When Gertrude entered the room in half-an-hour, her face showed no mental distress. Mrs. Bruce nodded to her good naturedly from a corner of the sofa. Mr. Bruce rose and offered his chair at the same time that Mr. Graham pointed to a vacant window-seat near him, and said kindly, "Here is a place for you, Gertrude."
Declining these civilities, she withdrew to an ottoman near an open glass door, where she was immediately joined by Mr. Bruce, who, seating himself in an indolent attitude upon the upper row of a flight of steps which led from the window to the garden, commenced conversation with her.
Mr. Bruce—the gentleman who, some years before, wore a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass—had recently returned from Europe, and, glorifying in the renown acquired from a moustache, a French tailor, and the possession of a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with more complacency than ever.
"So you've been in Boston all day, Miss Flint?"
"Yes, nearly all day."
"Didn't you find it distressingly warm?"
"Somewhat so."
"I tried to go in to attend to some business that mother was anxious about, and even went down to the depot; but I had to give it up."
"Were you overpowered by the heat?"
"I was."
"How unfortunate!" remarked Gertrude, in a half-compassionate, half-ironical tone of voice.
Mr. Bruce looked up, to judge from her countenance whether she were serious or not; but there being little light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he could not decide the question, and therefore replied, "I dislike the heat, Miss Gertrude, and why should I expose myself to it unnecessarily?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon; I thought you spoke of important business."
"Only some affair of my mother's. Nothing I felt any interest in, and she took the state of the weather for an excuse. If I had known that you were in the cars, as I have since heard, I should certainly have persevered, in order to have had the pleasure of walking down Washington Street with you."
"I did not go down Washington Street."
"But you would have done so with a suitable escort," suggested the young man.
"If I had gone out of my way for the sake of accompanying my escort, the escort would have been a very doubtful advantage," said Gertrude, laughing.
"How very practical you are, Miss Gertrude! Do you mean to say that, when you go to the city, you always have a settled plan of operations, and never swerve from your course?"
"By no means. I trust I am not difficult to influence when there is a sufficient motive."
The young man bit his lip. "Then you never act without a motive; pray, what is your motive in wearing that broad-brimmed hat when you are at work in the garden?"
"It is an old habit, adopted some years ago from motives of convenience, and still adhered to, in spite of later inventions, which would certainly be a better protection from the sun. I must plead guilty, I fear, to a little obstinacy in my partiality for that old hat."
"Why not confess, Miss Gertrude, that you wear it in order to look fanciful and picturesque, so that the neighbours' slumbers are disturbed by the thoughts of it? My own morning dreams, for instance, are so haunted by that hat, as seen in company with its owner, that I am daily drawn, as if by magnetic attraction, in the direction of the garden. You will have a heavy account to settle with Morpheus, one of these days, for defrauding him of his rights; and your conscience too will suffer for injuries to my health, sustained by continued exposure to early dews."
"It is hard to condemn me for such unintentional mischief; but since I am to experience so much future remorse on account of your morning visits, I shall take upon myself the responsibility of forbidding them."
"Oh, you wouldn't be so unkind!—especially after all the pains I have taken to impart to you the little I know of horticulture."
"Very little I think it must have been; or I have but a poor memory," said Gertrude, laughing.
"Have you forgotten the pains I took yesterday to acquaint you with the different varieties of roses? Don't you remember how much I had to say of damask roses and damask bloom; and how before I finished, I could not find words enough in praise of blushes, especially such sweet and natural ones as met my eyes while I was speaking?"
"I know you talked a great deal of nonsense. I hope you don't think I listened to it all."
"Oh, Miss Gertrude! It is of no use to say flattering things to you; you always regard my compliments as jokes."
"I have told you, several times, that it was most useless to waste so much flattery upon me. I am glad you are beginning to realise it."
"Well, then, to ask a serious question, where were you this morning at half-past seven?"
"On my way to Boston in the cars."
"Is it possible?—so early! Why, I thought you went at ten. Then, all the time I was watching by the garden wall to say good-morning, you were half-a-dozen miles away. I wish I had not wasted that hour so; I might have spent it in sleeping."
"Very true, it is a great pity."
"And then half-an-hour more here this evening! How came you to keep me waiting so long?"
"I was not aware of doing so. I certainly did not take your visit to myself."
"My visit certainly was not meant for anyone else."
"Ben," said Mr. Graham, approaching rather abruptly, and taking part in the conversation, "are you fond of gardening? I thought I heard you just now speaking of roses?"
"Yes, sir; Miss Flint and I were having quite a discussion upon flowers—roses especially."
Gertrude, availing herself of Mr. Graham's approach, tried to escape and join the ladies at the sofa; but Mr. Bruce, who had risen on Mr. Graham's addressing him, saw her intention, and frustrated it by placing himself in the way, so that she could not pass him without positive rudeness. Mr. Graham continued, "I propose placing a small fountain in the vicinity of Miss Flint's flower garden; won't you walk down with me, and give your opinion of my plan?"
"Isn't it too dark, sir, to——"
"No, no, not at all; there is ample light for our purpose. This way, if you please;" and Mr. Bruce was compelled to follow where Mr. Graham led, though, in spite of his acquaintance with Paris manners, he made a wry face, and shook his head menacingly.
Gertrude was now permitted to relate to Mrs. Bruce the results of the shopping which she had undertaken on her account, and display the buttons, which proved very satisfactory. The gentlemen, soon returning, took seats near the sofa, and the conversation became general.
"Mr. Graham," said Mrs. Bruce, "I have been asking Emily about your visit to the south; and I think it will be a charming trip."
"I hope so, madame; it will be an excellent thing for Emily, and as Gertrude has never travelled, I anticipate a great deal of pleasure for her."
"Ah! then you are to be of the party, Miss Flint?"
"Of course," said Mr. Graham, without giving Gertrude a chance to speak for herself; "we depend upon Gertrude; couldn't get along without her."
"It will be delightful for you," continued Mrs. Bruce, her eyes still fixed on Gertrude.
"I did expect to go with Mr. and Miss Graham," answered Gertrude, "and looked forward to the journey with the greatest eagerness; but I have just decided that I must remain in Boston this winter."
"What are you talking about, Gertrude?" asked Mr. Graham. "What do you mean? This is all news to me."
"And to me, too, sir, or I should have informed you of it before. I supposed you expected me to accompany you, and there is nothing I should like so much. I should have told you before of the circumstances that now make it impossible; but they are of quite recent occurrence."
"But we can't give you up, Gertrude; I won't hear of such a thing; you must go with us in spite of circumstances."
"I fear I shall not be able," said Gertrude, smiling pleasantly, but still retaining her firmness of expression; "you're very kind, sir, to wish it."
"Wish it!—I tell you I insist upon it. You are under my care, child, and I have a right to say what you shall do."
Mr. Graham was excited. Gertrude and Emily looked troubled, but neither spoke.
"Give me your reasons, if you have any," said Mr. Graham, vehemently, "and let me know what has put this strange notion into your head."
"I will explain it to you to-morrow, sir."
"To-morrow! I want to know now. Tell me what all this means? Here I plan my business, and make all my arrangements, to give up this winter to travelling—not so much on my own account as to please both of you, and, just as all is settled, and we are on the point of starting, Gertrude says that she has concluded not to go."
Emily undertook to explain Gertrude's motives, and ended by expressing her approbation of her course. As soon as she had finished, Mr. Graham, who had listened very impatiently, and interrupted her with many a "pish!" and "pshaw!" burst forth with redoubled indignation. "So Gerty prefers the Sullivans to us, and you seem to encourage her in it! I should like to know what they have ever done for her, compared with what I have done."
"They have been friends of hers for years, and now that they are in great distress, she does not feel as if she could leave them, and I confess I do not wonder at her decision."
"I do. She prefers to make a slave of herself in Mr. W.'s school, and a greater slave in Mrs. Sullivan's family, instead of staying with us, where she has been treated like a lady, and like one of our own family."
"Oh, Mr. Graham!" said Gertrude, earnestly, "it is not a matter of choice, except as I feel it to be a duty."
"And what makes it a duty? Just because you used to live with them, and that boy out in Calcutta has sent you home a camel's-hair scarf and a cage full of miserable little birds, and written you letters, you must forfeit your own interest to take care of his sick relations! Can their claim compare with mine? Haven't I given you the best of educations, and spared not expense for your improvement and happiness?"
"I did not think, sir," said Gertrude, humbly, and yet with dignity, "of counting up the favours I had received, and measuring my conduct accordingly. In that case my obligations to you are immense, and you would certainly have the greatest claim upon my services."
"Services! I don't want yourservices, child. Mrs. Ellis can do quite as well as you can for Emily, or me either; but I like yourcompany, and think it is very ungrateful in you to leave us, as you talk of doing."
"Father," said Emily, "I thought the object in giving Gertrude a good education was to make her independent of all the world, and not simply dependent upon us."
"Emily," said Mr. Graham, "I tell you it is a matter of feeling—you don't seem to look upon the thing in the light I do; but you are both against me, and I won't talk any more about it."
So saying, Mr. Graham went to his study, and was seen no more that night.
Poor Gertrude! Mr. Graham, who had been so generous, who had seldom or ever spoken harshly to her, and had always treated her with great indulgence, was now deeply offended. He had called her ungrateful; he felt that she had abused his kindness, and believed that he and Emily stood in her imagination secondary to other far less warm-hearted friends. Deeply wounded, she hastened to say good-night to the no less afflicted Emily, and, seeking her own room, gave way to feelings that caused her a sleepless night.
Left at three years of age dependent upon the charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, Gertrude had, during her residence at Nan Grant's, found little of that charity. But, although her turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she received, she was then too young to reason upon the subject, or come to any conclusions upon the hardness and cruelty of humanity; and, had she done so, such impressions would have been effaced in the home of her kind foster-father.
And having, through a similar providence, found in Emily additional proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not always needed to bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of sympathy and affection, she had hitherto, in her unusually happy experience, felt none of the evils that spring from dependence upon the bounty of strangers.
From Mr. Graham she had until now experienced only kindness. On her first coming to live with them, he had taken little notice of her, so long as she was quiet, well-mannered, and no trouble to anybody, had been indifferent about her. He observed that Emily was fond of the girl, and, though he wondered at her taste, was glad that she should be indulged. But he soon noticed in his daughter's favourite a quickness of mind and propriety of deportment which created an interest in her that soon increased to positive partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gardening and her love of flowers. Emily formed no plan as to Gertrude's education to which she did not obtain a ready assent from her father; and Gertrude, grateful for so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obligation and regard, by treating Mr. Graham with the greatest respect.
But, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations, Mr. Graham had neither the disinterested forbearing spirit of Uncle True, nor the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of Emily. Mr. Graham was a liberal and highly respectable man; he had the reputation of being a high-minded and honourable man; and his conduct justified this report of him. But he was aselfishman, and often took one-sided views. He had supported and educated Gertrude—he liked her—she was the person whom he preferred for a travelling companion for himself and Emily—and he eithercouldnot orwouldnot see that her duty lay in any other direction.
During a wakeful and restless night, Gertrude reviewed and considered her own circumstances. At first her only emotion was one of grief, but that gradually subsided, as other bitter thoughts rose up in her mind.
"What right," thought she, "has Mr. Graham to treat me this way—to tell me Ishallgo with him on his southern journey, and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation, and ought to be in my own? Does he consider my freedom is to be the price of my education, and am I no longer able to say yes or no? Emily does not think so; Emily, who loves and needs me a thousand times more than Mr. Graham, thinks I have acted rightly, and she assured me that it was my duty to carry out the plans I had formed. And my solemn promise to Willie! is that to be held for nothing? No, it would be tyranny in Mr. Graham to insist on my remaining with them, and I am glad I have resolved to break away from such thraldom. Besides, I was educated to teach, and Mr. W. says it is important to commence while my studies are fresh in my mind." So much said pride; and Gertrude's heart listened awhile to such suggestions. But not long. She had accustomed herself to view the conduct of others in that spirit of charity which she desired should be exercised towards her own, and milder thoughts took the place of these excited feelings.
"Perhaps," said she to herself, "it is, after all, pure kindness that prompted Mr. Graham's interference. He may think as Emily does, that I am undertaking too much. It is impossible for him to know how strong my motives are, how deep I consider my obligations to the Sullivans, and how much I am needed by them at this time. I had no idea, either, that I was to be one of the party to the south; for though Emily talked as if she took it for granted, Mr. Graham never asked me to go, and I could not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to refuse; but, after planning the journey to please us both, I do not wonder at his being annoyed. He probably feels, too, as if I had been under his guardianship so long that he has almost a right to decide upon my conduct. And hehasbeen very indulgent to me—and I a stranger with no claims! Shall I then decide to give up my teaching, to go to the south, and leave Mrs. Sullivan to suffer, perhaps die, while I am away? No, that is impossible. I will never be such a traitor to my own heart, and my sense of right; sorry as I shall be to offend Mr. Graham, I must not allow his anger to turn me from my duty."
Having thus resolved to brave the tempest, and committed her cause to Him who judgeth righteously, Gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep. Dreams of a painful nature started her back to consciousness. In some of these visions she beheld Mr. Graham angry, and threatening her with his displeasure if she dared to thwart his plans; and then she seemed to see Willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted five years before, beckoning her with a sad countenance to the room where his pale mother lay in a swoon, as Gertrude had a few weeks before seen her. Exhausted by such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain any rest, and rising, seated herself at the window, where, watching the approach of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the courage which she felt would be requisite to carry her calmly and firmly through the next day—a day destined to witness her sad separation from Emily, and her farewell to Mr. Graham, which would probably be more distressing. The tyrannical disposition of Mr. Graham was well understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed to respect all his wishes and whims; and though he was always indulgent and kind, none ever braved a temper which, when excited, was so violent. It cannot, then, be surprising that Gertrude's heart should have failed her when she stood, half-an-hour before breakfast-time, with the handle of the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her energies for another meeting with the opposer of her plans. She paused but a moment, and then went in. Mr. Graham was sitting in his arm-chair, and on the breakfast-table lay the morning paper. It had been Gertrude's habit to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this same hour, and it was for that purpose she had now come. She advanced toward him with her usual "Good morning."
The salutation was returned in a constrained voice. She seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper. But he placed his hand upon it to prevent her.
"I was going to read the news to you, sir."
"And I do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for me, until I know whether you have concluded to treat me with the respect I have a right to demand from you."
"I certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with respect, Mr. Graham."
"When girls or boys set themselves up in opposition to those older and wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest disrespect they are capable of; but I am willing to forgive the past, if you assure me, as I think you will, after a night's reflection, that you have returned to a right sense of your duty."
"I cannot say, sir, that I have changed my views with regard to what that duty is."
"Do you mean to tell me," asked Mr. Graham, rising from his chair, and speaking in a tone which made Gerty's heart quake, "do you mean to tell me that you have an idea of persisting in your folly?"
"Is it folly, sir, to do right?"
"Right! There is a great difference of opinion between you and me as to what is right in this case."
"But, Mr. Graham, I think if you knew all the circumstances, you would not blame my conduct. I have told Emily the reasons that influence me, and she——"
"Don't quote Emily to me!" interrupted Mr. Graham; "I don't doubt she'd give her head to anybody that asked for it; but I hope I know a little better what is due to myself; and I tell you plainly, Miss Gertrude Flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave my house, as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure; andthat, you may find one of these days, it is no light thing to have incurred—unnecessarily too, as you are doing."
"I am very sorry to displease you, Mr. Graham, but——"
"No, you're notsorry; if you were, you would not walk straight in the face of my wishes," said Mr. Graham, who began to observe the expression of Gertrude's face, which, though troubled, had acquired additional firmness, instead of quailing before his severe and cutting words. "But I have said enough about a matter which is not worthy of so much notice. You can go or stay, as you please. I wish you to understand, if you go, I utterly withdraw my protection and assistance from you. You must take care of yourself, or trust to strangers. I suppose you expect your Calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come home and take you under his especial care; but if you think so, you know little of the world. I dare say he is married to an Indian by this time, and, if not, has forgotten you."
"Mr. Graham," said Gertrude, proudly, "Mr. Sullivan will not probably return to this country for many years, and I assure you I neither look to him nor anyone else for support; I intend to earn a maintenance for myself."
"A heroic resolve!" said Mr. Graham, contemptuously, "and pronounced with a dignity I hope you will be able to maintain. Am I to consider, then, that your mind is made up?"
"It is, sir," said Gertrude, not a little strengthened for the dreaded necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by Mr. Graham's sarcastic speeches.
"And you go?"
"I must. I believe it to be my duty, and am, therefore, willing to sacrifice my own comfort, and, what I assure you I value far more, your friendship."
Mr. Graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter part of her remark, and so far forgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice in the violent ringing of the table-bell.
It was answered by Katy with the breakfast; and Emily and Mrs. Ellis coming, all seated themselves at the table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and constraint, for Emily had heard the loud tones of her father's voice, while Mrs. Ellis plainly saw that something unpleasant had occurred.
When Mr. Graham had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to Mrs. Ellis, and invited her to accompany himself and Emily on their journey to the south, mentioning the probability that they should pass some weeks in Havana.
Mrs. Ellis accepted the invitation with pleasure, and asked a number of questions concerning the proposed route and length of absence; while Emily hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup; and Gertrude, who had lately been readingLetters from Cuba, and was aware that Mr. Graham knew the strong interest she felt in the place, pondered in her mind whether it could be possible that he could be guilty of the mean desire to vex and mortify her.
Breakfast over, Emily hastily sought her room, where she was joined by Gertrude. In answering Emily's inquiries as to the scene which had taken place, Gertrude forbore to repeat Mr. Graham's most bitter and wounding remarks; for she saw from her kind friend's countenance how deeply she participated in her own sense of wrong. She told her, however, that it was now well understood by Mr. Graham that she was to leave, and, as his sentiments towards her were far from kindly, she thought it best to go at once, especially as she could never be more needed by Mrs. Sullivan than at present. Emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented to it, and agreed to accompany her to town that afternoon; for, deeply sensitive at any unkindness manifested towards Gertrude, she preferred to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encounter her father's contemptuous neglect. The remainder of the day was spent by Gertrude in packing and other preparations, while Emily sat by, counselling the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiterated assurances of undiminished affection.
"Oh, if you could only write to me, dear Emily, during your long absence, what a comfort it would be," exclaimed Gertrude.
"With Mrs. Ellis's assistance, my dear," replied Emily, "I will send you such news as I can of our movements; but, though you may not be able to hear much from me, you will be ever in my thoughts, and I shall never forget to commend my beloved child to the protection and care of One who will be to her a better friend than I can be."
In the course of the day Gertrude sought Mrs. Ellis, and astonished that lady by stating that she had come to have a few farewell words with her. Surprise, however, was soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to expatiate upon the generosity of Mr. Graham, and the delights of the excursion in prospect. After wishing her a great deal of pleasure, Gertrude begged to hear from her by letter during her absence; to which request Mrs. Ellis only replied by asking if Gertrude thought a Thibet dress would be uncomfortable on the journey; and, when it was repeated with great earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to the suppliant for epistolary favours, begged to know how many pairs of undersleeves she would probably require. Having responded to her questions, and at last gained her attention, Gertrude obtained from her a promise to writeoneletter, which would, she declared, be more than she had done for years.
Before leaving the house, Gertrude sought Mr. Graham's study, in hopes that he would take a friendly leave of her; but on her telling him that she had come to bid him "Good-bye," he indistinctly muttered the simple words of that universal formula—so deep in its meaning when coming from the heart; so chilling when uttered, as on the present occasion, by stern and nearly closed lips—and turning his back upon her, took up the tongs to mend his fire. So she went away, with a tear in her eye and a sadness in her heart.
A far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where she went to seek Mrs. Prime and Katy. "Bless yer soul, dear Miss Gertrude!" said the former, stumbling up the staircase which led from the lower room, and wiping her hands on her apron—"how we shall miss yer! Why, the house won't be worth livin' in when you're out of it. My gracious! if you don't come back, we shall all die out in a fortnight. Why, you're the life and soul of the place! But there, I guess you know what's right; so, if you must go, we must bear it—though Katy and I'll cry our eyes out, for aught I know."
"Sure, Miss Gairthrue," said Irish Katy, "and it's right gude in you to be afther comin' to bid us good-bye. I don't see how you gets memory to think of us all, and I'm shure ye'll never be betther off than what I wish yer. I can't but think, miss, it'll go to help yer along, that everybody's gude wishes and blessin' goes with yer."
"Thank you, Katy, thank you," said Gertrude, touched by the simple earnestness of these good friends. "You must come and see me some time in Boston; and you too, Mrs. Prime, I shall depend upon it. Good-bye;" and the good-bye thatnowfell upon Gertrude's ear was a hearty and a true one; it followed her through the hall, and as the carriage drove away she heard it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle.
Passing over Gertrude's parting with Emily, her cordial reception by Mrs. Sullivan, and her commencement of school duties, we will record the events of a day in November, about two months after she left Mr. Graham's.
Rising with the sun, she made her neat toilet in a room so cold that her hands were half benumbed; nor did she omit, ere she began the labours of the day, to supplicate Heaven's blessing upon them. Then, noiselessly entering the adjoining apartment, where Mrs. Sullivan was still sleeping, she lit a fire, and performed a similar service at the cooking-stove, which stood in a comfortable room, where, now that the weather was cold, the family took their meals. The table was set for breakfast when Mrs. Sullivan entered, pale, thin, and feeble in her appearance, and wrapped in a large shawl.
"Gertrude," said she, "why did you let me sleep so late, while you are up and at work?"
"For the very best reason in the world, auntie; because I sleep all the early part of the night, and am wide awake at day-break, and with you it is quite the reverse. Besides, I like to get the breakfast; I make such beautiful coffee. Look!" said she, pouring some into a cup, and then lifting the lid of the coffee-pot, and pouring it back again; "see how clear it is! Don't you long for some of it?"
Mrs. Sullivan smiled, for, Uncle True having always preferred tea, Gertrude did not at first know how to make coffee.
"Now," said Gertrude, "I want you to sit down here and watch the tea-kettle boil, while I run and see if Mr. Cooper is ready to let me tie up his cue."
She went, leaving Mrs. Sullivan to think what a good girl she was; and presently returning with the old man, she placed a chair for him, and having waited while he seated himself, and then pinned a napkin about his throat, she proceeded to place the breakfast on the table.
While Mrs. Sullivan poured out the coffee, Gertrude removed the skin from a baked potato, and the shell from a boiled egg, and placing both on the plate destined for Mr. Cooper, handed him his breakfast in a state of preparation which obviated the difficulty the old man experienced in performing these tasks for himself. Poor Mrs. Sullivan had no appetite, and it was with difficulty Gertrude persuaded her to eat anything; but a few fried oysters, unexpectedly placed before her, proved such a temptation that she was induced to eat several, with a degree of relish she rarely felt for any article of food. As Gertrude gazed at her languid face, she realized, more than ever, the change which had come over the active little woman; and confident that nothing but positive disease could have effected such a transformation, she resolved that not another day should pass without her seeing a physician.
Breakfast over, there were dishes to wash, rooms to be put in order, dinner to be partially prepared; and all this Gertrude saw accomplished, chiefly through her own labour, before she went to re-arrange her dress, previous to her departure for the school where she had now been some weeks assistant teacher. A quarter before nine she looked in at the kitchen door, and said, in a cheering tone, to the old man, who was cowering gloomily over the fire—"Come, Mr. Cooper, won't you go over and superintend the new church a little while this morning? Mr. Miller will be expecting you; he said yesterday that he depended on your company when at work."
The old man rose, and taking his great-coat from Gertrude, put it on with her assistance, and accompanied her in a mechanical sort of way, which implied great indifference about going. As they walked in silence down the street, Gertrude could not but resolve in her mind the singular coincidence which had thus made her the almost daily companion of another infirm old man; nor could she fail to draw a comparison between the warm-hearted Uncle True, and the gloomy Paul Cooper. Unfavorable as the comparison was to the latter, it did not diminish the kindness of Gertrude towards her present charge, who was in her eyes an object of sincere compassion. They soon reached the new church—a very handsome edifice. It was not yet finished, and a number of workmen were completing the interior. A man with a hod full of mortar preceded Gertrude and her companion up the steps which led to the main entrance, but stopped inside the porch, on hearing himself addressed by name, and turned to respond to the well-known voice. "Good morning, Miss Flint," said he. "I hope you're very well, this fine day. Ah! Mr. Cooper, you've come to help me a little, I see—that's right. We can't go on very well without you—you're so used to the place. Here, sir, if you'll come with me I'll show you what has been done since you were here last; I want to know how you think we are getting along."
So saying, he was walking away with the old sexton; but Gertrude asked him if he would see Mr. Cooper safe home when he passed Mrs. Sullivan's house on his way to dinner.
"Certainly, Miss Flint," replied the man, "with all pleasure; he has usually gone with me readily, when you have left him in my care." Gertrude then hastened to the school, rejoicing that Mr. Cooper would be safe during the morning; and that Mrs. Sullivan would have the quiet she so much needed.
This man was a respectable mason, who had often been in Mr. Graham's employ, and whose good-will Gertrude had won by the kindness she had shown his family during the previous winter, when they were sick. In her daily walk past the church, she had oft seen Mr. Miller at work, and it occurred to her that, if she could awaken in Mr. Cooper's mind an interest in the new structure, he might find amusement in watching the workmen. She had some difficulty in persuading him to visit a building to the erection of which he had been opposed. Once there, he became interested in the work, and as Mr. Miller tried to make him comfortable, and made him believe that he was useful, he gradually acquired a habit of passing the greater part of every morning in watching the workmen. Sometimes Gertrude called for him on her return from school; and sometimes Mr. Miller took him home.
Since Gertrude had been at Mrs. Sullivan's there was a great alteration in Mr. Cooper. He was more manageable, and manifested less irritability, and his favourable change, together with the cheering influence of Gertrude's society, had produced a beneficial effect upon Mrs. Sullivan; but within the last few days, her increased debility, and two sudden attacks of faintness, had awakened Gertrude's fears. She determined, as soon as she should be released from her school duties, to seek Dr. Jeremy and request his attendance.
Of Gertrude's school-duties, she was found by Mr. W. competent to the performance of them, and that she met with those trials only which all teachers are subjected, from the idleness or stupidity of their pupils. On this day she was detained to a later hour than usual, and the clock struck two as she was ringing Dr. Jeremy's door-bell. The girl who opened the door knew Gertrude, and telling her that, although the doctor was just going to dinner, she thought he would see her, asked her into the office. He advanced to meet Gertrude, holding out both his hands. "Gertrude Flint, I declare!" exclaimed he. "Why, I'm glad to see you, my girl. Why haven't you been here before, I should like to know?" Gertrude explained that she was living with friends, one of whom was very old, the other an invalid; and that so much of her time was occupied in school, that she had no opportunity for visiting.
"Poor excuse," said the doctor; "poor excuse. But, now we've got you here, we shan't let you go very soon!" and going to the foot of the staircase, he called out loudly, "Mrs. Jeremy! Mrs. Jeremy! come down to dinner as quick as you can, and put on your best cap—we've got company.—Poor soul!" added he, in a lower tone, smiling, "she can't hurry, can she, Gerty?—she's so fat."
Gertrude protested against staying to dinner, declaring she must hasten home, and announcing Mrs. Sullivan's illness and the object of her visit.
"An hour can't make much difference," insisted the doctor. "You must stay and dine with me, and then I'll take you with me in the buggy." Gertrude hesitated; the sky had clouded over, and a few flakes of snow were falling; she should have an uncomfortable walk; and, moreover, it would be better for her to accompany the doctor, as the street in which she lived was principally composed of new houses, not yet numbered, and he might have some difficulty in finding the right tenement. Mrs. Jeremy now entered. Fat she certainly was, uncommonly fat, and flushed with the excitement of dressing. She kissed Gertrude, and then, seeing that no one else was present, exclaimed, glancing reproachfully at the doctor—"Why, Dr. Jeremy!—an't you ashamed of yourself? I never will believe you again; you made me think there was some great stranger here."
"And pray, Mrs. Jeremy, who's a greater stranger in this house than Gerty Flint?"
"Sure enough!" said Mrs. Jeremy. "Gertrudeisa stranger, and I've got a scolding in store for her on that very account; but, you know, Dr. Jeremy, I shouldn't have put on my lilac-and-pink for Gertrude to see; she likes me just as well in my old yellow, if she did tell me, when I bought it, the saucy girl, that I'd selected the ugliest cap in Boston. Do you remember that Gerty?" Gerty laughed heartily at the recollection of an amusing scene that took place when she went shopping with Mrs. Jeremy. "But come, Gerty, dinner's ready; take off your cloak and bonnet, and come into the dining-room; the doctor has much to say, and has been wanting dreadfully to see you."
They had been sitting some minutes without a word having been spoken, when the doctor suddenly commenced laughing till tears came into his eyes. Gertrude looked at him, inquiringly, and Mrs. Jeremy said, "There, Gertrude!—for a whole week he had just such a laughing fit, two or three times a-day. I was as much astonished at first as you are; and I don't understand now what could have happened between him and Mr. Graham that was so very funny."
"Come, wife," said the doctor, "don't you forestall my communication. I want to tell the story myself. I don't suppose, Gertrude, you've lived five years at Mr. Graham's without finding out what a cantankerous, opinionative, obstinate old hulk he is!"
"Doctor!" said Mrs. Jeremy, "be careful."
"I don't care, wife; I'll speak my mind with regard to Mr. Graham; and Gertrude, here, has done the same, I haven't a particle of doubt, only she's a good girl, and won't say so."
"I never saw anything that looked like it," said Mrs. Jeremy; "I've seen as much of him as most folks. I meet him in the street almost every day, and he looks as smiling as a basket of chips, and makes a beautiful bow."
"I dare say," said the doctor; "Gertrude and I know what gentlemanly manners he has when one does not walk in the very teeth of his opinions—eh, Gertrude!—but when one does——"
"In talking politics, for instance," suggested Mrs. Jeremy. "It's your differences with him on politics that have set you against him so."
"No, it isn't," replied the doctor. "A man may get angry talking politics, and be a good-natured man too. I get angrymyselfonpolitics, but that isn't the sort of thing I refer to. It's Graham's wanting to lay down the law to everybody that comes within ten miles of him that I can't endure; his dictatorial way of acting as if he were the Grand Mogul of Cochin China. I thought he'd improved of late years; he had a serious lesson enough in that sad affair of poor Philip Amory's; but I believe he's been trying the old game again. Ha! ha! ha!" shouted the good doctor, leaning forward and giving Gertrude a light tap on the shoulder—"wasn't I glad when I found he'd met at last with a reasonable opposition! and that, too, where he least expected it!"
Gertrude looked her astonishment at his evident knowledge of the misunderstanding between herself and Mr. Graham. "You wonder where I got my information; I'll tell you. It was partly from Graham himself; and what diverts me is to think how hard the old chap tried to hide his defeat, and persuade me that he'd had his own way, when I saw through him, and knew that he'd found his match in you."
"Dr. Jeremy," said Gertrude, "I hope you don't think——"
"No, my dear, Idon'tthink you aprofessional pugilist; but I consider you a girl of sense—one who knows what's right—and will do what's right, in spite of Mr. Graham; and when you hear my story you will know the grounds on which I formed my opinion with regard to the course things had taken. One day—about two months ago—I was summoned to go and see one of Mr. W.'s children, who had an attack of croup. Mr. W. was talking with me, when he was called away to see a visitor, and on his return he mentioned that he had secured your services in his school. I knew Emily intended you for a teacher, and I was thankful you had got so good a situation. At Mr. W.'s door I encountered Mr. Graham, and he entertained me as we went down the street with an account of his plan for the winter. 'But Gertrude Flint is not going with you,' said I.—'Gertrude!' said he; 'certainly she is.'—'Are you sure of that?' I asked. 'Have you invited her?'—'Invited her! No,' was his answer; 'but, of course, I know she will go, and be glad of the opportunity; it isn't every girl that is so fortunate.' Now, Gerty, I felt provoked at his way of speaking, and I answered, in as confident a tone as his own, 'I doubt whether she will accept the invitation.' Upon that, Mr. Dignity straightened up, and such a speech as he made! I never can recall it without being amused, especially when I think of the come-down that followed so soon after. I can't repeat it; but one would have thought to hear him that it was not only impossible you should oppose his wishes, but actual treason in me to suggest such a thing. I knew better than to tell what I had just heard from Mr. W., but I never felt a greater curiosity about anything than I did to know how the matter would end. Two or three times I planned to drive to see Emily, and hear the result; but a doctor never can call a day his own, and I got prevented. On Sunday I heard Mrs. Prime's voice in the kitchen (her niece lives here), and down I went to make my inquiries. She told me the truth, I rather think; though not, perhaps, all the particulars. It was not more than a day or two after that before I saw Graham. 'Ah,' said I; 'when do you start?'—'To-morrow,' replied he. 'Really,' I exclaimed; 'then I shan't see your ladies again. Will you take a little package from me to Gertrude?'—'I know nothing about Gertrude,' said he, stiffly.—'What!' rejoined I, affecting great surprise, 'has Gertrude left you?'—'She has,' answered he. 'And dared,' continued I, 'to treat you with such disrespect—to trifle so with your dignity?'—'Dr. Jeremy!' exclaimed he, 'I don't wish to hear her mentioned; she has behaved as ungratefully as she has unwisely.'—'Why, about the gratitude, Graham,' said I, 'I believe you said it would only be an additional favour on your part if you took her with you, and I think it is wisdom in her to make herself independent at home. But I really am sorry for you and Emily; you will miss her so much.'—'We can dispense with your sympathy, sir,' answered he; 'for that which is no loss.'—'Ah! really,' I replied; 'now, I was thinking Gertrude's society would be quite a loss.'—'Mrs. Ellisgoes with us,' said he, with emphasis, that seemed to say her company compensated for all deficiencies.—'Ah!' said I, 'charming woman, Mrs. Ellis!' Graham looked annoyed, for he is aware that Mrs. Ellis is my antipathy."
"Well, you ought to have known better, Dr. Jeremy," said his kind-hearted wife, "than to have attacked a man so on his weak point: it was only exciting his temper for nothing."
"I was taking up the cudgels for Gertrude, wife."
"And I don't believe Gertrude wants you to take up the cudgels for her. I have no manner of doubts that she has the kindest of feelings towards Mr. Graham, this blessed minute."
"I have, Mrs. Jeremy," said Gertrude; "he has been a most generous and indulgent friend to me."
"Except when you wanted to have your own way," suggested the doctor.
"Which I seldom did when it was in opposition to his wishes. I always considered it my duty to submit to him, until at last a higher duty compelled me to do otherwise."
"And then, my dear," said Mrs. Jeremy, "I dare say it pained you to displease him; and that is a right woman's feeling, and one that Dr. Jeremy, in his own heart, can't but approve of, though one would think, to hear him talk, that he considered it pretty in a young girl to take satisfaction in browbeating an old gentleman. But don't let us talk any more about it; he has had his say, and now it's my turn. I want to hear how you are situated, Gerty, where you live, and how you like teaching."
Gertrude answered all these questions: and the doctor, who had heard Mrs. Sullivan spoken of as a friend of True's and Gerty's, made many inquiries as to her health. It was now snowing fast, and Gertrude's anxiety to return home in good season being very manifest to her kind host and hostess, they urged no further delay, and, after she had promised to repeat her visit, she drove away with the doctor.
"I have been thinking," said Gertrude, as she drew near home, "how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm Mrs. Sullivan."
"What's going to alarm her?" asked the doctor.
"You, if she knows at once you are a physician. I think I had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in the storm."
"Oh! so we are going to act a little farce, are we? Stage manager, Gertrude Flint—unknown stranger, Dr. Jeremy. I'm ready. What shall I say first?"
"I leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a physician."
"Ah, yes! pretend at first to be only a private individual of an inquiring mind. I can manage it." As they opened the door, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited for the introduction to Gertrude's friend before she asked if Mr. Cooper were not with them.
"No, indeed," replied Gertrude. "Hasn't he come home?"
Upon Mrs. Sullivan saying that she had not seen him since morning, Gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far from feeling, that Mr. Miller had undertaken the care of him, and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. She would seek him at once.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Sullivan, "that you should have to go out again in such a storm; but I feel very anxious about grandpa—don't you, Gerty?"
"Not very: I think he's safe in the church. But I'll go for him at once; you know, auntie, I never mind the weather."
"Then take my great shawl, dear." And Mrs. Sullivan went to the closet for her shawl, giving Gertrude an opportunity to beg of Dr. Jeremy that he would await her return; for she knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often cause an attack of faintness in Mrs. Sullivan, and was afraid to have her left alone, to dwell with alarm upon Mr. Cooper's prolonged absence.
It was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing dark. Gertrude hastened along the wet footpath, exposed to the blinding storm, and, after passing through several streets, gained the church. She went into the building, now nearly deserted by workmen, saw that Mr. Cooper was not there, and began to fear she should gain no information concerning him, when she met Mr. Miller coming from the gallery. He looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if Mr. Cooper had not returned home. She answered in the negative, and he informed her that his efforts were insufficient to persuade the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had therefore taken him to his own house; he had supposed that long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one of the children to accompany him to Mrs. Sullivan's.
As it seemed probable that he was still at Mr. Miller's, Gertrude proceeded thither at once. After an uncomfortable walk, she reached her destination. She knocked at the door, but there was no response, and after waiting a moment, she opened it, and went in. Through another door there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, therefore, without further ceremony, entered the room. A band of startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and ensconced themselves in corners; and Mrs. Miller, in dismay at the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very person Gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding attitude, sat cowering over the fire. But, before she could advance to speak to him, her attention was arrested by a most unexpected sight. Placed against the side of the room, opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which some person seemed to be sleeping. Hardly, however, had Gertrude presented herself in the doorway before the figure suddenly raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off her approach, and uttered a piercing shriek.
The voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and Gertrude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her old dread as she beheld the well-known features of Nan Grant.
"Go away! goaway!" cried Nan, as Gertrude advanced into the room. Again Gertrude paused, for the wildness of Nan's eyes and the excitement of her countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. Mrs. Miller now came forward and said, "Why, Aunt Nancy! what is the matter? This is Miss Flint, one of the best young ladies in the land."
"No, 'tan't!" said Nan. "I know better."
Mrs. Miller now drew Gertrude aside into the shadow of the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an undertone, while Nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them, maintained a watchful, listening attitude. Gertrude was informed that Mrs. Miller was a niece of Ben Grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife for years, until, a few days previous. Nan had come there in a state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever under which she was now suffering. "I could not refuse her a shelter," said Mrs. Miller; "but, as you see, I have no accommodation for her; and it's not only bad for me to have her sick here in the kitchen, but, what with the noise of the children, and all the other discomforts, I'm afraid the poor old thing will die."
"Have you a room that you could spare above-stairs?" asked Gertrude.
"Why, there's our Jane," answered Mrs. Miller; "she's a good-hearted girl as ever lived; she said, right off, she'd give up her room to poor Aunt Nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other children. I don't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another fire agoing, and so I thought we'd put a bed here for a day or two, and just see how she got along. But she's looked pretty bad to-day; and now, I'm thinking from her actions that she's considerable out of her head."
"She ought to be kept quiet," said Gertrude; "and, if you will have a fire in Jane's room at my expense, and do what you can to make her comfortable, I'll send a physician here to see her." Mrs. Miller was beginning to express the warmest gratitude, but Gertrude interrupted her with saying, "Don't thank me, Mrs. Miller; Nancy is not a stranger to me; I have known her before, and, perhaps, feel more interested in her than you do yourself."
Mrs. Miller looked surprised; but Gertrude could not stop to enter into a further explanation. Anxious to speak to Nan, and assure her of her friendly intentions, she went up to the side of the bed, in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily upon her. "Nan," said she, "do you know me?"
"Yes! yes!" replied Nan, in a half-whisper, speaking quickly, and catching her breath; "what have you come for?"
"To do you good, I hope."
But Nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone, and with the same nervous accent, inquired, "Have you seen Gerty? Where is she?"
"She is well," answered Gertrude, astonished at the question, for she had supposed herself recognised.
"What did she say about me?"
"She says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to do something to help you and make you well."
"Did she?" said the sick woman; "then you won't kill me?"
"Kill you?—No, indeed. We are in hopes to make you comfortable and cure you."
Mrs. Miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew near with it in her hand. Gertrude took it and offered it to Nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her over the edge of the cup. When she had finished, she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word being the name of her son Stephen. Finding the current of her thoughts thus apparently diverted, Gertrude now feeling in haste to return and relieve Dr. Jeremy, who had so kindly agreed to stay with Mrs. Sullivan, moved a little from the bedside, saying as she did so, "Good-bye, I will come and see you again."
"You won't hurt me?" said Nan, starting up.
"Oh, no. I will bring you something you will like."
"Don't bring Gerty here with you! I don't want to see her."
"I will come alone," replied Gertrude.
Nan now laid down, and did not speak again while Gertrude remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she was outside the door. Mr. Cooper made no objection to accompanying his young guide, and though the severity of the storm was such that they did not escape a thorough wetting, they reached home in safety.
Dr. Jeremy, seated with his feet upon the fender, had the contented appearance of one who is quite at home. He had been talking with Mrs. Sullivan about the people of a country town where they had both passed some time in their childhood, and the timid woman had come to feel so much at her ease in the society of the social and entertaining physician, that, though he had accidentally disclosed his profession, she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without any of the alarm she had fancied she should feel at the sight of a doctor. By the time Gertrude returned, he had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared, on Mrs. Sullivan's leaving the room, to provide dry clothes for her father, to report to Gertrude his opinion.
"Gertrude," said he, as soon as the door was shut, "that's a very sick woman."
"Do you think so, Dr. Jeremy?" said Gertrude, much alarmed, and sinking into the nearest chair.
"I do," replied he. "I wish I had seen her six months ago."
"Why, doctor? Do you date her illness so far back as that?"
"Yes, and much farther. She has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment."
"Dr. Jeremy," said Gertrude, "you do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die and leave me, and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again, too? Oh, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!"
"Do not be alarmed, Gertrude," said the doctor. "I did not mean to frighten you;—she may live some time yet. I can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutelyunsafefor you to be here alone with these two friends of yours—to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. Has not Mrs. Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? She tells me she has no one."
"Yes, indeed," answered Gerty; "her son supplies her wants most generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend."
"Then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist you at once; for, if you do not, I shall."
"I intend to do it," said Gertrude. "I have seen the necessity for some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers, that I hated to propose it."
"Nonsense," said the doctor; "that's only imagination in her; she would soon get used to being waited upon."
Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy to go the next day and see her. "It will be a visit of charity," said she, "for she is probably penniless; and, though staying with your old patients, the Millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them. That never makes any difference with you, however, I know very well."
"Not a bit, not a bit," answered the doctor. "I'll go and see her to-night, if the case requires it, and to-morrow I shall look in to report how she is, and hear the rest of what Mrs. Sullivan was telling me about her wakeful nights. But, Gertrude, do you go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. I shall have you on my hands next."
Mrs. Sullivan was delighted with Dr. Jeremy. "So different," said she, "from common doctors" (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to have an unaccountable aversion); "so social and friendly! Why, I felt, Gertrude, as if I could talk to him about my sickness as freely as I can to you."
Gertrude joined in the praises bestowed upon her much-valued friend, and it was tea-time before Mrs. Sullivan was weary of the subject. After the evening meal was over, and Mr. Cooper had been persuaded to retire to rest, while Mrs. Sullivan, reclining on the sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour, Gertrude broached the subject recommended by Dr. Jeremy. Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Sullivan no longer objected to the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. She was convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labour, and was equally opposed to the exertion on Gertrude's part which had, during the last week, been requisite. Gertrude suggested Jane Miller as a girl well suited to their wants, and it was agreed that she should be applied for on the next morning.
One more glance at Gertrude, and we shall have followed her to the conclusion of the day. She is alone. It is ten o'clock, and the house is still. Mr. Cooper is sound asleep. Gertrude has just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. Mrs. Sullivan, under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by Dr. Jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. The little Calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in the window, are nestled side by side on their slender perch, and Gertrude has thrown a warm covering over them, that they might not suffer from the cold night air. She has locked the doors, made all things safe and comfortable, and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. Her trials and cares are multiplying. A great grief stares her in the face, and a great responsibility; but she shrinks not from either. No! on the contrary, she thanks God that she is here; that she had the resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and in spite of her own weakness and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's battle, and bravely wait its issues. She thanks God that she knows where to look for help. But, though her heart is brave and her faith firm, she has a woman's tender nature; and, as she sits alone she weeps—weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land, is counting the days, the months, and years which shall restore him to a mother he is destined never to see again. But remembering that she is to stand in the place of a child to that parent, and that her hand must soothe the pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the stern necessity of self-control—a necessity to which Gertrude has long since learned to submit—and, rallying all her calmness and fortitude, she wipes away the tears, and commends herself to Him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing.
It was fortunate for Gertrude that the vacation at Mr. W.'s school was approaching, when she would be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied cares. She considered herself favoured in obtaining the services of Jane, who consented to come and help Miss Gertrude. She did not, she said, exactly like living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady who had been so good to them in times past. Gertrude had feared that, with Nan Grant sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give up her eldest daughter; but Mary, a second girl, having returned home unexpectedly, one of them could be spared. Under Gertrude's tuition, Jane was able to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of her household duties, and to leave Gertrude at liberty to visit Nan, whose fever rendered her claim for aid the most imperative. In Gertrude's still vivid recollection of her former sufferings under Nan there was no bitterness, no revenge. If she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor.
Therefore, night after night found her watching by the bedside of the sick woman, who, still delirious, had entirely lost the dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence. Nan talked much of little Gerty—sometimes in a way that led Gertrude to believe herself recognised, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be absent; and it was not until a long time after that Gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition, which was, that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by Nan herself, the fevered and conscience-stricken sufferer believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was only the continued assurances of good-will on Gertrude's part, and her unwearied efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led Nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in safety, and was ignorant of the wrongs and unkindness she had endured.
One night—it was the last of Nan's life—Gertrude, who had scarcely left her during the day, and was still watching, heard her own name mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. She listened intently, for she was always in hopes, during these ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early life. Her name was not repeated, however, and for some time the muttering of Nan's voice was indistinct. Then, suddenly starting up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted aloud, "Stephie! Stephie! give me back the watch, and tell me what you did with the rings?—They will ask—those folks!—and what shall I tell them?" Then, after a pause, she said, in a more feeble, but equally earnest voice, "No, no, Stephie, I never'll tell—Inever, neverwill!" The moment the words had left her lips, she started, turned, saw Gertrude standing by the bedside, and with a frightful look, shrieked, rather than asked, "Did you hear? Did you hear?—You did," continued she, "and you'll tell! Oh, if youdo!" She was here preparing to spring from the bed, but overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow. Summoning Mr. and Mrs. Miller, the agitated Gertrude, believing that her own presence was too exciting, left the dying woman to their care, and sought another part of the house. Learning, about an hour afterwards, from Mrs. Miller, that Nan had become comparatively calm, but seemed near her end, Gertrude thought it best not to enter the room again; and, sitting down by the kitchen fire, pondered over the strange scene she had witnessed. Day was just dawning when Mrs. Miller came to tell her that Nan had breathed her last.
Gerty's work of mercy, forgiveness, and Christian love being thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her strength, and fortify herself for the labour and suffering yet in store for her. In three weeks from Nan Grant's death, Paul Cooper was smitten by the Destroyer's hand, and he, too, was laid to his last rest; and though the deepest feelings of Gertrude's heart were not in either case fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physical endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self-imposed duties caused by each event, and that, too, at a time when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new and more intense grief. Emily's absence was also a sore trial to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and counsel, and in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and submission. Only one letter had been received from the travellers, and that, written by Mrs. Ellis, contained little that was satisfactory. It was written from Havana, where they were boarding in a house kept by an American lady, and crowded with visitors from Boston, New York, and other northern cities.
"It an't so very pleasant, after all, Gertrude," wrote Mrs. Ellis, "and I wish we were safe home again; and not on my own account either, so much as Emily's. She feels kind of strange here; and no wonder, for it's a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. The windows have no glass about them, but are grated like a prison; and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a fire-place, though sometimes the mornings are cold. There's a widow here, with a brother and some nieces. The widow is a flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think is either setting her cap for Mr. Graham, or means to make an old fool of him. She is one of your loud-talking women, that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead; and Mr. Graham is silly enough to follow after her party, and go to all sorts of rides and excursions;—it's soridiculous—and he over sixty-five years old! Emily and I have pretty much done going into the parlour, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. Emily doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but I know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in Boston; and so should I, if it wasn't for that horrid steamboat. I liked to have died with sea-sickness, Gertrude, coming out; and I dread going home so, that I don't know what to do."
Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily, but, as Miss Graham was dependent upon Mrs. Ellis's eyesight, and the letters must, therefore, be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and feelings as she was wont to do in conversation with her sympathising and indulgent friend. Every Indian mail brought news from William Sullivan, who, prosperous in business, and rendered happy even in his exile by the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the fruits of his exertions, wrote always in a strain of cheerfulness.
One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper's death, found Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous post-marks upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. It had that day been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she lay stretched upon the couch, had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents. The bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of sadness; while Gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which Willie dilated upon the "joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear mother whom he so longed to see again," and then turned her gaze upon the wasted form and cheek of that mother, felt a chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy's first fears were confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated by the anxiety which attended her father's sickness and death, Mrs. Sullivan was rapidly passing away.
Whether she was herself aware of this Gertrude had not yet been able to determine. She had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated a conviction of her approaching end; and Gertrude was almost inclined to believe that she was deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery. All doubt of this was soon removed; for after remaining a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs. Sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon the young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct voice—"Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again." Gertrude made no reply.
"I wish to write and tell him so myself, or, rather, if you will write for me, I should like to tell you what to say; and I feel that no time is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long have strength enough to do it. It will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know when all is over; but you have had too many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. Will you commence a letter to-day?"
"Certainly, auntie, if you think it best."
"I do, Gerty. What you wrote by the last mail was my father's sickness and death; and there was nothing mentioned likely to alarm him on my account, was there?"
"Nothing at all."
"Then it is time he should be forewarned, poor boy! I do not need Dr. Jeremy to tell me that I am dying."
"Did he tell you so?" asked Gertrude, as she went to her desk, and began to arrange her writing materials.
"No, Gerty! he was too prudent for that; but I toldhimand he did not contradict me. You have known it some time, have you not?" inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of Gertrude.
"Some weeks," replied Gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer.
"Why did you not tell me?"
"Why should I, dear auntie?" said Gertrude. "I knew the Lord could never call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning."
"Feebly, it burns feebly!" said she.
"Whose, then, is bright," said Gertrude, "if yours be dim! Have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety? Unless it be Emily, auntie, I know of no one who seems so fit for heaven."
"Oh, no, Gerty! I am a sinful creature, full of weakness; much as I long to meet my Saviour, my earthly heart pines with the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one blessing I most craved on earth has been denied me."
"Oh, auntie!" exclaimed Gertrude, "we are all human! Until the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of Willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour! It cannot be a sin—that which is so natural!"
"I do not know, Gerty; perhaps it is not; and, if it be, I trust before I go hence, I shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect submission, to atone for the occasional murmuring of a mother's heart? Read to me, my dear, some holy words of comfort; you always seem to open the good book at the passage I most need. It is sinful, indeed, to me, Gertrude, to indulge the least repining, blessed as I am in the love and care of one who is dear to me as a daughter!"
Gertrude took her Bible, and opening it at the Gospel of St. Mark, her eye fell upon the account of Our Saviour's agony in the garden of Gethsemane. She rightly believed that nothing could be more appropriate to Mrs. Sullivan's state of mind than the touching description of the struggle of our Lord's humanity; nothing more likely to sooth her spirit, and reconcile her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature, then the evident contest of the human with the divine so thrillingly narrated by the disciple; and that nothing could be more inspiring than the example of that holy Son of God, who ever to His thrice-repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him, added the pious ejaculation, "Thy will, not mine, be done." The words were not without effect; for, when she had finished, she observed that as Mrs. Sullivan lay still upon her couch, her lips seemed to be repeating the Saviour's prayer. Not wishing to disturb her meditations, Gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to Willie, but sat silently, and Mrs. Sullivan fell asleep. It was a gentle slumber, and Gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful happy expression of her features. Darkness had come on before she awoke, and so shrouded the room that Gertrude, who still sat there, was invisible in the gloom. She started on hearing her name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached the couch.