"O, Gertrude!" said Mrs. Sullivan, "I have had such a beautiful dream! Sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to you; it could not have been more vivid, if it had all been reality:—"
The Dream:—"I thought I was sailing rapidly through the air, and for some time I seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright stars. The motion was so gentle that I did not grow weary, though in my journey I travelled over land and sea. At last I saw beneath me a beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments, and throngs of gay people moving in every direction. As I drew nearer, I could distinguish the faces of these numerous men and women, and among them, in the crowded street, there was one who looked like Willie. I followed him, and soon felt sure it was he. He looked older than when we saw him last, and much as I have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appearance. I followed him through several streets, and at last he turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of the city. I went in also. We passed through large halls and beautifully furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-saloon, in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, glasses, and the remains of a rich desert, such as I never saw before. There was a group of young men round the table, all well-dressed, and some of them fine-looking, so that at first I was quite charmed with their appearance. I seemed, however, to have a strange power of looking into their hearts, and detecting all the evil there was there. One had a very bright, intelligent face, and might have been thought a man of talent—and so he was; but I could see better than people usually can, and I perceived, by a sort of instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant as to be ensnared.
"Another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm of the company; but I could detect marks of intoxication.
"A third was vainly attempting to look happy; but his soul was bared to my searching gaze, and I saw that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table his own and a part of his employer's money, and was tortured with anxiety lest he might not this evening win it back.
"There were many others present, and all, more or less, sunk in dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. Their faces, however, looked gay, and, as Willie glanced from one to another, he seemed pleased and attracted.
"One of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged him to take it. He did so, and the young man at his right filled a glass with bright wine, and handed it to him. He hesitated, then took it and raised it to his lips. Just then I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, saw me, and instantly the glass fell from his hand, and was broken. I beckoned, and he rose and followed me. The gay circle he had left called loudly upon him to return; one of them even laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him; but he would not listen or stay—he shook off the hand, and we went on. Before we had got outside the building, the man whom I had first noticed, and whom I knew to be the most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door, which he had reached by some other direction, and, approaching Willie, whispered in his ear. Willie faltered, turned, and would perhaps have gone back; but I stood in front of him, held up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. He hesitated no longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, and was instantly down the long flight of steps. I seemed to move with great rapidity, and was soon guiding my son through the intricate, crowded streets of the city. Many were the snares we found laid for the unwary. More than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless boy by my side from some pitfall or danger, into which, without me, he would have fallen. Occasionally I lost sight of him, and had to turn back; once he was separated from me by the crowd, and missed his way, and once he lingered to witness or join in some sinful amusements. Each time, however, he listened to my warning voice, and we went on in safety.
"At last, however, in passing through a brilliantly-lighted street—for it was now evening—I suddenly observed that he was absent from my side. I hunted the streets, and called him by name; but there was no answer. I then unfolded my wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the whole, hoping that in that one glance I might, as I had at first done, detect my boy.
"I was not disappointed. In a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, and filled with a fashionable crowd, I beheld Willie. A brilliant young creature was leaning on his arm, and I saw into her heart, and knew that she was not blind to his beauty or insensible to his attractions. But, oh! I trembled for him now! She was lovely and rich, and also fashionable and admired. But I saw into her soul, and she was proud, cold-hearted, and worldly; and if she loved Willie, it was his beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her—not his noble nature, which she knew not how to prize. As they promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising, gave all her time and thoughts to him, I, descending in an invisible shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder. He looked around, but, before he could see his mother's face, the siren's voice attracted all his attention. Again and again I endeavoured to win him away; but he heard me not. At length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. I seized the moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and, clasping him in my arms, spread my wings, and soared far, far away, bearing with me the prize I had toiled after and won. As we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, with its soft, silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. Back we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until, on a soft, grassy slope, under the shade of green trees, I thought I saw my darling Gerty, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when I awoke pronouncing your name."
"And now, Gertrude, the bitterness of the cup I am called upon to drink is passed away. A blessed angel has ministered unto me. I no longer wish to see my son again on earth, for I am persuaded that my departure is in accordance with the schemes of a merciful Providence. I now believe that Willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from temptation and evil; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger, a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while on earth. Now, oh, my Father, I can say, from the depths of my heart, 'Thy will, not mine, be done!'"
From this time until her death, which took place about a month afterward, Mrs. Sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect resignation. The last pang had lost its bitterness. In the letter which she dictated to Willie, she expressed her trust in the goodness and wisdom of Providence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love for the All-wise. She reminded him of the early lessons she had taught him, the piety and self-command, which she had inculcated, and made it her dying prayer that her influence might be increased, rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a continual reality.
After Gertrude had folded the letter, and left for her duties in school, Mrs. Sullivan re-opened the sheet, and, with her feeble hand, recounted the disinterested and loving devotion of Gertrude, thus: "So long, my son, as you cherish in your heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is capable upon one whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray."
So slow and gradual was the decline of Mrs. Sullivan, that her death at last came as an unexpected blow to Gertrude, who, though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realise that a termination must come to their work. In the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and encourage her but the frightened Jane, did she watch the departing spirit of her much-loved friend. "Are you afraid to see me die, Gertrude?" asked Mrs. Sullivan, an hour before her death. On Gertrude's answering that she was not—"Then turn me a little towards you," said she, "that your face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth."
It was done, and, with her hand locked fast in Gertrude's, and a look that spoke the deepest affection, she expired.
Not until her work of love was ended did Gertrude become conscious that her lengthened labours by night and day had worn upon her frame, and exhausted her strength. For a week after Mrs. Sullivan was in her grave, Dr. Jeremy feared a severe illness for Gertrude. But, after struggling with her dangerous symptoms for several days, she rallied; and, though still pale and worn by care and anxiety, was able to resume her school duties, and make arrangements for another home.
Several homes had been offered to her, with a warmth and cordiality which made it difficult to decline their acceptance; but Gertrude, though deeply touched by the kindness thus manifested towards her in her loneliness, preferred to seek a permanent boarding-place, and when the grounds on which she based her decision were understood by her friends, they approved her course.
Mrs. Jeremy at first felt hurt at Gertrude's refusal to live with them for any length of time that she chose; and the doctor was so peremptory with his "Come, Gertrude, come right home with us—don't say a word!" that she was afraid lest, in her weak state of health, she should be carried off, without achanceto remonstrate. But, after he had taken upon himself to give Jane orders about packing her clothes and sending them after her, and then locking up the house, he gave Gertrude an opportunity to state her reasons for wishing to decline the generous proposal.
But all her reasoning upon general principles proved insufficient to convince the warm-hearted couple. "It was all nonsense about independent position. She would be perfectly independent with them, and her company would be such a pleasure that she need feel no hesitation in accepting their offer, and might be sure she would be conferring a favour, instead of being the party obliged." At last she was compelled to make use of an argument which had greatly influenced her own mind, and would, she felt sure, carry no little weight with it in the doctor's own estimation.
"Dr. Jeremy," said she, "I hope you will not condemn in me a motive which has strengthened my firmness in this matter. I should be unwilling to mention it if I did not know that you are so far acquainted with the state of affairs between Mr. Graham and myself as to understand and sympathize with my feelings. You know that he was opposed to my leaving them and remaining here this winter, and must suspect that, when we parted, there was not a perfectly good understanding between us. He hinted that I should never be able to support myself, and should be driven to a life of dependence; and, since the salary which I receive from Mr. W. is sufficient for all my wants, I wish to be so situated on Mr. Graham's return that he will perceive that my assurance that I could earn my own living was not without foundation."
"So Graham thought that, without his sustaining power, you would soon come to beggary—did he? With your talents, too? that's just like him!"
"Oh, no, no!" replied Gertrude, "I did not say that; but I seemed to him a mere child, and he did not realise that in giving me an education he had paid my expenses in advance. It was very natural he should distrust my capacity—he had never seen me compelled to exert myself."
"I understand—I understand," said the doctor. "He thought you would be glad enough to come back to them; yes, yes, just like him!"
"Well, now," said Mrs. Jeremy, "I don't believe he thought any such thing. He was provoked, and didn't mind what he said. Ten to one he will never think of it again, and it seems to me it is only a kind of pride in Gertrude to care anything about it."
"I don't know that, wife," said the doctor. "If itispride, it's an honourable pride that I like; and I am not sure but, if I were in Gertrude's place, I should feel just as she does; so I shan't urge her to do any other ways than she proposes. She can have a boarding-place, and yet spend much of her time with us."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Jeremy; "and, if you feel set about it, Gerty, dear, I am sure I shall want you to do whatever pleases you best; but one thing I do insist on, and that is, that you leave this house, which must look very dreary, this very day, go home with me, and stay until you get recruited."
Gertrude, gladly consenting to a short visit, compromised the matter by accompanying them without delay, and it was chiefly owing to the doctor's persevering skill and care bestowed upon his young guest, and the motherly nursing of Mrs. Jeremy, that she escaped the illness which had threatened her.
Mr. and Mrs. W., who felt great sympathy for Gertrude, pressed her to come to their house, and remain until the return of Mr. Graham and Emily; but, on being assured by her that she was unaware of the period of their absence, and should not probably reside with them for the future, they were satisfied that she acted with wisdom and judgment in at once providing herself with an independent situation.
Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, who had been constant in their attentions, both to Mrs. Sullivan and Gertrude, and were the only persons, except the physician, who had been admitted to the sick room of the invalid, felt that they had a peculiar claim to the care of the doubly-orphaned girl, and urged her to become a member of their household. Mr. Arnold's family being large, and his house and salary small, true benevolence alone prompted this proposal; and on Gertrude's acquainting his economical and prudent wife with the ample means she enjoyed from her own exertions, and the decision she had formed of procuring an independent home, she received the warm approbation of both, and found in the latter an excellent adviser and assistant.
Mrs. Arnold had a widowed sister who was in the habit of receiving, as boarders, a few young ladies. Gertrude did not know this lady personally, but had heard her warmly praised; and she indulged the hope that through her friend, the minister's wife, she might obtain with her an agreeable and not too expensive residence. In this she was not disappointed. Mrs. Warren had fortunately vacant a large front chamber; and, Mrs. Arnold having recommended Gertrude in the warmest manner, suitable terms were agreed upon, and the room placed at her disposal. Mrs. Sullivan had bequeathed to her all her furniture, and Mrs. Arnold and her daughters insisted that, in consideration of her recent fatigue and bereavement, she should attend only to her school duties, and leave to them the furnishing of her room with such articles as she preferred to have placed there, and superintended the packing away of all other movables; for Gertrude was unwilling that anything should be sold. On entering the dining-room the first evening after she took up her residence at Mrs. Warren's, she expected to meet only strangers at the tea-table, but was agreeably disappointed at the sight of Fanny Bruce, who, left in Boston while her mother and brother were spending the winter in travelling, had now been several weeks an inmate of Mrs. Warren's house. Fanny was a school-girl, twelve or thirteen years of age; a near neighbour to Gertrude, had been in the habit of seeing her often at Mr. Graham's, and had sometimes begged flowers from her, borrowed books, and obtained assistance in her fancy-work. She admired Gertrude much; had hailed with delight the prospect of knowing her better, as she hoped to do at Mrs. Warren's; and when she met the gaze of her large, dark eyes, and saw a smile of pleasure overspread her countenance at the sight of a familiar face, she came forward to shake hands, and beg that Miss Flint would sit next her at the table.
Fanny Bruce was a girl of good disposition and warm heart, but she had been much neglected by her mother, whose pride was in her son, the same Ben of whom we have previously spoken. She had often been left behind in some boarding-house, while her pleasure-loving mother and indolent brother passed their time in journeying; and had not always been so fortunately situated as she was at present.
Gertrude had not been long at Mrs. Warren's before she observed that Fanny occupied an isolated position in the family. She was a few years younger than her companions, three dressy misses, who could not condescend to admit her into her clique. Although the privacy of her own room was pleasing to Gertrude's feelings, pity for poor Fanny induced her to invite her frequently to come and sit with her, and she often so far forgot her own griefs as to exert herself in providing entertainment for her young visitor, who considered it a privilege to share Gertrude's retirement, read her books, and feel confident of her friendship. During the stormy month of March Fanny spent almost every evening with Gertrude; and she, who at first felt that she was making a sacrifice of her comfort and ease by giving another constant access to her apartment, realised the force of Uncle True's prophecy, that, in her efforts for the happiness of others, she would at last find her own; for Fanny's lively and amusing conversation drew Gertrude from brooding over her sorrows.
April arrived, and still no news from Emily; Gertrude's heart ached with longing to once more pour out her griefs on the bosom of that dear friend, and find her consolation and support. Gertrude had written regularly, but of late she had not known where to direct her letters; and since Mrs. Sullivan's death there had been no communication between her and the travellers. She was sitting at her window one evening, thinking of those friends lost by absence and by death, when she was summoned to see Mr. Arnold and his daughter Anne. After the usual civilities, Miss Arnold said, "Of course you have heard the news, Gertrude?"
"No," replied Gertrude. "I have heard nothing special."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Arnold, "have you not heard of Mr. Graham's marriage?"
Gertrude started up in surprise. "Do you really mean so, Mr. Arnold? Mr. Graham married! When? To whom?"
"To the widow Holbrook, a sister-in-law of Mr. Clinton's; she has been staying at Havanna, with a party from the north, and the Grahams met her there."
"But, Gertrude," asked Mr. Arnold, "how does it happen you have not heard of it? It is in all the newspapers—'Married in New Orleans, J. H. Graham, Esq., to Mrs. Holbrook.'"
"I have not seen a newspaper for a day or two," replied Gertrude.
"And Miss Graham's blindness, I suppose, prevents her writing," said Anne; "but I thought Mr. Graham would send wedding compliments."
Gertrude made no reply, and Miss Arnold said, "I suppose his bride engrosses all his attention."
"Do you know anything of this Mrs. Holbrook?" asked Gertrude.
"Not much," answered Mr. Arnold. "I have seen her occasionally at Mr. Clinton's. She is a handsome, showy woman, fond of society, I should think."
"I have seen her very often," said Anne. "She is a coarse, noisy, dashing person, just the one to make Miss Emily miserable."
Gertrude looked distressed, and Mr. Arnold glanced reprovingly at her. "Anne," said he, "are you sure you speak advisedly?"
"Belle Clinton is my authority, father. I only judge from what I used to hear her say at school about her AuntBella, as she always used to call her."
"Did Isabel represent her aunt so unfavourably?"
"Not intentionally; she meant the greatest praise, but I never liked anything she told us about her."
"We will not condemn her until we can decide upon acquaintance," said Mr. Arnold; "perhaps she will prove the reverse of what you suppose."
"Can you tell me anything concerning Emily?" asked Gertrude, "and whether Mr. Graham is soon to return?"
"Nothing," said Miss Arnold. "When did you hear from them yourself?"
Gertrude mentioned the date of the letter from Mrs. Ellis, the account she had given of a gay party from the north, and suggested that probably Mrs. Graham was the widow she had described.
"The same, undoubtedly," said Mr. Arnold.
Their knowledge of facts were so slight, however, that little remained to be said concerning the marriage, and other topics of conversation were introduced. But Gertrude found it impossible to think of any other subject; the matter was so vitally important to Emily, that her mind constantly recurred to it. The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy. The former held in his hand a sealed letter, directed to Gertrude, in the handwriting of Mr. Graham; and, as he handed it to her, he rubbed his hands, and looking at Anne Arnold, exclaimed, "Now, Miss Anne, we shall hear all about these famous nuptials!"
Finding her visitors eager to learn the contents of her letter, Gertrude broke the seal, and hastily perused its contents. The envelope contained two or three pages closely written by Mrs. Ellis, and also a lengthy note from Mr. Graham. Surprised as Gertrude was at any communication from one who had parted from her in anger, her desire was to hear from Emily, and she preferred the housekeeper's document as most likely to contain the desired information. It ran as follows:—
"New York,March 31, 1852."Dear Gertrude,—As there were plenty of Boston folks at the wedding, you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's marriage. He married the widow Holbrook, the same I wrote to you about. She was determined to have him, and she's got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain. He likes a quiet life, and he's lost the chance of that—poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havanna, but I guess he thought better of it, and didn't mean to have her. But when we got to New Orleans, she was there; and she carried her point, and married him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against it, and always treated the lady as pleasantly as could be; but, dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many folks about all the time, and so much noise and confusion? For my part, I an't used to it, and it's not agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude, and will be surprised to find we have got so far as New York, on our way home—myway home, for I'm the only one that talks of coming at present. I kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there was so much going on I didn't get the chance; and, after that horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I wasn't good for anything for a week. But Emily was so anxious that I couldn't put off writing any longer. Poor Emily isn't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick—it's low spirits more than anything. She gets tired and worried very quick, and easily disturbed, which didn't used to be the case. It may be the new wife, and all the nieces and other disagreeable things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what she was pleased to have her father married again; but she hasn't seemed happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt dreadfully not to get any more letters. But to come to the principal thing, they are all going to Europe—Emily and all. I take it, it's the new wife's idea. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I would as soon be hung as venture on the sea again, and I told him so. So now he has written for you to go with Emily; and if you are not afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always needs somebody on account of her blindness. I do not think she has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind, for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife."As soon as they sail—the last of April—I shall come back to the house in D——, and see to things there while they are away. I write a postscript to you from Emily, and we shall be very impatient to hear your answer; and I hope you will not refuse to go with Emily."Yours very truly,"Sarah H. Ellis."
"New York,March 31, 1852.
"Dear Gertrude,—As there were plenty of Boston folks at the wedding, you have heard before this of Mr. Graham's marriage. He married the widow Holbrook, the same I wrote to you about. She was determined to have him, and she's got him. I don't hesitate to say he's got the worst of the bargain. He likes a quiet life, and he's lost the chance of that—poor man!—for she's the greatest hand for company that ever I saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havanna, but I guess he thought better of it, and didn't mean to have her. But when we got to New Orleans, she was there; and she carried her point, and married him. Emily behaved beautifully; she never said a word against it, and always treated the lady as pleasantly as could be; but, dear me! how will our Emily get along with so many folks about all the time, and so much noise and confusion? For my part, I an't used to it, and it's not agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now she's married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as long as she's one of the family, and I've been in it so long. But I suppose you've been wondering what had become of us, Gertrude, and will be surprised to find we have got so far as New York, on our way home—myway home, for I'm the only one that talks of coming at present. I kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there was so much going on I didn't get the chance; and, after that horrid steamboat from Charleston here, I wasn't good for anything for a week. But Emily was so anxious that I couldn't put off writing any longer. Poor Emily isn't very well; I don't mean that she's downright sick—it's low spirits more than anything. She gets tired and worried very quick, and easily disturbed, which didn't used to be the case. It may be the new wife, and all the nieces and other disagreeable things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what she was pleased to have her father married again; but she hasn't seemed happy all winter, and now it troubles me to see how she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt dreadfully not to get any more letters. But to come to the principal thing, they are all going to Europe—Emily and all. I take it, it's the new wife's idea. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I would as soon be hung as venture on the sea again, and I told him so. So now he has written for you to go with Emily; and if you are not afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won't refuse, for it would be dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always needs somebody on account of her blindness. I do not think she has the least wish to go; but she would not ask to be left behind, for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife.
"As soon as they sail—the last of April—I shall come back to the house in D——, and see to things there while they are away. I write a postscript to you from Emily, and we shall be very impatient to hear your answer; and I hope you will not refuse to go with Emily.
"Yours very truly,
"Sarah H. Ellis."
The postscript contained the following:—
"I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and fit her for many trials and labours. The letter written soon after Mr. Cooper's death is the last that has reached me, and I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe. My heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me; I trust to you, my love, to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness. Mrs. Graham has two nieces, who are with us at the hotel. They are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very beautiful girls, especially Bella Clinton, whom you saw in Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted affection of"Emily Graham."
"I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed her, and longed to have her with me again; how I have thought of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and fit her for many trials and labours. The letter written soon after Mr. Cooper's death is the last that has reached me, and I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe. My heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me; I trust to you, my love, to decide aright. You have heard of father's marriage. It is a great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness. Mrs. Graham has two nieces, who are with us at the hotel. They are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very beautiful girls, especially Bella Clinton, whom you saw in Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted affection of
"Emily Graham."
It was with great curiosity that Gertrude unfolded Mr. Graham's epistle. She thought it would be awkward for him to address her, and wondered much whether he would maintain his authoritative tone, or condescend to apologise. Had she known him better, she would have been assured that nothing would ever induce him to do the latter, for he was one of those persons who never believe themselves in the wrong.
"Miss Gertrude Flint,—I am married, and intend to go abroad on the 28th of April. My daughter will accompany us, and as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I propose that you join us in New York, and attend the party as a companion to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for her. By complying with our wishes, you will remove the recollection of your past behaviour; and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the month, it is important you should write and name the day. I will meet you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston, I hope you will come as soon as possible. I enclose a sum of money to cover expenses. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, and I will see that all is paid before you leave. Trusting you are now come to a sense of your duty, I subscribe myself your friend,"J. H. Graham."
"Miss Gertrude Flint,—I am married, and intend to go abroad on the 28th of April. My daughter will accompany us, and as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I propose that you join us in New York, and attend the party as a companion to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for her. By complying with our wishes, you will remove the recollection of your past behaviour; and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable you to maintain the place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the month, it is important you should write and name the day. I will meet you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston, I hope you will come as soon as possible. I enclose a sum of money to cover expenses. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, and I will see that all is paid before you leave. Trusting you are now come to a sense of your duty, I subscribe myself your friend,
"J. H. Graham."
Gertrude was sitting near a lamp, whose light fell directly upon her face, which, as she glanced over Mr. Graham's note, flushed crimson with wounded pride. Dr. Jeremy observed her colour change, and during the few minutes that Mr. and Miss Arnold stayed to hear the news, he gave an occasional glance of defiance at the letter, and as soon as they were gone, begged to be made acquainted with its contents.
"He writes," said Gertrude, "to invite me to accompany them to Europe."
"Indeed!" said Dr. Jeremy, with a low whistle; "and he thinks you'll be silly enough to pack up and start off at a minute's notice!"
"Why, Gerty," said Mrs. Jeremy, "you'll like to go, shan't you, dear? It will be delightful."
"Delightful—nonsense! Mrs. Jeremy," exclaimed the doctor; "what is there delightful, I want to know, in travelling about with an arrogant old tyrant, his blind daughter, upstart dashy wife, and her two fine-lady nieces? A pretty position Gertrude would be in—a slave to the whims of all that company."
"Why, Dr. Jeremy," interrupted his wife, "you forget Emily."
"Emily—to be sure, she's an angel, and never would impose upon anybody, least of all her own pet; but she'll have to play second fiddle herself, and I'm mistaken if she doesn't find it very hard to defend her rights and maintain a comfortable position in her father's enlarged family circle."
"So much the more need, then," said Gertrude, "that someone should be enlisted in her interests, to ward off the approach of every annoyance."
"Do you mean, then, to put yourself in the breach?" asked the doctor.
"I mean to accept Mr. Graham's invitation," replied Gertrude, "and join Emily at once; but I trust the harmony that seems to subsist between her and her new connections will continue undisturbed, so that I shall have no cause to take up arms onheraccount, and onmy ownI have not a single fear."
"Then you think you shall go?" said Mrs. Jeremy.
"I do," said Gertrude; "nothing but my duty to Mrs. Sullivan and her father led me to think of leaving Emily. That duty is at an end. I see from Mrs. Ellis's letters that Emily is not happy; and nothing which I can do to make her so must be neglected. Only think, Mrs. Jeremy, what a friend she has been to me."
"I know it," said Mrs. Jeremy, "and I dare say you will enjoy the journey, in spite of all the scarecrows the doctor sets up to frighten you; but it does seem a sacrifice for you to leave your comforts for such an uncertain sort of life."
"Sacrifice!" said the doctor; "it's the greatest sacrifice that ever I heard of! It is not merely giving up a good income of her own earning, and as pleasant a home as there is in Boston; it is relinquishing all the independence that she has been striving after, and which she was so anxious to maintain."
"No, doctor," said Gertrude, warmly; "nothing that I do forEmily'ssake can be called a sacrifice; it is my greatest pleasure."
"Gerty always finds her pleasure in doing what is right," remarked Mrs. Jeremy.
"The thought," said Gertrude, "that our dear Emily was dependent upon a stranger for all those little attentions that are only acceptable from those she loves, would make me miserable; our happiness for years has been in each other; and when one has suffered, the other has suffered also. Imustgo to her; I cannot think of doing otherwise."
"I wish," muttered Dr. Jeremy, "that your sacrifice would be half appreciated. But Graham, I'll venture to say, thinks it will be the greatest favour to take you back again. Perhaps he addressed you as a beggar; it wouldn't be the first time he's done such a thing. I wonder what would have induced poor Philip Amory to go back. Has he made any apology in his letter for past unkindness?"
"I do not think he considered any to be needed," replied Gertrude.
"Then he didn't make any excuse for his ungentlemanly behaviour? I declare it's a shame you should be exposed to any more such treatment; but I alwaysdidhear that women were self-forgetful in their friendship, and I believe it. Gertrude makes an excellent friend. Mrs. Jeremy, we must cultivate her regard; and sometime or other, perhaps, make a loud call upon her services."
"And if ever you do, sir, I shall be ready to respond to it; if there is a person in the world who owes a debt to society, it is myself. I hear the world called cold, selfish, and unfeeling; but it has not been so to me. I should be ungrateful if I did not cherish a spirit of universal love; how much more so, if I did not feel bound, heart and hand, to those dear friends who have bestowed upon me such affection as no orphan ever found before!"
"Gertrude," said Mrs. Jeremy, "I believe that you were right in leaving Emily when you did, and that you are right in returning to her now; and, if your being such a good girl as you are is at all due to her, she certainly has a great claim upon you."
"She has a claim, indeed, Mrs. Jeremy! It was Emily who first taught me the difference between right and wrong——"
"And she is going to reap the benefit of that knowledge in you," said the doctor, in continuation of her remark. "That's fair! But if you are resolved to take this European tour, you will be busy enough with your preparations. Do you think Mr. W. will be willing to give you up?"
"I hope so," said Gertrude. "I am sorry to be obliged to ask it of him, for he has been very indulgent to me, and I have been absent from school two weeks out of the winter already; but as it will shortly be the summer vacation, he will, perhaps, be able to supply my place."
Mrs. Jeremy interested herself in Gertrude's arrangements, offered an attic-room for the storage of her furniture, gave up to her a dressmaker she had engaged for herself, and a plan was laid out, by which Gertrude could start for New York in less than a week.
Mr. W., on being applied to, relinquished Gertrude, though deeply regretting to lose so valuable an assistant; and after a few days occupied in preparation, she bade farewell to the tearful Fanny Bruce, the bustling doctor, and his kind-hearted wife, all of whom accompanied her to the railroad station. She promised to write to the Jeremys; and they agreed to forward her any letters that might arrive from Willie.
In less than a fortnight from the time of her departure, Mrs. Ellis returned to Boston, and brought news of the safe conclusion of Gertrude's journey. A letter received a week after by Mrs. Jeremy announced that they should sail in a few days. She was, therefore, surprised when a second epistle was put into her hands, dated the day succeeding that on which she supposed Mr. Graham's party to have left the country. It was as follows:—
"New York,April 29th."My dear Mrs. Jeremy,—As yesterday was the day on which we expected to sail for Europe, you will be astonished to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn that the foreign tour is now postponed. Only two days since Mr. Graham was seized with the gout, and the attack was so violent as to threaten his life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable. His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as he can bear the journey, we shall hasten to the house in D——.I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces, who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, of course, greatly disappointed. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to meet him in Paris."It is impossible that either me or Emily should regret a journey of which we felt only dread, and, were it not for Mr. Graham's illness being the cause of its postponement, we should find it hard not to realise a degree of satisfaction in the prospect of returning to the dear old place in D——, where we hope to be established in the course of the next month. I saywe, for neither Mr. Graham nor Emily will hear of my leaving them again."With the kindest regards to yourself, and my friend the doctor,"I am, yours very sincerely,"Gertrude Flint."
"New York,April 29th.
"My dear Mrs. Jeremy,—As yesterday was the day on which we expected to sail for Europe, you will be astonished to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn that the foreign tour is now postponed. Only two days since Mr. Graham was seized with the gout, and the attack was so violent as to threaten his life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, and a sea-voyage is pronounced impracticable. His great anxiety is to be at home; and, as soon as he can bear the journey, we shall hasten to the house in D——.I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various directions which Emily is desirous she should receive; and, as we did not know how to address her, I have sent it to you, trusting to your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces, who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, of course, greatly disappointed. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to meet him in Paris.
"It is impossible that either me or Emily should regret a journey of which we felt only dread, and, were it not for Mr. Graham's illness being the cause of its postponement, we should find it hard not to realise a degree of satisfaction in the prospect of returning to the dear old place in D——, where we hope to be established in the course of the next month. I saywe, for neither Mr. Graham nor Emily will hear of my leaving them again.
"With the kindest regards to yourself, and my friend the doctor,
"I am, yours very sincerely,
"Gertrude Flint."
Mr. Graham's country-house boasted a fine, old fashioned entry, with a door at either end, both of which usually stood open during the warm weather, admitting a current of air, and rendering the neighbourhood of the front entrance a favourite resort of the family, during the early hours of the day, when the sun had no access to the spot. Here, on a pleasant June morning, Isabel Clinton and her cousin, Kitty Ray, had made themselves comfortable.
Isabel had drawn a large arm-chair close to the door-sill, ensconced herself in it, and was gazing idly down the road. She was a beautiful girl, tall and well-formed, with a delicate complexion, clear blue eyes, and rich, light, flowing curls. The same lovely child, whom Gertrude had gazed upon with rapture, as, leaning against the window of her father's house, she once watched old True while he lit his lamp, had ripened into an equally lovely woman. At an early age deprived of her mother, and left for some years to the care of servants, she soon learned to appreciate, at more than their true value, her outward attractions; and her aunt, under whose tutelage she had been since she left school, did not counteract this undue self-admiration. An appearance of conscious superiority which distinguished her, and her independent air, might be attributed to her conviction that Belle Clinton, the beauty and the heiress, attired in a blue cashmere morning-dress, richly embroidered, and open in front, for the purpose of displaying an equally rich flounced cambric petticoat.
On a low step at her feet sat Kitty Ray, a complete contrast to her cousin in looks, manners and many points of character. She was a sweet little creature, lively, playful, and affectionate. She was so small that her childish manners became her; so full of spirits that her occasional rudeness claimed pardon on that score; and for all other faults her warm-heartedness and generous enthusiasm must plead an excuse to one who wished to love her as she wished and expected to be loved by everybody. She was a pretty girl, always bright and animated, mirthful and happy; fond of her cousin Belle, and sometimes influenced by her, though often enlisting on the opposite side of some contested question. Unlike Belle, she was seldom well dressed, for she was very careless. On the present occasion her dark silk wrapper was half-concealed by a crimson flannel sack, which she held tightly around her, for she said it was a chilly morning, and she was half-frozen to death—she certainly would go and warm herself at the kitchen fire, if she did not fear encountering thatshe-dragon, Mrs. Ellis; she was sure she did not see, if they must sit in the doorway, why Belle couldn't come to the side-door, where the sun shone beautifully. "O, I forgot, though," added she; "her complexion!"
"Complexion!" said Belle; "I'm no more afraid of hurting my complexion than you are; I never freckle, or tan either."
"But you burn all up, and look like a fright."
"Well, if I didn't, I shouldn't go there to sit; I like to be at the front of the house, where I can see the passing. I wonder who those people are coming up the road."
Kitty stood up, and looked as Belle pointed. After observing the approaching couple for a minute or two she exclaimed, "Why, that's Gertrude Flint! I wonder where she's been! And who can that be with her? I didn't know there was a beau to be had about here."
"Beau!" said Belle, sneeringly.
"And why not a beau, Cousin Belle? I'm sure he looks like one."
"I wouldn't give much for any of her beaux!" said Belle.
"Wouldn't you?" said Kitty. "Wait until you see who they are; you near-sighted people shouldn't decide in such a hurry. I can tell you that he is a gentleman you wouldn't object to walking with yourself; it's Mr. Bruce, the one we met in New Orleans."
"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Belle, starting up.
"You will soon have a chance to see for yourself; for he is coming home with her."
"He is!What can he be walking with her for?"
"To show his taste, perhaps. I am sure he could not find more agreeable company."
"You and I don't agree about that," replied Belle. "I don't see anything very agreeable about her."
"Because you are determined not to, Belle. Everybody else thinks her charming, and Mr. Bruce is opening the gate for her as politely as if she were a queen. I like him for that."
"Do see," said Belle; "she's got on that white cape-bonnet of hers! and that checked gingham dress! I wonder what Mr. Bruce thinks of her, and he such a critic in regard to ladies' dress."
Gertrude and her companion now drew near to the house. The former looked up, saw the young ladies in the doorway, and smiled pleasantly at Kitty, who was making strange grimaces and giving insignificant glances over Belle's shoulder; but Mr. Bruce did not observe either of them; and they heard him say, as he handed Gertrude a small parcel he had been carrying for her, "I believe I won't come in; it's such a bore to have to talk to strangers. Do you work in the garden, mornings, this summer?"
"No," replied Gertrude, "there is nothing left of my garden but the memory of it."
"Why, Miss Gertrude!" said the young man, "I hope these new-comers haven't interfered with——" Here, observing the direction of Gertrude's eyes, he raised his own, saw Belle and Kitty standing opposite to him; and compelled now to speak with them, went forward to shake hands, trusting to his remarks about strangers in general, and these new-comers in particular, not having been overheard. Although overheard, the young ladies chose to take no notice of that which they supposed intended for unknown individuals.
They were mistaken, however, for Mr. Bruce knew, perfectly well that the nieces of the present Mrs. Graham were the same girls whom he met at the south, and was indifferent about renewing his acquaintance. But his vanity was not proof against the evident pleasure they both manifested at seeing him again; and he soon engaged in an animated conversation with them, while Gertrude entered the house. She sought Emily's room, and was giving an account of her morning's expedition to the village, and how she had accomplished various commissions and errands, when Mrs. Ellis came, and said, with distressed voice, "Hasn't Gertrude?—Oh, there you are! Do tell me what Mrs. Wilkins said about the strawberries?"
"I engaged three quarts; hasn't she sent them?"
"No, but I'm thankful to hear they're coming; I have been so plagued about the dinner."
She now came in, and seating herself, exclaimed, "I declare, Emily, such an ironing as our girls have got to do to-day! You never saw anything like it! There's no end to the fine clothes Mrs. Graham and her nieces put into our wash. It's a shame! Rich as they are, they might put out their washing. I've been helping,myself, as much as I could; but, as Mrs. Prime says, one can't do everything at once; and I've had to see the butcher, make puddings and blancmange, and been worried to death all the time, because I forgot to engage those strawberries. So Mrs. Wilkins hadn't sent her fruit to market when you got there?"
"No, but she was in a great hurry getting ready; it would have been gone in a very short time."
"Well, that was lucky. I don't know what I should have done without, for I've no time to hunt up anything else for dessert. I've got just as much as I can do till dinner-time. Mrs. Graham never kept house before, and don't know how to make allowance for anything. She comes home from Boston, expects to find everything in apple-pie order, and never asks or cares who does the work."
Mrs. Prime called out, "Mrs. Ellis, the boy has brought your strawberries, and the stalks an't off; he said they hadn't no time."
"That's too bad," exclaimed the tired housekeeper. "Who's going to take the stalks off, I should like to know? Kate is busy, and I can't do it."
"I will, Mrs. Ellis; letmedo it," said Gertrude, following Mrs. Ellis, who was now half-way downstairs.
"No, no! don't you, Miss Gertrude," said Mrs. Prime; "they'll only stain your fingers all up."
"No matter if they do; my hands are not made of white kid. They'll bear washing."
Mrs. Ellis was only too thankful for Gertrude's help. Belle and Kitty were doing their best to entertain Mr. Bruce, who, sitting on the door-steps, from time to time cast his eyes down the entry, and up the staircase, in hopes of Gertrude's reappearance; and despairing of it, he was about to depart, when his sister Fanny came running up the yard, and rushed past the assembled trio for the house.
Her brother, however, stretched out his arm, caught her, and before he let her go whispered something in her ear.
"Who is that wild Indian?" asked Kitty Ray, as Fanny ran across the entry and disappeared.
"A sister of mine," answered Ben, in a nonchalant manner.
"Why! is she?" inquired Kitty, with interest; "I have seen her here several times, and never took any notice of her. I didn't know she wasyoursister. What a pretty girl she is."
"Do you think so?" said Ben; "sorry I can't agree with you. I think she's a fright."
Fanny now reappeared, and stopping a moment on her way upstairs called out, without any ceremony, "She says she can't come, she's busy."
"Who?" asked Kitty, in her turn catching Fanny and detaining her.
"Miss Flint."
Mr. Bruce coloured slightly, and Belle Clinton observed it.
"What is she doing?" inquired Kitty.
"Picking strawberries."
"Where are you going, Fanny?"
"Upstairs."
"Do they let you go all over the house?"
"Miss Flint said I might go up and bring down the birds."
"What birds?"
"Her birds. I am going to hang them in the sun, and they'll sing beautifully."
She went, and soon returned with a cage containing the little monias sent by Willie from Calcutta.
"There Kitty," cried Belle; "those are the birds that wake us so early every morning."
"Very likely," said Kitty; "bring them here. Goodness! what little creatures they are!—do look at them, Mr. Bruce—they are sweetly pretty."
"Put them down on the door-step, Fanny," said Ben, "so that we can see them better."
"I'm afraid you'll frighten them," replied Fanny; "Miss Gertrude doesn't like to have them frightened."
"No, we won't," said Ben; "we're disposed to be very friendly to Miss Gertrude's birds. Where did she get them? Do you know, Fanny?"
"Why, they are Indian birds; Mr. Sullivan sent them to her."
"Who is he?"
"Oh, he is a very particular friend; she has letters from him every little while."
"What Mr. Sullivan?" asked Belle. "Do you know his Christian name?"
"I suppose it's William," said Fanny. "Miss Emily always calls the birds little Willies."
"Belle!" exclaimed Kitty, "that's your William Sullivan."
"What a favourite man he seems to be!" said Mr. Bruce, in a tone of sarcasm; "the property of one beautiful lady and the particular friend of another."
"I don't know what you mean, Kitty," said Belle, tartly. "Mr. Sullivan is a junior partner of my father's, but I have not seen him for years."
"Except in your dreams, Belle," suggested Kitty. "You forget."
"Do you dream about Mr. Sullivan?" asked Fanny, fixing her eyes on Belle as she spoke. "I mean to go and ask Miss Gertrude if she does."
"Do," said Kitty; "I'll go with you."
They ran across the entry into the dining room, and put the question at the same time. Taken by surprise, Gertrude neither blushed nor looked confused, but answered, quietly, "Yes, sometimes; but what do you know of Mr. Sullivan?"
"Oh, nothing," answered Kitty; "onlysome others do, and we are inquiring around to see how many there are;" and she ran back in triumph to tell Belle she might as well be frank, like Gertrude, and plead guilty to the weakness; it looked so much better than blushing and denying it.
But it would not do to joke with Belle any longer; she was offended, and did not conceal the fact. Mr. Bruce felt annoyed, and soon left, leaving the two cousins to settle their difficulty as best they could. As soon as he had gone, Belle folded up her work, and walked upstairs to her room with great dignity, while Kitty stayed behind to laugh over the matter, and improve her opportunity to make friends with Fanny Bruce; for Kitty laboured under the idea that in cultivating the acquaintance of the sister she should advance her cause.
She therefore called Fanny to sit beside her, put her arm round her waist, and commenced talking about Gertrude, and the origin and extent of the intimacy which seemed to exist between her and the Bruce family. Fanny, who was always communicative, willingly informed her of the circumstances which had attached her so strongly to a friend who was some years her senior.
"And your brother," said Kitty, "he has known her some time, hasn't he?"
"Yes, I suppose so," answered Fanny, carelessly.
"Does he like her?"
"I don't know; I should think he would; I don't see how he can help it."
"What did he whisper to you when you came up the steps?"
"Oh, he bade me ask Miss Gertrude if she wasn't coming back to see him again, and tell her he was tired to death waiting for her."
Kitty pouted and looked vexed. "Has Miss Flint been in the habit of receiving company here, and been treated like an equal?"
"Of course she has," answered Fanny, with spirit; "why shouldn't she? She's the most perfect lady I ever saw, and mother says she has beautiful manners, and I must take pattern by her."
"Oh, Miss Gertrude!" called she, as Gertrude, who had been to place the strawberries in the refrigerator, crossed the back part of the long entry, "Are you ready now?"
"Yes, Fanny, I shall be in a moment," answered Gertrude.
"Ready for what?" inquired Kitty.
"To read," said Fanny. "She is going to read the rest of Hamlet to Miss Emily; she read the first three acts yesterday, and Miss Emily let me sit in her room and hear it. I can't understand it when I read it myself, but when I listen to Miss Gertrude it seems quite plain. She's a splendid reader, and I came in to-day on purpose to hear the play finished."
Kitty's last companion having deserted her, she lay on the entry sofa and fell asleep. She was wakened by her aunt, who returned from the city a short time before dinner—"I say Kitty Ray, wake up and go dress for dinner! I saw Belle at the chamber window looking like a beauty. I wish you'd take half the pains she does to improve your appearance."
Kitty yawned, and, after delaying a little, followed Mrs. Graham's directions. It was Kitty's policy, after giving offence to her cousin Belle, to appear utterly unconscious of the existence of any unkind feelings; and, though Belle often manifested some degree of sulkiness, she was too dependent upon Kitty's society to retain that disposition long. They were soon chatting together as usual.
"Belle," said Kitty, as she stood arranging her hair at the glass, "do you remember a girl we used to meet every morning on our way to school, walking with a paralytic old man?"
"Yes."
"Do you know, I think it was Gertrude Flint. She has altered very much, to be sure; but the features are still the same, and there certainly never was but one such pair of eyes."
"I have no doubt she is the same person," said Belle, composedly.
"Did you think of it before?"
"Yes, as soon as Fanny spoke of her knowing Willie Sullivan."
"Why, Belle, why didn't you speak of it?"
"Lor', Kitty, I don't feel so much interest in her as you and some others do."
"What others?"
"Why, Mr. Bruce; don't you see he is half in love with her?"
"No, I don't see any such thing; he has known her for a long time (Fanny says so), and, of course, he feels a respect for a girl that the Grahams make so much account of. But I don't believe he'd think of such a thing as being in love with a poor girl like her, with no family connections to boast of."
"Perhaps he didn'tthinkof being."
"Well, hewouldn'tbe. She isn't the sort of person that would suit him. He has been in society a great deal, not only at home, but in Paris; and he would want a wife that was very lively and fond of company, and knew how to make a show with money."
"A girl, for instance, like Kitty Ray."
"How ridiculous, Belle! just as if people couldn't talk without thinking of themselves all the time! What do I care about Ben Bruce?"
"I don't know that you care anything about him; but I wouldn't pull all the hair out of my head about it, as you are doing. There's the dinner-bell."
Twilight found Gertrude and Emily seated at a window which commanded a delightful western view. Gertrude had been describing to her blind friend the gorgeous picture presented to her vision by the masses of brilliantly-painted cloud; and Emily, as she listened to the glowing description, experienced a participation in Gertrude's enjoyment. The glory had now faded away, save a long strip of gold which skirted the horizon; and the stars as they came out, one by one, seemed to look in at the chamber window with a smile of recognition.
In the parlour below there was company from the city, and the sound of mirth and laughter came up on the evening breeze; so mellowed, however, by distance, that it contrasted with the peace of the quiet room, without disturbing it.
"You had better go down, Gertrude," said Emily; "they appear to be enjoying themselves, and I love to hear your laugh mingling with the rest."
"Oh, no, dear Emily!" said Gertrude; "I prefer to stay with you: they are nearly all strangers to me."
"As you please, my dear; but don't let me keep you from the young people."
"You can never keep me with you, dear Emily, longer than I wish to stay; there is no society I love so well." And so she stayed, and they resumed their pleasant conversation. They were interrupted by Katy, whom Mrs. Graham sent to announce a new visitor—Mrs. Bruce—who had inquired for Emily.
"I suppose I must go down," said Emily; "you'll come too, Gertrude?"
"No, I believe not, unless she asked for me. Did she, Katy?"
"Mrs. Graham was only afther mintioning Miss Emily," said Katy.
"Then I will stay here," said Gertrude; and Emily, finding it to be her wish, went without her. There was soon another loud ring at the door-bell. It seemed to be a reception evening, and this time Gertrude's presence was particularly requested, to see Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy.
When she entered the parlour a great number of guests were assembled, and every seat occupied. As she came in alone, and unexpected by most of the company, all eyes were turned upon her. Contrary to the expectation of Belle and Kitty, who were watching her with curiosity, she manifested no embarrassment, but glancing leisurely at the various groups, until she recognised Mrs. Jeremy, crossed the large saloon with characteristic grace, and as much ease as if she were the only person present. After greeting that lady with her usual cordiality, she turned to speak to the doctor; but he was sitting next Fanny Bruce, in the window-seat, and was half-concealed by the curtain. Before he came Mrs. Bruce nodded pleasantly from the opposite corner, and Gertrude went to shake hands with her; Mr. Bruce, who formed one in a gay circle of young ladies and gentlemen collected in that part of the room, and who had been observing Gertrude's motions so attentively as to make no reply to a question put to him by Kitty Ray, now offered his chair, saying, "Miss Gertrude, do take this seat."
"Thank you," said Gertrude, "but I see my friend the doctor on the other side of the room; he expects me to speak to him, so don't let me disturb you."
Dr. Jeremy now came half-way across the room to meet her, and led her into the recess formed by the window, and placed her in his own seat next to Fanny Bruce. To the astonishment of all who knew him, Ben Bruce brought his own chair, and placed it for the doctor opposite to Gertrude. So much respect for age was not anticipated from the man of fashion.
"Is that a daughter of Mr. Graham's?" asked a young lady of Belle Clinton, who sat next her.
"No, indeed," replied Belle; "she is a person to whom Miss Graham gave an education, and now she lives here to read to her and be a sort of companion; her name is Flint."
"What did you say that young lady's name was?" asked a dashing lieutenant, addressing Isabel.
"Miss Flint."
"Flint, ah! she's a genteel-looking girl. How peculiarly she dresses her hair!"
"Very becoming, however, to that style of face," remarked the young lady who had first spoken. "Don't you think so?"
"I don't know," replied the lieutenant; "something becomes her; she makes a fine appearance. Bruce," said he, as Mr. Bruce returned, after his unusual effort of politeness, "who is that Miss Flint?—I have been here two or three times, and I never saw her before."
"Very likely," said Mr. Bruce; "she won't always show herself. Isn't she a fine-looking girl?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet; she's got a splendid figure; but who is she?"
"She's a sort of adopted daughter of Mr. Graham's, I believe, aprotégéeof Miss Emily's."
"Ah, poor thing! An orphan?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Ben, biting his lips.
"Pity!" said the young man; "poor thing! but she's good-looking, particularly when she smiles; there is something very attractive about her face."
There certainly was to Ben, for, a moment after, Kitty Ray missed him from the room, and immediately espied him, standing on the piazza, and leaning through the open window to talk with Gertrude, Dr. Jeremy, and Fanny. The conversation soon became very lively; there seemed to be a war of wits going on; the doctor, especially, laughed very loud, and Gertrude and Fanny often joined in the merry peal. Kitty endured it as long as she could, and then ran, joined the party, and heard what they were having so much fun about.
But it was all an enigma to Kitty. Dr. Jeremy was talking with Mr. Bruce concerning something which had happened many years ago; there was a great deal about a fool's cap, with a long tassel, and taking afternoon naps in the grass; the doctor was making queer allusions to some old pear-tree, and traps set for thieves, and kept reminding Gertrude of circumstances which attended their first acquaintance with each other and with Mr. Bruce.
Kitty was beginning to feel that she had placed herself in the position of an intruder, and began to feel embarrassed, when Gertrude touched her arm, and making room for her next herself, motioned to her to sit down, saying, as she did so, "Dr. Jeremy is speaking of the time when he (or he and I, as he chooses to have it) went fruit-stealing in Mrs. Bruce's orchard, and were unexpectedly caught by Mr. Bruce."
"You mean, my dear," interrupted the doctor, "that Mr. Bruce was discovered by us. Why, it's my opinion he would have slept until this time if I hadn't given him such a thorough waking up."
"My first acquaintance with you was certainly the greatest awakening of my life," said Ben, speaking as if to the doctor, but looking meaningly at Gertrude; "that was not the only nap it cost me. How sorry I am, Miss Gertrude, that you've given up working in the garden, as you used to! Pray, how does it happen?"
"Mrs. Graham has had it remodelled," replied Gertrude, "and the new gardener neither needs nor desires my services. He has his own plans, and it is not well to interfere with the professor of an art; I should be sure to do mischief."
"I doubt whether his success compares with yours," said Ben. "I do not see anything like the same quantity of flowers in the room thatyouused to have."
"I think," said Gertrude, "that he is not as fond of cutting them as I was. I did not care so much for the appearance of the garden as for having plenty of flowers in the house; but with him it is the reverse."
Kitty made remark to Mr. Bruce on the subject of gardening, and Gertrude, turning to Dr. Jeremy, continued in conversation with him, until Mrs. Jeremy rose to go, when she said, "Dr. Jeremy, have you given Gertrude her letter?"
"Goodness me!" exclaimed the doctor. Then feeling in his pocket, he drew forth an evidently foreign document, the envelope literally covered with various coloured post-office stamps. "See here, Gerty, genuine Calcutta; no mistake!"
Gertrude took the letter, and, as she thanked the doctor, her countenance expressed pleasure at receiving it; a pleasure, however, somewhat tempered by sadness, for she had heard from Willie but once since he learned the news of his mother's death, and that letter had been such an outpouring of his vehement grief, that the sight of his handwriting almost pained her, as she anticipated something like a repetition of the outburst.
Mr. Bruce, who kept his eyes upon her, and expected to see her change colour, and look disconcerted, on the letter being handed to her in the presence of so many witnesses, was reassured by the composure with which she took it, and held it openly in her hand, while she bade the doctor and his wife good evening. She followed them to the door, and was retreating to her own apartment, when she was met by Mr. Bruce, who had noticed the movement, and now entered from the piazza in time to arrest her steps, and ask if her letter was of such importance that she must deny the company the pleasure of her society in order to study its contents.
"It is from a friend of whose welfare I am anxious to hear," said Gertrude, gravely. "Please excuse me to your mother, if she inquires for me; and, as the rest of the guests are strangers, I shall not be missed by them."
"Oh, Miss Gertrude," said Mr. Bruce, "it's no use coming here to see you, you are so frequently invisible. What part of the day is the most likely to find you disengaged?"
"Hardly any part," said Gertrude. "I am always a busy character; but good night, Mr. Bruce—don't let me detain you from the other young ladies;" and Gertrude ran upstairs, leaving Mr. Bruce uncertain whether to be vexed with himself or her.
Contrary to Gerty's expectations, William Sullivan's letter proved very soothing to the grief she had felt on his account. His spirit had been so crushed by the death of his grandfather, and by his second and still greater loss, that his first communication to Gertrude had alarmed her, from its despairing tone; she had feared lest his Christian fortitude would give way to the force of his double affliction. She was much relieved to find that he wrote in a calmer strain; that he had taken to heart his mother's last entreaty and prayer for a submissive disposition on his part; and that, although deeply afflicted, he was schooling himself to patience and resignation.
The three closely-written pages were devoted to fervent expressions of gratitude to Gertrude for the kindness and love which had comforted the last days of his much-regretted friends. He prayed that Heaven would bless her, and reward her self-denying efforts, and closed with saying, "You are all that is left to me, Gertrude. If I loved you before, my heart is now bound to you by ties stronger than those of earth; my hopes, my labours, my prayers, are all for you. God grant that we may some day meet again!"
For an hour Gertrude sat lost in meditation; her thoughts went back to her home at Uncle True's, and the days when she and Willie passed so many happy hours in close companionship, little dreaming of the long separation so soon to ensue. She was startled at last from her reverie by the voices of Mrs. Graham's visitors, who were now taking leave.
Mrs. Bruce and her son lingered a little, until the carriages had left with the guests for the city, and, as they were making their farewells on the door-step, beneath Gertrude's window, she heard Mrs. Graham say, "Remember, Mr. Bruce, we dine at two; and, Miss Fanny, we shall hope to see you also."
Mr. Bruce's attentions to her had that day been marked; and the professions of admiration he had whispered in her ear had been still more so. Both these attentions and this admiration were unsought and undesired; neither were they flattering to the high-minded girl, who was superior to coquetry, and whose self-respect was wounded by the assured manner in which Mr. Bruce made his advances. As a youth of seventeen, she had marked him as indolent and ill-bred. Her sense of justice, however, would have obliterated this recollection, had his character and manner been changed on the renewal of their acquaintance, some years after. But this was not the case, for outward polish could not cloud Gertrude's discernment; and she perceived that his old characteristics remained, rendered more glaring by ill-concealed vanity. As a boy, he had stared at Gertrude from impudence, and inquired her name out of idle curiosity; as a youthful coxcomb he had resolved to flirt with her, because his time hung heavy on his hands. But, to his surprise, he found the country girl quite insensible to the flattery and notice which many a city belle had coveted; and that when he tried raillery, he usually proved the disconcerted party.
It was something new to Mr. Bruce to find any lady thus indifferent to his merits; and proved such an awakening to his ambition, that he resolved to recommend himself to Gertrude, and consequently improved every opportunity of gaining admittance to her society. But while labouring to inspire her with a due appreciation of himself, he fell into his own snare; for though he failed in awakening Gertrude's interest, he could not be equally insensible to her attractions. Even the dull intellect of Ben Bruce was capable of measuring her vast superiority to most girls of her age; and her vivacious originality was a contrast to the insipidity of fashionable life, which at length completely charmed him.
His earnestness and perseverance began to annoy the object of his admiration before he left Mr. Graham's in the autumn; and she was glad soon after to hear that he had accompanied his mother to Washington, as it insured her against meeting him again for months to come.
Mr. Bruce regretted losing sight of Gertrude, but amid the gaiety of southern cities wasted his time with tolerable satisfaction. He was reminded of her again on meeting the Graham party at New Orleans, and it is some credit to his understanding to say, that in the comparison which he constantly drew between her and the vain daughters of fashion, she stood higher than ever in his estimation. He did not hesitate to tell her so on the morning already mentioned, when, with evident satisfaction, he had recognized and joined her; and, the increased devotion of his words and manner, which now took a tone of truth in which they had before been wanting, alarmed Gertrude, and led to a serious resolve to avoid him on all possible occasions.
On the day succeeding the one of which we have been speaking, Mr. Graham returned from the city about noon, and joined the young ladies in the entry, unfolded his newspaper, and, handing it to Kitty, asked her to read the news. "What shall I read?" said Kitty, taking the paper rather unwillingly.
"The leading article, if you please."
Kitty turned the paper inside and out, looked hastily up and down its pages, and then declared her inability to find it. Mr. Graham was astonished, and pointed in silence to the paragraph. She began, but had scarcely read a sentence before Mr. Graham stopped her, saying, "Don't read so fast—I can't hear a single word!" She now drawled so intolerably that he interrupted her again, and bade her give the paper to her cousin.
Belle took it from the pouting Kitty, and finished the article—not, however, without being once or twice compelled to go back and read more intelligibly.
"Do you wish to hear anything more, sir?" asked she.
"Yes; won't you turn to the ship-news, and read me the list by the steamer?" Belle, more fortunate than Kitty, found the place, and commenced. "At Canton, April 30th, ship Ann Maria, Ray,d-i-s-c-g. What does that mean?"
"Discharging, of course; go on."
"S-l-d—a-b-t 13th," spelt Belle, looking dreadfully puzzled all the while.
"Stupid!" muttered Mr. Graham, almost snatching the paper out of her hands; "not know how to read ship-news! Where's Gertrude? Where's Gertrude Flint? She's the only girl I ever saw that did know anything. Won't you call her, Kitty?"
Kitty went, though reluctantly, to call Gertrude, and told her for what she was wanted. Gertrude was astonished; since the day when she had persisted in leaving his house, Mr. Graham had never asked her to read to him; but, obedient to the summons, she presented herself, and, taking the seat which Belle had vacated near the door, commenced with the ship-news, and, without asking questions, turned to various items of intelligence, taking them in the order which she knew Mr. Graham preferred.
The old gentleman, leaning back in his easy-chair, and resting his gouty foot upon an ottoman opposite to him, looked amazingly satisfied; and when Belle and Kitty had gone off to their room, he remarked, "This seems like old times, doesn't it, Gertrude?" He closed his eyes, and Gertrude was soon aware that he had fallen asleep. Seeing that, as he sat, it would be impossible for her to pass without waking him, she laid down the paper, and was preparing to draw some work from her pocket, when she observed a shadow in the doorway, and, looking up, saw the person whom she had yesterday resolved to avoid.
Mr. Bruce was staring in her face, with an indolent air of ease and confidence, which she always found very offensive. He had in one hand a bunch of roses, which he held up to her admiring gaze. "Very beautiful!" said Gertrude, as she glanced at the little branches, covered with a luxurious growth of moss rose-buds, both pink and white.