were fixed upon her friend with a puzzled expression. "Miss Emily," said she, "I begin to think that everything has trouble."
"Certainly, Gertrude; can you doubt it?"
"I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought other folks were more fortunate. I fancied that rich people were all very happy; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, I supposed you were used to it; and you always looked so pleasant and quiet, I took it for granted nothing ever vexed you now. And then, Willie!—I believed once that nothing could make him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he hadn't any place, I saw him really cry; and then, when Uncle True died, and now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he could hardly speak, he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since I see that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you try to keep them back, I think the world is full of trials, and that every one gets a share."
"It is the lot of humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it to be otherwise."
"Then, who can be happy, Miss Emily?"
"Those, only, my child, who have learned submission; those who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving Father, and obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod."
"It is very hard, Miss Emily."
"It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be called happy; but if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to God in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven."
Willie's departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a week in which to make those arrangements which a mother's thoughtfulness deems necessary. Her hands were therefore full of work, and Gerty, whom Emily at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel's sailing, was of great assistance to her. Willie was very busy during the day, but was always with them in the evening.
On one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and his mother and grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put aside her sewing, he said to her, "Come, Gerty, if you are not afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as we used to do in old times; there will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner."
"O Willie!" said Gertrude, "do not speak of our never being together in the old place again! I cannot bear the thought; there is not a house in Boston I could ever love as I do this."
"Nor I," replied Willie; "but there is one chance in a hundred if I should be gone five years that there would not be a block of brick stores in this spot when I come to look for it. I wish I did not think so, for I shall have many a longing after the old home."
"But what will become of your mother and grandfather if this house is torn down?"
"It is not easy to tell, Gerty, what will become of any of us by that time; but, if there is any necessity for their moving, I hope I shall be able to provide a better house than this for them."
"You won't be here, Willie."
"I know it, but I shall be always hearing from you, and we can talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. The idea of any such changes, after all," added he, "is what troubles me most in going away; I think they would miss me and need me so much. Gertrude, you will take care of them, won't you?"
"I!" said Gertrude, in amazement; "such a child as I!—what can I do?"
"If I am gone five or ten years, Gerty, you will not be a child all that time, and a woman is often a better dependence than a man, especially such a good brave woman as you will be. I have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of Uncle True; and, whenever I imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, I always think of you, and hope you will be near them; for I know if you are, you will be a greater help than I could be. So I leave them in your care, Gerty, though youareonly a child yet."
"Thank you, Willie," said Gertrude, "for believing I shall do everything I can for them. I certainly will, as long as I live. But, Willie,theymay be strong and well all the time you are gone; and I, although I am so young, may be sick and die—nobody knows."
"That is true enough," said Willie, sadly; "and I may die myself; but it will not do to think of that. It seems to me I never should have courage to go, if I didn't hope to find you all well and happy when I come home. You must write to me every month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and I am sure she will want you to do nearly all the writing; and, whether my letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you know. And, Gerty, you must not forget me, darling; you must love me just as much when I am gone—won't you?"
"Forget you, Willie! I shall be always thinking of you, and loving you the same as ever. What else shall I have to do? But you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be different, and you will not think half as much of me, I know."
"If you believe that, Gertrude, it is because you donotknow. You will have friends all around you and I shall be alone in a foreign land; but every day of my life my heart will be with you and my mother."
They were now interrupted by Mr. Cooper's return, nor did they afterwards renew the conversation; but the morning Willie left them, when Mrs. Sullivan was leaning over a neatly-packed trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and Mr. Cooper's head was bowed lower than usual, Willie whispered to Gerty, "Gerty, dear, for my sake take good care ofourmother and grandfather—they areyoursalmost as much as mine."
On Willie's thus leaving home, for the first time, to struggle and strive among men, Mr. Cooper, who could not yet believe that the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him many a caution against indulgent hopes which never would be realised. And Mrs. Sullivan, with tears, said, "Love and fear God, Willie, and do not disappoint your mother." We pause not to dwell upon the last night the youth spent at his home, his mother's last evening prayer, her last morning benediction, the last breakfast they all took together (Gertrude among the rest), or the final farewell embrace. And Willie went to sea. And the pious, loving, hopeful woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tenderness and pride, maintained now her wonted spirit of self-sacrifice, and gave him up without a murmur. None knew how she struggled with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sustained her.
And now began Gertrude's residence at Mr. Graham's, hitherto in various ways interrupted. She attended school, and laboured diligently at her studies. Her life was varied by few incidents, for Emily never entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any, and Gertrude formed no intimate acquaintance among her companions. With Emily she passed many happy hours; they took walks, read books, and talked much with each other, and Miss Graham found that in Gertrude's observing eyes, and her feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the outer world. In errands of charity and mercy Gertude was either her attendant or her messenger; and all the dependants of the family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising the child, who, though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement, and a dignity of bearing which impressed them all with the conviction that she was no beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune. Mrs. Ellis's prejudices against her was still strong; but, as Gertrude was always civil, and Emily prudently kept them much apart, no unhappy result ensued.
She went often to see Mrs. Sullivan, and, as the spring advanced, they began to look for news of Willie. No tidings had come, however, when the season arrived for the Grahams to remove into the country for the summer. A letter written by Gertrude to Willie, soon after they were established there, will give some idea of her situation and mode of life.
After dwelling upon the disappointment of having not yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last visit she had made to his mother before leaving the city, she wrote: "But you made me promise, Willie, to write about myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred at Mr. Graham's which concerned me in anyway; so if my letter is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for I have much to tell of our removal to D——, and of the way in which we live here, so different from our life in Boston. I think I hear you say, when you have read so far, 'O dear! now Gerty is going to give me a description of Mr. Graham's country-house!'—but you need not be afraid; I have not forgotten how, the last time I undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had lived there all your life, for I oft described it to you. Everything looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then; and, though I will not describe it to you again, I must just tell you that the entry and piazzas are much narrower than I expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer-houses not nearly so large. Miss Emily asked me, a day or two ago, how I liked the place, and if it looked as it used formerly. I told her the truth; and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was always so with things we had seen when we were little children.
"I need not tell you that Miss Emily is kind to me as ever; for nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world. I can never do half enough, Willie, to repay her for all her goodness to me; and yet, she is so pleased with little gifts, and so grateful for trifling attentions, that it seems as if everybody might do something to make her happy. I found a few violets in the grass yesterday, and when I brought them to her she kissed and thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds; and little Ben Gately, who picked a hatful of dandelion-blossoms, without a single stem, and then rang at the front-door bell, and asked for Miss Ga'am, so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for his trouble, and a 'thank you, Bennie,' that he will not soon forget. Wasn't it pleasant in Miss Emily, Willie?
"Mr. Graham has given me a garden, and I mean to have plenty of flowers for her by-and-by—that is, if Mrs. Ellis doesn't interfere; but I expect she will, for she does in almost everything. Willie, Mrs. Ellis is mygreattrial. She is just the kind of person I cannot endure. I believe there are some people that other peoplecan'tlike—and she is just the sort I can't. I would not tell anybody else so, because it would not be right, and I do not know that it is right to mention it at all; but I always tell you everything. Miss Emily talks to me about her, and says I must learn to love her, andwhen I doI shall be an angel.
"There, I know you will think that is some of Gerty's old temper; and perhaps it is, but you don't know how she tries me; it is in little things that I cannot tell very easily, and I would not plague you with them if I could, so I won't write about her any more—I will try to love her dearly.
"You will think that now, while I am not going to school, I shall hardly know what to do with my time; but I have plenty to do. The first week after we came here I found the mornings very dull. You know I am always an early riser; but, as it does not agree with Miss Emily to keep early hours, I never see her until eight o'clock, full two hours after I am up and dressed. When we were in Boston, I always spent that time studying; but this spring, Miss Emily, who noticed that I was growing fast, and heard Mr. Arnold notice how pale I looked, fancied it would not do for me to spend so much time at my books; and so, when we came to D——, she planned my study-hours, which are very few, and arranged that they should take place after breakfast, and in her own room. She always advised me, if I could, to sleep later in the morning; but I could not, and was up at my usual time, wandering around the garden. One day I was quite surprised to find Mr. Graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits; but he is a queer man. He asked me to come and help him plant onion-seeds, and I rather think I did it pretty well; for after that he let me plant a number of things, and label little sticks to put down by the side of them. At last, to my joy, he offered to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where I might raise flowers. And so I am to have a garden. But I am making a very long story, Willie, and have not time to say a thousand other things that I want to. O! if I could see you, I could tell you in an hour more than I could write in a week. In five minutes I expect to hear Miss Emily's bell, and then she will send for me to come and read to her.
"I long to hear from you, dear Willie, and pray to God morning and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your lovingGerty."
A few weeks after the date of this letter, Gerty learned through George, who went daily to the city to attend to the marketing, that Mrs. Sullivan had left word at the shop of our old acquaintance, the butcher, that she had received a letter from Willie, and wanted Gerty to come into town and see it. Emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be impossible to arrange it, as Charlie, the only horse Mr. Graham kept, was in use, and she saw no other way of sending her. "Why don't you let her go in the omnibus?" asked Mrs. Ellis. Gerty looked gratefully at Mrs. Ellis; it was the first time that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views.
"I don't think it's safe for her to go alone in the coach," said Emily.
"Safe!—What, for that great girl!" said Mrs. Ellis, whose position in the family had no forms of restraint with Miss Graham.
"Do you think it is?" inquired Emily. "She seems a child to me, to be sure; but as you say, she is almost grown up, and I dare say is capable of taking care of herself. Gertrude, are you sure you know the way from the omnibus-office in Boston to Mrs. Sullivan's?"
"Perfectly well, Miss Emily."
A place was therefore secured, and Gertrude set forth on her expedition with beaming eyes and a full heart. She found Mrs. Sullivan and Mr. Cooper well, and rejoicing over the tidings from Willie, who, after a long but agreeable voyage, had reached Calcutta in health and safety. A description of his new home, his new duties and employers, filled all the rest of the letter, except what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries, a large share of which were for Gerty. Gertrude dined with Mrs. Sullivan, and then hastened to the omnibus. She took her seat, and as she waited for the coach to start, amused herself with the passers-by. It was nearly three o'clock, and she began to think she should be the only passenger, when she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose approach she had not perceived. She moved towards the door, and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singular-looking being she had ever beheld. It was an old lady, small, and considerably bent with years. She had been vainly endeavouring to mount the inconvenient vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling to the driver to help her. "Sir," said she, in measured tones, "is this travelling equipage under your honourable charge?"
"What say, marm?—Yes, I'm the driver;" saying which, he came up to the door, opened it, and without waiting for the polite request which was on the old lady's lips, placed his hand beneath her elbow, and lifted her into the coach and shut the door. "Bless me!" ejaculated she, as she seated herself opposite Gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies, "that individual is not versed in the art of assisting a lady, without detriment to her habiliments. O dear, O dear!" added she, "I've lost my parasol."
She rose as she spoke; but the sudden starting of the coach threw her off her balance, and she would have fallen, had it not been for Gertrude, who caught her by the arm, and reseated her, saying as she did so, "Do not be alarmed, madam; here is the parasol."
As she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which, though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old lady's waist by a green ribbon, and, having slipped out of place, was supposed lost. And not a parasol only did she bring to light; numerous other articles, connected with the same green string—a large reticule of various colours, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, and other articles. They were partly hidden under a thin black silk shawl, and Gertrude began to think her companion had been on a pilfering expedition. If so, however, the culprit seemed remarkably at ease, for, before the coach had gone many steps, she deliberately placed her feet on the opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. In the first place, much to Gertrude's horror, she took out all her teeth, and put them in her work-bag; then drew off a pair of black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones; removed her lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. She next untied her bonnet, threw over it, as a protection from the dust, a large cotton handkerchief, and loosing her fan, applied herself diligently to the use of it, closing her eyes as she did so, evidently intending to go to sleep. She did fall into a doze, for she was very quiet, and Gertrude, occupied with observing some heavy clouds that were rising from the west, forgot to observe her fellow traveller, until she was startled by a hand suddenly laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of "My dear young damsel, do not those dark shadows betoken adverse weather?"
"I think it will rain very soon," replied Gertrude.
"This morn, when I ventured forth," soliloquised the old lady, "the sun was bright, the sky serene; even the winged songsters took part in the universal joy; and now before I get home, my delicate lace flounces (glancing at the skirt of her dress) will prove a sacrifice to the pitiless storm."
"Does the coach pass your door?" asked Gertrude.
"No; Oh, no! not within half-a-mile. Does it better accommodate you, my young miss?"
"No. I shall have a mile to walk."
The coach had reached its destination, and the two passengers alighted. Gertrude would have started at once on her walk, but was prevented by the old lady, who begged her to wait, as she was going the same way. The old lady refused to pay the fare demanded by the driver; and declared it was not the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the excess into his pocket. Gertrude was impatient, for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in torrents; but the matter being compromised, she was permitted to proceed. They had walked about a quarter-of-a-mile, and at a very slow rate, when the rain fell; and now Gertrude was asked to unloose the huge parasol, and carry it over her companion and herself. In this way they had walked nearly as much more of the distance, when the waters began to descend as if all the reservoirs of heaven were thrown open. Just then Gertrude heard a step behind them, and, turning, she saw George, Mr. Graham's man, running in the direction of the house. He recognised her at once, and exclaimed, "Miss Gertrude, you'll be wet through; and Miss Pace too. Sure, and ye'd better baith hasten to her house, where ye'll be secure."
So saying, he caught Miss Pace in his arms, and signing to Gertrude to follow, rushed across the street, and hurrying on to a cottage near by, did not stop until he had placed the old lady in safety beneath her own porch; and Gerty also gained its shelter. Miss Pace was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her consciousness; and it was arranged that Gertrude should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that George should call for her when he passed that way with the carriage on his return from the depot.
Miss Patty Pace was not a person of much hospitality. She owned the cottage which she occupied and lived alone, keeping no servants and entertaining no visitors. She was herself a famous visitor; and, as but a small part of her life had been passed in D——, and all her friends and connexions lived either in Boston or at a much greater distance, she was a constant frequenter of omnibuses. But though, through her travelling propensities and her regular attendance at church, she was well known, Gertrude was perhaps the first visitor who had ever entered her house.
Even when she was at her door, she had to take the old lady's key, unlock and open it herself, and finally lead her hostess into the parlour, and help her off with her innumerable capes, shawls, and veils. Once come to a distinct consciousness of her situation, however, and Miss Patty Pace conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she was remarkable. Suffering a thousand regrets at the trying experience her own clothes had sustained, she expressed nearly as many fears lest Gertrude had ruined every article of her dress. It was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the scarf she had thrown over it, that Miss Patty could be prevailed upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire, and change her lace flounces for something more suitable for home wear. As soon as she left the room, Gertrude, whose curiosity was excited, took a nearer view of many articles, both of ornament and use, which had attracted her attention, from their singular appearance. Miss Pace's room was remarkable as its owner. Its furniture, like her apparel, was made up of the gleanings of every age and fashion. Gertrude's quick eye was revelling amid the few relics of ancient eloquence, and the numerous specimens of folly and bad taste, when the old lady returned.
A neat though quaint black dress having taken the place of the much-valued flounces, she now looked more lady-like. She held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach and prevent her taking cold; and when Gertrude, who could scarcely keep from laughing in her face, declined the beverage, Miss Patty seated herself, and, while enjoying the refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment satisfied her visitor she was a women of sense, and the next that she was either foolish or insane. The impression which Gertrude made upon Miss Patty was more decided. Miss Patty was delighted with the young miss, and declared she had an intellect that would do honour to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and motions more graceful than those of a swan. When George came for Gertrude, Miss Pace was sorry to part with her, invited her to come again, and she promised to do so.
The satisfactory news from Willie, and the amusing adventures of the afternoon, had given to Gertrude such a feeling of buoyancy, that she bounded into the house, and up the stairs, with that fairy quickness Uncle True had so loved to see in her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had rarely permitted her to exercise.
At the door of her room she met Bridget, the housemaid. On inquiring what was going on there, she learned that during her absence her room had received a thorough cleaning. Alarmed at the idea of Mrs. Ellis having invaded her premises, she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation, which, as she continued her observations, swelled into angry excitement.
When Gertrude went from Mrs. Sullivan's to Mr. Graham's house in the city, she took with her a trunk containing her wardrobe, an old bandbox, which she put on the shelf of a closet in her chamber. There it remained during the winter, unpacked, and when the family went into the country, the box went also, carefully protected by its owner, who had put it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening before her expedition to the city had been engaged in inspecting its contents, endeared to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the little maiden shed over her stock of valuables. There was the figure of the Samuel, Uncle True's first gift, defaced by time and accident. There, too, were his pipes, dark with smoke and age; but as she thought what comfort they had been to him, she felt them a consolation to her. She had also his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleasant light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life; also his fur cap, beneath which she had often seen the kindly smile, and could hardly realise that there was not one for her still hidden beneath its crown.
All these things, excepting the lantern and cap, Gertrude had left upon the mantel-piece; and on entering the room, her eye sought her treasures. They were gone. The mantel-piece was empty. She ran towards the corner for the old box. It was gone. To rush after the housemaid and question her was but the work of an instant.
Bridget was a new-comer, a stupid specimen, but Gertrude obtained from her all the information she needed. The image, the pipes, and the lantern were thrown among a heap of broken glass and crockery, and smashed to atoms. The cap, said to be moth-eaten, and the other articles had been cast into the fire at Mrs. Ellis's orders. Gertrude allowed Bridget to depart, unaware of the greatness of her loss; then, shutting the door, she wept.
She rose from the bed suddenly, and started for the door; then, some new thought seeming to check her, she returned again to the bedside, and, with a loud sob, fell upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Once or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and going to face her enemy; but each time something came across her mind and detained her. It was not fear; oh, no! Gertrude was not afraid of anybody. It must have been some stronger motive than that. Whatever it might be, it was something that had a soothing influence, for, after every fresh struggle, she grew calmer, and rising, seated herself in a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked out. The shower was over, and the smiles of the refreshed earth were reflected in a glowing rainbow. A little bird came and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted forth aTe Deum. A Persian lilac-bush, in full bloom, sent up a delicious fragrance. A wonderful calm stole into Gertrude's heart, and she felt "the grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce trouble." She had conquered; she had achieved the greatest of earth's victories, a victory over herself. The brilliant rainbow, the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not half so beautiful as the light that overspread the face of the young girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to heaven and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise.
The sound of the tea-bell startled her. She bathed her face and brushed her hair, and went downstairs. There was no one in the dining-room but Mrs. Ellis; Mr. Graham had been detained in town, and Emily was suffering severe headache. Gertrude took tea alone with Mrs. Ellis, who, unaware of the great value Gertrude attached to her old relics, was conscious she had done an unkind thing.
Next day Mrs. Prime, the cook, came to Emily's room, and produced the little basket, made of a nut, saying, "I wonder now, Miss Emily, where Miss Gertrude is; for I've found her little basket in the coal-hole, and I guess she'll be right glad on't—'tan't hurt a mite." Emily inquired, "What basket?" and the cook, placing it in her hands, gave an account of the destruction of Gertrude's property, which she had herself witnessed with indignation. She described the distress of Gertrude when questioning Bridget, which the sympathising cook had heard from her chamber.
As Emily listened to the story, she thought the previous afternoon she heard Gertrude sobbing in her room, but that she concluded that she mistook. "Go," said she, "and carry the basket to Gertrude; she is in the little library; but please, Mrs. Prime, don't tell her that you have mentioned the matter to me." Emily expected for several days, to hear from Gertrude the story of her injuries; but Gertrude kept her trouble to herself.
This was the first instance of complete self-control to Gerty. From this time she experienced more and more the power of governing herself; and, with each new effort gaining new strength, became at last a wonder to those who knew the temperament she had had to contend with. She was now nearly fourteen years old, and so rapid had been her recent growth that, instead of being below the usual stature, she was taller than most girls of her age. Freedom from study, and plenty of air and exercise, prevented her, however, from suffering from this circumstance. Her garden was a source of great pleasure to her, and flowers prospering under her careful training, she had always a bouquet ready to place by Emily's plate at breakfast-time.
Mr. Graham's garden was very beautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery, summer houses, and arbours covered with grape-vines; but a high, broad fence hid it from public view, and the house, standing back from the road, was old-fashioned in its appearance. The summer was passing most happily, and Gertrude, in the enjoyment of Emily's society, and in the consciousness that she was rendering herself useful and important to this excellent friend, was finding in every day new causes of contentment and rejoicing, when a stop was suddenly put to all her pleasure.
Emily was taken ill with a fever, and Gertrude, on her entering the sick-room, to share in its duties, was rudely repulsed by Mrs. Ellis, who had constituted herself sole nurse, and who declared that the fever was catching, and Miss Emily did not want her there.
For three or four days Gertrude wandered about the house, inconsolable. On the fifth morning after her banishment from the room, she saw Mrs. Prime, the cook, going upstairs with some gruel; and, giving her some beautiful rose-buds which she had gathered, she begged her to give them to Emily, and ask if she might not come in and see her. She lingered about the kitchen awaiting Mrs. Prime's return, in hopes of some message, at least, from the sufferer. But when the cook came down the flowers were still in her hand, and as she threw them on the table, the kind-hearted woman gave vent to her feelings.
"Well! folks do say that first-rate cooks and nurses are allers as cross as bears! 'Tan't for me to say whether it's so 'bout cooks, but 'bout nurses there an't no sort o'doubt! I would not want to go there, Miss Gertrude; I'm sure she'd bit your head off."
"Wouldn't Miss Emily take the flowers?" asked Gertrude, looking quite grieved.
"Well, she hadn't no word in the matter. You know she couldn't see what they were; and Mrs. Ellis flung 'em outside the door, vowin' I might as well bring pison into the room with a fever as roses. I tried to speak to Miss Emily, but Mrs. Ellis set up such a hush-sh-sh I s'posed she was goin' to sleep, and jest made the best o' my way out. Ugh! don't she begin to scold when there's anybody taken sick!"
Gertrude sauntered out into the garden. She had nothing to do but think anxiously about Emily, who, she feared, was very ill. Her work and her books were all in Emily's room, where they were usually kept; the library might have furnished amusement, but it was locked up. So the garden was the only thing left for her, and there she spent the rest of the morning; and many others, for Emily grew worse, and a fortnight passed away without Gertrude's seeing her, or having any other intimation regarding her health than Mrs. Ellis's occasional report to Mr. Graham, who, as he saw the physician every day, and made frequent visits to his daughter, did not require that particular information which Gertrude was eager to obtain. Once or twice she had asked Mrs. Ellis, who replied, "Don't bother me with questions! what do you know about sickness?"
One afternoon Gertrude was sitting in a large summer-house at the end of the garden; her own piece of ground, fragrant with mignonette and verbena, was close by, and she was busily engaged in tying up some little papers of seeds, when she was startled by hearing a step beside her, and looking up, saw Dr. Jeremy, the family physician, entering the building.
"Ah! what are you doing?" said the doctor, in a quick manner peculiar to him. "Sorting seeds, eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied Gerty, blushing, as she saw the doctor's keen black eyes scrutinising her face!
"Where have I seen you before?" asked he, in the same blunt way.
"At Mr. Flint's."
"Ah! True Flint's! I remember all about it. You're his girl! Nice girl, too! And poor True, he's dead! Well, he's a loss to the community! So this is the little nurse I used to see there. Bless me! how children do grow!"
"Doctor Jeremy," asked Gertrude, in an earnest voice, "will you please to tell me how Miss Emily is?"
"Emily! she an't very well just now."
"Do you think she'll die?"
"Die! No! What should she die for? I won't let her die, if you'll help me to keep her alive. Why an't you in the house taking care of her?"
"I wish I might!" exclaimed Gertrude, starting up; "I wish I might!"
"What's to hinder?"
"Mrs. Ellis, sir; she won't let me in; she says Miss Emily doesn't want anybody but her."
"She's nothing to say about it, or Emily either; it's my business, and I want you. I'd rather have you to take care of my patients than all the Mrs. Ellises in the world. She knows nothing about nursing; let her stick to her cranberry-sauce and squash-pies. So, mind, to-morrow you're to begin."
"O, thank you, doctor."
"Don't thank me yet; wait till you've tried it—it's hard work taking care of sick folks. Whose orchard is that?"
"Mrs. Bruce's."
"Is that her pear-tree?"
"Yes, sir."
"By George, Mrs. Bruce, I'll try your pears for you!"
As he spoke, the doctor, a man some sixty-five years of age, stout and active, sprung over a stone wall, which separated them from the orchard, and reached the foot of the tree almost at a bound.
As Gertrude watched the proceeding, she observed the doctor stumble over some obstacle, and only saved himself from falling by stretching forth both hands, and sustaining himself against the trunk of the tree. At the same instant a head, adorned with a velvet smoking-cap, was slowly lifted from the long grass, and a youth, about sixteen or seventeen years of age, stared at the intruder.
Nothing daunted, the doctor at once took the offensive ground towards the occupant of the place, saying, "Get up, lazy bones! What do you lie there for, tripping up honest folks?"
"Whom do you call honest folks, sir?" inquired the youth, apparently undisturbed by the doctor's epithet and inquiry. He showed muchsang froid.
"I call myself and my little friend here remarkably honest people," replied the doctor, winking at Gertrude, who, standing behind the wall and looking over, was laughing at the way in which the doctor had got caught. The young man turned, and gave a broad stare at Gertrude's merry face.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" asked he.
"Yes, certainly," replied the doctor. "I came here to help myself to pears; but you are taller than I—perhaps, with the help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that best branch."
"A remarkably honourable and honest errand!" muttered the young man. "I shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause." And, drawing down the branch, so that he could reach it with his hand, shook it vigorously. The ripe fruit fell on every side; and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands, started for the other side of the wall.
"Have you got enough?" asked the youth, in a very lazy tone of voice.
"Plenty, plenty," said the doctor.
"Glad of it," said the boy, indolently throwing himself on the grass, and still staring at Gertrude.
"You must be very tired," said the doctor, stepping back a pace or two; "I'm a physician, and should advise a nap."
"Are you, indeed!" replied the youth, in the same half-drawling, half-ironical tone of voice; "then I think I'll take your advice;" and he threw himself upon the grass, and closed his eyes.
Having emptied his pockets upon the seat of the summer-house, and invited Gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing at his boyish feat, looked at his watch. "Half-past four! The cars go in ten minutes. Who's going to drive me down to the depot?"
"I don't know, sir," replied Gertrude.
"Where's George?"
"He's gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left white Charlie harnessed in the yard; I saw him fasten him to the chain, after he drove you up from the cars."
"Ah! then you can drive me down to the depot."
"I can't, sir; I don't know how."
"But you must; I'll show you how. You're not afraid?"
"O, no, sir; but Mr. Graham——"
"Never you mind Mr. Graham—do you mind me. I'll answer for your coming back safe enough."
Gertrude was naturally courageous; she had never driven before, but, having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and, being often afterwards called upon by Dr. Jeremy to perform the same service, she soon became skilful in the use of the reins.
Dr. Jeremy was true to his promise of installing Gertrude in Emily's sick room. The next visit he made to his patient, he spoke in terms of the highest praise of Gertrude's devotion to her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she had been expelled from the chamber.
"She is timid," said Emily, "and is afraid of catching the fever."
"Don't believe it," said Dr. Jeremy; "'tan't like her."
"Do you think not?" inquired Emily, earnestly. "Mrs. Ellis——"
"Told a lie," interrupted the doctor. "Gerty wants to come and take care of you, and she knows how as well as Mrs. Ellis any day; it isn't much you need done. You want quiet, and that's what you can't have with that great talking woman about. So I'll send her to Jericho to-day, and bring my little Gertrude up here. She's a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her shoulders."
It is not to be supposed that Gertrude could provide for Emily's wants any better than Mrs. Ellis; and Emily, knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to Jericho; for, though Dr. Jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, did not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not be dispensed with.
So, though Emily, Dr. Jeremy, and Gertrude were all made happy by the free admission of the latter to the sick-room, the housekeeper was never conscious that anyone knew her ill-will to Gertrude.
There were care and tenderness in Gertrude, which only the warmest love could have dictated. When Emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, she found a cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from Mrs. Ellis's deep snoring that it was not her hand that held it—when she observed that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bathing, and the little feet that were never weary were always noiseless—she realised the truth that Dr. Jeremy had brought her a most excellent medicine. A week or two passed away, and she was able to sit up, though not yet able to leave her room. A few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exercise. "Drive out two or three times every day," said he.
"How can I?" said Emily. "George has so much to do, it will be very inconvenient."
"Let Gertrude drive you; she is a capital hand."
"Gertrude," said Emily, smiling, "I believe you are a great favourite of the doctor's; he thinks you can do anything. You never drove, did you?"
"Hasn't she driven me to the depot every day for these six weeks?" inquired the doctor.
"Is it possible?" asked Emily.
Upon her being assured this was the case, and the doctor insisting that there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into the carriage, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis went out to drive with Gertrude, an experiment which, being often repeated, was a source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. In the early autumn, when Emily's health was restored, old Charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes Mrs. Ellis accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged in household duties, they oft went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned buggy, and Emily declared that Gertrude's learning to drive had proved a great source of happiness. Once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, Gertrude saw again the lazy youth whom Dr. Jeremy had stumbled over when he went to steal pears. Once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning her friend Dr. Jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her name.
Gertrude blushed; she was sensitive about her name, and, though she went by that of Flint, and did not think much about it, she could not fail to remember, when the question was put to her point-blank, that she had no surname of her own. Emily had tried to find Nan Grant, in order to learn from her something of Gertrude's early history; but Nan had left her old habitation, and for years nothing had been heard of her.
It was the twilight of a sultry September day, and, wearied by excessive heat, Emily sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze. The western sky was still streaked with brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams upon Emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. Ten years had passed since Emily was introduced to the reader; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time, that she looked little older than on her first meeting Gertrude in Mr. Arnold's church.
She had even then experienced much of the sorrows of life, and learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for every pain. Even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her countenance; therefore, time had little power upon her; as she was then so was she now; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life. Still a close observer might perceive in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of life, and this was due, as Emily acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, and the beautiful and true, and her unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and become, what Uncle True bade her be, eyes to her benefactor.
On the present occasion, as Emily sat alone, her thoughts were sad. She held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and, as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would cross her features.
At length, some one approaches the gate. None but Emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step; but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer, whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize in her our little quondam Gertrude, for she has now become a young lady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and her figure is slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station.
Gertrude's eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now look too large for her face; and, if her mouth be less classically formed than the strict rule of beauty would commend, it is atoned for by two rows of small pearly teeth, which are as regular as a string of beads. Her neat dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her black mantle does not hide the roundness of her taper waist.
Is Gertrude a beauty? By no means. Hers is a face and form about which there would be a thousand different opinions, and few would pronounce her beautiful. But there are faces whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch—tell-tale faces, that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within; faces that now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that which the soul abhors, and faces sanctified by the divine presence, when the heart turns from the world and itself, and looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude's. There are forms which, though neither dignified nor fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a power of moving airily in their sphere—and such a form was Gertrude's. Whatever charm these attractions might give her—and many estimated it highly—it was greatly enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing any attractions at all.
As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace, and joining her near the door-step, where a path led into the garden, passed her arm affectionately over Emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness, and Gertrude's superior height and ability to act as guide, had rendered usual, and said, while she drew the shawl closer around her blind friend, "Here I am again, Miss Emily! Have you been alone since I went away?"
"Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been worried to think you were travelling about in Boston this excessive warm day."
"It has not hurt me in the least; I only enjoy this cool breeze all the more—it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city!"
"But, Gerty," said Emily, stopping short in their walk, "what are you coming away from the house for? You have not been to tea, my child."
"I know it, Emily, but I don't want any supper."
They walked slowly and in perfect silence. At last Emily said, "Well, Gertrude, have you nothing to tell me?"
"O yes, a great deal, but——"
"But you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like to speak it; is it not so?"
"I ought not to have the vanity, dear Emily, to think it would trouble you very much; but ever since last evening, when I told you what Mr. W. said, and what I had in my mind, and you seemed to feel so badly at the thought of our being separated, I have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do."
"And I, on the other hand, Gertrude, have been reproaching myself for allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the matter, lest I should be influencing you against your duty. I feel that you are right, Gertrude, and that, instead of opposing, I ought to do everything I can to forward your plans."
"Dear Emily!" said Gertrude, "if you thought so from what I told you yesterday, you would be convinced had you observed all that I have to-day."
"Why! Are matters any worse than they were at Mrs. Sullivan's?"
"Much worse than I described to you. I did not then know all that she had to contend with; but I have been at their house since I left home this morning (for Mr. W. did not detain me five minutes), and it does not seem safe for such a delicate woman as Mrs. Sullivan to be alone with Mr. Cooper, now that his mind is in such a state."
"But do you think you can do any good?"
"I know I can, dear Emily; I can manage him much better than she can, and do more for his comfort. He is like a child now, and full of whims. When he can be indulged, Mrs. Sullivan will please him at any amount of inconvenience, and even danger to herself, not only because he is her father, and she feels it her duty, but she is afraid of him, he is so irritable and violent. She tells me he often takes it into his head to do the strangest things, such as going out late at night, when it is unsafe, and sleeping with his window wide open."
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Emily; "what does she do in such cases?"
"I can tell you, Emily, for I saw an instance of it to-day. When I went in this morning, he was preparing to make a coal-fire in the grate, notwithstanding the heat, which was becoming intense in the city."
"And Mrs. Sullivan?" said Emily.
"Was sitting on the lower stair, in the front entry, crying."
"Poor thing!" murmured Emily.
"She could do nothing with him," continued Gertrude, "and had given up in despair."
"She ought to have a strong woman or a man to take care of him."
"That is what she dreads worse than anything. She says it would kill her to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to be by a stranger; and, besides, she shrinks from the idea of having anyone in the house to whom she is unaccustomed. She is very neat and particular in all her arrangements, has always done her work herself; and declares she would sooner admit a wild beast into her family than an Irish girl."
"Her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her yet, has it?"
"Oh, no. She was saying to-day how strange it seemed when she had been looking forward so long to the comfort of a new tenement, that, just as she had moved in and got everything furnished to her mind, she should have this great trial."
"It seems strange to me," said Emily, "that she did not sooner perceive its approach. I noticed when I went with you the failure in the old man's intellect."
"I had observed it for a long time," remarked Gertrude, "but never spoke of it to her; and I do not think she was in the least aware of it, until about their removal, when the breaking-up of old associations affected his mind."
"Sad thing!" said Emily. "How old is he?"
"I believe he is very old; I remember Mrs. Sullivan's telling me some time ago that he was near eighty."
"Is he so old as that? Then I am not surprised that these changes have made him childish."
"Oh, no. Melancholy, as it is, we may come to the same if we live to his age; and as he seems generally contented, I do not lament it so much on his own account as Mrs. Sullivan's."
"Does it seem hard for her to bear up under it?"
"I think it would not be if she were well; but there is something the matter with her, and I fear it is more serious than she allows, for she looks very pale, and has had several alarming ill turns lately."
"Has she consulted a physician?"
"No; she doesn't wish for one, and says she shall soon be better; but I do not feel sure that she will, especially as she takes no care of herself; and that is one reason I wish to be in town as soon as possible. I am anxious to have Dr. Jeremy see her, and I can bring it about without her knowing that he comes on her account."
"You speak confidently of being in town, Gertrude; so I suppose it is all arranged."
"Oh, I have not told you, have I, about my visit to Mr. W.? Dear, good man, how grateful I ought to be to him! He has promised me the situation."
"I had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to you at Mrs. Bruce's."
"You hadn't, really! Why, Emily, I was almost afraid to mention it to him. I couldn't believe he would have sufficient confidence in me; but he was so kind! I hardly dare tell you what he said about my capacity to teach, you will think me so vain."
"You need not tell me, my darling; I know from his own lips how highly he appreciates your ability."
"Dear Uncle True always wanted me to be a teacher; it was the height of his ambition. He would be pleased, wouldn't he, dear Emily?"
"Yes, proud to see you assistant in a school like Mr. W.'s. But he would think as I do, that you are undertaking too much. You expect to be occupied in the school the greater part of every morning, and yet you propose to be nurse to Mrs. Sullivan, and guardian to her poor old father. My dear child, you are not used to so much care, and I shall be constantly troubled for you, lest your own health and strength give way."
"Oh, dear Emily, there is no cause for any anxiety on my account. I am well and strong, and capable of all that I have planned for myself. My only trouble is in leaving you; and I fear you will miss me, and perhaps feel as if——"
"I know what you would say, Gertrude. You need not fear that; I am sure of your affection. I am sure you love me next to your duty, and I would not that you should give me the preference. So dismiss that thought from your mind, and do not believe that I would be selfish enough to desire to retain you. I only wish, my dear, that for the present you had not thought of entering the school. You might then have gone to Mrs. Sullivan's, stayed as long as needed, and perhaps found, by the time we are ready to start on our southern tour, that your services could be dispensed with; in which case you could accompany us on a journey which I am sure your health will by that time require."
"But, dear Emily, how could I do that? I could not propose myself as a visitor to Mrs. Sullivan, however useful I might intend to be to her; nor could I speak of nursing to a woman who will not confess that she is ill. It seemed to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the world, to bring it about; for I have been with you so long that Mrs. Sullivan thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive way of life. It was only when Mr. W. spoke of his wanting an assistant, and hinted that he should like to employ me in that capacity, that the present plan occurred to me. I knew if I told Mrs. Sullivan that I was engaged to teach there, and that you were not coming to town, and represented to her that I wanted a boarding-place for the winter, she would insist that I should go nowhere else."
"And it proved as you expected?"
"Exactly; and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of my being with her, that I realised still more how much she needed some one."
"She will have a treasure in you, Gertrude."
"No, indeed! The feeling I have is, that however little I may be able to accomplish, it will be more than anyone else could do for Mrs. Sullivan. She has lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the city, and I do not know of anyone, except myself, whom she would willingly admit under her roof. She is used to me, and loves me; I am no restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist in whatever she is doing, although she often says I live a lady's life now, and am not used to work. She knows, too, that I have an influence over her father; and Ihave—strange as it may seem to you—Ihavemore than I know how to account for myself. I think it is partly because I am not afraid of him, and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly because I am more of a stranger than Mrs. Sullivan. But there is another cause; he associates me in his mind with Willie; for we were for some years constantly together, both left the house at the same time, and he knows that it is through me that the correspondence with him is carried on. Since his mind has been so weak, he thinks continually of Willie, and I can at any moment, however irritable he may be, make him calm and quiet, by proposing to tell him the latest news from his grandson. It does not matter how often I repeat the contents of the last letter, it is always new to him; and you have no idea, Emily, what power this gives me. Mrs. Sullivan sees how easily I can guide his thoughts, and I noticed what a load of care was taken from her mind by having me there to-day. She looked so happy when I came away to-night, and spoke so hopefully of the comfort it would be during the winter to have me with her, that I felt repaid for any sacrifice it has been to me. But when I came home, and saw you, and thought of your going so far away, and of the length of time it might be before I should live with you again, I felt as if——" Gerty could say no more. She laid her head on Emily's shoulder, and wept.
Emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. "We have been very happy together, Gerty," said she, "and I shall miss you sadly; half the enjoyment of my life has of late years been borrowed from you. But I never loved you half so well as I do now, at the time we must part; for I see in the sacrifice you are making of yourself one of the noblest and most important traits of character a woman can possess. I know how much you love the Sullivans, and you have certainly every reason for being attached to them; but your leaving us at this time, and renouncing without a murmur the southern tour from which you expected so much pleasure, proves that my Gerty is the brave, good girl I always hoped and prayed she might become. You are in the path of duty, Gertrude, and will be rewarded by the approbation of your own conscience, if in no other way."
As Emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the garden, and were met by a servant-girl, who announced that Mrs. Bruce and her son were in the parlour, and had asked for them both.
"Did you get her buttons in town, Gertrude?" inquired Emily.
"Yes, I found some that were an excellent match for the dress; she probably wants to know what success I had; but how can I go in?"
"I will return to the house with Kate, and you can go in at the side-door, and reach your own room without being seen. I will excuse you to Mrs. Bruce for the present; and when you have bathed your eyes, and feel composed, you can come in and report concerning the errand she entrusted to you."