Little did Gertrude imagine, while she was striving to promote the welfare of Kitty, who had thrown herself upon her love and care, the jealousy and ill-will she was exciting in others. Isabel, who had never liked one whose tone of action and life reproached her own vanity and selfishness, and who saw in her the additional crime of being the favoured friend of a youth of whose interesting boyhood she herself retained a sentimental recollection, was eager to render her odious to Mrs. Graham. She was not slow to observe the confidence that existed between Kitty and Gertrude; that her cousin had forsaken her own room for that of the latter the night after her probable quarrel and parting with Bruce; and her resentment, excited still further by the growing friendship which her own unkindness to Kitty served only to confirm, she communicated to Mrs. Graham her suspicion that Gertrude had selfishly made a difficulty between Bruce and Kitty, and fostered and widened the breach, and succeeded in breaking off the match. Mrs. Graham readily adopted Belle's opinion. "Kitty," said she, "is weak-minded, and much under Miss Flint's influence. I shouldn't be surprised if you were right, Belle!"
Thus they tried to entrap Kitty into a confession that Gertrude had driven away her lover. But Kitty, while she indignantly denied Gertrude's having injured her, refused to reveal the occurrences of the eventful evening. Mrs. Graham and Belle were angry, and many were their private discussions on the subject, and as they became more and more incensed against Gertrude, so they began to manifest it in their demeanour.
Gertrude soon perceived their incivility. With wonderful patience, however, did she preserve her equanimity. She had never looked for kindness and attention from Mrs. Graham and Isabel. They were irritated by her calmness and patience, now made their attack in another quarter; and Emily, the sweet, lovely, and unoffending Emily, became the object against which they aimed many of their shafts of ill-will.
Gertrude could bear injury, injustice, and even cruel language, towards herself only; but her blood boiled when she perceived that her cherished Emily was becoming the victim of neglect and ill-usage. To address the gentle Emily in other words than those of courtesy was next to impossible; it was equally hard to find fault with the actions of one whose life was so good and beautiful; and the isolated position which she occupied on account of her blindness seemed to render her free from interference. But Mrs. Graham was coarse and blunt, Isabel selfish and unfeeling; and long before the blind girl was aware of any unkind intention on their part, Gertrude's spirit had rebelled at the knowledge of many a word and act well calculated to distress a sensitive mind. Many a stroke was warded off by Gertrude; many a nearly defeated plan, which Emily was known to have had at heart, carried through by Gertrude's perseverance and energy; and for some weeks Emily was kept ignorant of the fact that many a little office formerly performed for her by a servant was now fulfilled by Gertrude, who would not let her know that Bridget had received from her mistress orders which were quite inconsistent with her usual attendance upon Miss Graham's wants.
Mr. Graham was absent on business at New York. His presence would have been a great restraint upon his wife, who was well aware of his devoted affection for his daughter. His love for Emily, and the devotion manifested towards her by every member of the household, had rendered her an object of jealousy to Mrs. Graham.
Shortly before Mr. Graham's return, Mrs. Graham and Isabel were indulging themselves in an unlimited abuse of the rest of the household, when a letter was brought to Mrs. Graham, which proved to be from her husband. After glancing over its contents, she remarked, with an air of satisfaction, "Here is good news for us, Isabel, and a prospect of some pleasure in the world." And she read aloud the following—"The troublesome affair which called me here is nearly settled, and the result is very favourable to my wishes and plans. I now see nothing to prevent our starting for Europe the latter part of next month, and the girls must make their arrangements accordingly. Tell Emily to spare nothing towards a full and complete equipment for herself and Gertrude."
"He speaks of Gertrude," said Isabel, sneeringly, "as if she were one of the family. I'm sure I don't see any very great prospect of pleasure in travelling all through Europe with a blind woman, and her disagreeable appendages; I can't think what Mr. Graham wants to take them for."
"I wish he would leave them at home," said Mrs. Graham; "it would be a good punishment for Gertrude. But, mercy! he would as soon think of going without his right hand as without Emily."
"I hope, if ever I'm married," exclaimed Isabel, "it won't be to a man that's got a blind daughter! Such a dreadful good person, too, whom everybody has got to worship, and admire, and wait upon!"
"I don't have to wait upon her," said Mrs. Graham; "that's Gertrude's business—it's what she's going for."
"That's the worst of it; a blind girl has to have a waiting-maid, and a waiting-maid is a great lady, who doesn't mind cheating your nieces out of their lovers, and even robbing them of each other's affection."
"Well, what can I do, Belle? I'm sure I don't want Gertrude's company any more than you do; but I don't see how I can get rid of her."
"I should think you'd tell Mr. Graham some of the harm she's done already. If you have any influence over him, you might prevent her going."
"It would be no more than she deserves," said Mrs. Graham; "and I may give him a hint of her behaviour; he'll be surprised enough when he hears of Bruce's sudden flight. I knew he thought it would be a match between him and Kitty."
As Isabel descended the staircase, to meet with smiles and compliments the guests whom in her heart she wished a thousand miles away on this intensely hot afternoon, Gertrude came up from the kitchen, and passed along a passage to her own room. She carried, over one arm, a dress of white muslin, and a number of collars, sleeves, and ruffles, with other articles fresh from the ironing-board. Her face was heated; she looked tired, and, as she reached her room, and deposited her burden upon the bed, she drew a long breath, as if fatigued, seated herself by a window, brushed the hair back from her face, and threw open a blind. Just then Mrs. Prime put her head in at the door; and, seeing Gertrude alone, entered the room, but stood in astonishment on observing the evidences of her recent laborious employment; then, glancing at the fruits of her diligence, she burst forth indignantly, "My sakes alive! Miss Gertrude, I believe you've been doin' up them muslins yourself, after all!"
Gertrude smiled, but did not reply.
"Now, if that ain't too bad!" said the kind-hearted woman; "to think you should ha' been at work down in that 'ere hot kitchen, and all the rest on us takin' a spell o' rest in the heat of the day. I'll warrant if Miss Emily knew it, she'd never put on that white gown!"
"It hardly looksfitfor her to wear," said Gertrude. "I'm not much used to ironing, and have had a great deal of trouble with it; one side got dry before I could smooth out the other."
"It looks elegant, Miss Gertrude; but what should you be doin' Bridget's work for, I want to know?"
"Bridget always has enough to do," said Gertrude, evading a direct answer; "and it's very well for me to have some practice; knowledge never comes amiss, you know, Mrs. Prime."
"'Tant no kind of an afternoon for 'speriment o' that sort; and you wouldn't ha' done it, I'll venture to say, if you hadn't been afeard Miss Emily would want her things, and find out they wan't done. Times is changed in this house, when Mr. Graham's own daughter, that was once the head of everything, has to have her clothes laid by to make room for other folks. Bridget ought to know better than to mind these upstarters, when they tell her, as I heard Miss Graham yesterday, to let alone that heap o' muslins, and attend to something that was o' more consequence. Our Katy would ha' known better; but Bridget's a new-comer like all the rest. Thinks I to myself then, what would Miss Gertrude say, if she suspected how Miss Emily was bein' neglected! But I'lltellMiss Emily, as sure as my name's Prime, just how things go—you shan't get so red in the face with ironing agin, Miss Gertrude. If the kind o' frocks she likes to wear can't be done up at home—and yourn too, what's more—the washin' ought to be put out. There's money enough, and some of it ought to be spent for the use o' the ladies as is ladies! I wish to heartthatIsabella would have to start round a little lively; 'twould do her good; but, Lor', Miss Gertrude, it goes right to my heart to see all the vexatious things as is happenin' nowadays! I'll go right to Miss Emily this minute, and tell how things go on."
"No, you won't, Mrs. Prime," said Gertrude, persuasively; "when I ask you not. You forget how unhappy it would make her, if she knew that Mrs. Graham was so wanting in consideration. I would rather iron dresses every day, or do anything else for our dear Miss Emily, than let hersuspecteven that anybody could willingly be unkind to her."
Mrs. Prime hesitated. "Miss Gertrude, I thought I loved our dear young lady as well as anybody, but I believe you love her better still, to be so thoughtful all for her sake; and I wouldn't say nothing about it, only I think a sight o'you, too; you've been here ever since you was a little gal, and we all set lots by you, and I can't see them folks ride over your head, as I know they mean to."
"I know you love me, Mrs. Prime, and Emily too; so, for the sake of us both, you mustn't say a word to anybody about the change in the family arrangements. We'll all do what we can to keep Emily from pain; and, as to the rest, we won't care for ourselves; if they don't pet and indulge me as much as I have been accustomed to, the easiest way is not to notice it."
"Lord bless yer heart, Miss Gertrude, them folks is lucky to have you to deal with; it isn't everybody as would put up with 'em. They don't come much in my way, thank fortin! I let Miss Graham see, right off, that I wouldn't put up with interference; cooks is privileged to set up for their rights, and I scared her out o' my premises pretty quick, I tell yer! It's mighty hard for me to see our own ladies imposed upon; but since you say 'mum,' Miss Gertrude, I'll try and hold my tongue as long as I can. It's a shame, though, I do declare."
An hour after, Gertrude was at the glass, braiding her long hair, when Mrs. Ellis, after a slight knock, entered. "Well, Gertrude," said she, "I didn't think it would come to this!"
"Why, what is the matter?" inquired Gertrude, anxiously.
"It seems we are going to be turned out of our rooms!"
"Who?"
"You, and I next, for ought I know."
Gertrude coloured, but did not speak, and Mrs. Ellis related that she had received orders to fit up Gertrude's room for some visitors who were expected. She was astonished to hear that Gertrude had not been consulted on the subject. Mrs. Graham had spoken so carelessly of her removal, and seemed to think it so agreeable for Emily to share her apartment with her young friend, that Mrs. Ellis concluded the matter had been pre-arranged.
Deeply wounded and vexed on her own and Emily's account, Gertrude stood for a moment silent. She then asked if Mrs. Ellis had spoken to Emily on the subject. She had not. Gertrude begged her to say nothing about it.
"I cannot bear," said she, "to let her know that the little sanctum she fitted up so carefully has been unceremoniously taken from me. I sleep in her room more than half the time, as you know; but she always likes to have me call this chamber mine, that I may be sure of a place where I can read and study. If you will let me remove my bureau into your room, Mrs. Ellis, and sleep on a couch there occasionally, we need not say anything about it to Emily."
Mrs. Ellis assented. She had grown strangely humble and compliant within a few months, and Gertrude had won her good-will, first by forbearance, and latterly by the frequent assistance she had rendered to the overburdened housekeeper. But, though yielding and considerate towards Gertrude, whom, with Emily and Mrs. Prime, she now considered members of the injured party to which she herself belonged, no words could express her indignation with regard to the late conduct of Mrs. Graham and Isabel. "It is all of a piece," said she, "with the rest of their conduct! Sometimes I almost feel thankful that Emily is blind; it would grieve her to see the goings-on. I should have liked to box Isabella's ears for taking your seat at the table so impudently as she did yesterday, and then neglecting to help Emily to anything at all; and there sat dear Emily, angel as she is! all unconscious of her shameful behaviour, and asking her for butter as sweetly as if it were by mere accident that you had been driven from the table, and she left to provide for herself. And all those strangers there, too! I saw it all from the china-closet! And then Emily's dresses and muslins!—there they laid in the press-drawer, till I thought they would mildew. I'm glad to see Bridget has been allowed to do them at last, for I began to think Emily would, one of these warm days, be without a clean gown in the world. But all I wish is, that they'd all go off to Europe, and leave us here to ourselves. You don't want to go, do you, Gertrude?"
"Yes, if Emily goes."
"Well, you're better than I am; I couldn't make such a martyr of myself even for her sake."
It is needless to detail the many petty annoyances to which Gertrude was daily subjected; nor with all the pains taken to prevent it, could Emily be long kept in ignorance of the light estimation in which both herself and Gertrude were regarded. Kitty, incensed at the incivility of her aunt and Isabel, and indifferent towards the visitors, hesitated not to express both to Emily and Gertrude her sense of the injuries they sustained. But Kitty was no formidable antagonist to Mrs. Graham and Belle, for her spirits were greatly subdued, and she no longer dared, as she would once have done, to stand between her friends and the indignities to which they were exposed.
But Mrs. Graham became at last entangled in difficulties of her own weaving. Her husband returned, and it now became necessary to set bounds to her own insolence, and, what was far more difficult, to that of Isabel. Mrs. Graham knew just how far her husband's forbearance would extend—just the point to which his perceptions might be blinded. But in his absence she permitted Belle to fill the house with her lively young acquaintances, and winked at the many flagrant violations of politeness manifested by the young people towards the daughter of their absent host, and their youthful friend and attendant. But now a check must be put to all indecorous proceedings; and, unfortunately for the execution of the wife's precautions, the head of the family returned unexpectedly, and under circumstances which forestalled any preparation. He arrived just at dusk, having come from town in an omnibus. It was a cool evening, the windows and doors were closed, and the drawing-room was so brilliantly lighted that he suspected that a large company was being entertained there. He felt vexed, for it was Saturday night, and, in accordance with New England customs, Mr. Graham loved to see his household quiet on that evening. He was also suffering from a violent headache, and, avoiding the drawing-room, passed on to the library, and then to the dining-room. He then went upstairs, walked through several rooms, glanced indignantly at their slovenly appearance, and finally gained Emily's chamber.
A bright wood fire burned upon the hearth; a couch was drawn up beside it, on which Emily was sitting; and Gertrude's little rocking-chair occupied the opposite corner. The peaceful face of Emily, and the radiant expression of Gertrude's countenance, as she saw the father of her blind friend looking pleasantly in upon them, proved such a charming contrast to the scenes presented in other parts of the house, that the old gentleman, warmed to more than usual satisfaction with both of the inmates, greeted his surprised daughter with a hearty paternal embrace, and gave Gertrude an equally affectionate greeting, exclaiming, as he took the arm-chair, "Now, girls, this looks pleasant and home-like! What in the world is going on downstairs?" Emily explained that there was company staying in the house.
"Ugh! company!" grunted Mr. Graham, in a dissatisfied tone. "I think so! Been emptying rag-bags about the chambers, I should say, from the looks."
Gertrude asked if he had been to tea. He had not, and should be thankful for some; he was tired.
"Don't tell anybody that I've got home, Gerty," called he, as she left the room; "I want to be left in peaceto-night, at least."
While Gertrude was gone, Mr. Graham questioned Emily as to her preparations for the European tour. To his surprise, he learned that she had never received his message communicated in the letter to Mrs. Graham, and knew nothing of his plans. Astonished and angry, he restrained his temper; he did not like to acknowledge to himself, far less to his daughter, that his commands had been disregarded by his wife. After he had enjoyed a comfortable repast, at which Gertrude presided, they both returned to Emily's room; and now Mr. Graham's first inquiry was for theEvening Transcript.
"I will go for it," said Gertrude, rising.
"Ring!" said Mr. Graham, imperatively. He had observed that Gertrude's ringing was disregarded, and wished to know the cause of so strange a piece of neglect. Gertrude rang several times, but obtained no answer to the bell. At last she heard Bridget's step in the entry, and, opening the door, said to her, "Bridget, won't you find theTranscript, and bring it to Miss Emily's room?" Bridget soon returned with the announcement that Miss Isabella was reading it, and declined to give it up.
A storm gathered on Mr. Graham's brow. "Such a message tomy daughter!" he exclaimed. "Gertrude, go yourself and tell the impertinent girl thatIwant the paper! What sort of behaviour is this?" he muttered.
Gertrude entered the drawing-room with great composure, and, amid the stares of the company, spoke in a low tone to Belle, who immediately yielded up the paper, looking much confused as she did so. Belle was afraid of Mr. Graham; and, on her informing her aunt of his return, that lady was also disconcerted. She had fully calculated upon seeing her husband before he had access to Emily. But it was too late now, but she used all her tact to disperse her friends at an early hour, and then found Mr. Graham smoking in the dining-room.
He was in an unpleasant mood; but she contrived to conciliate rather than irritate him, avoided all discordant subjects, and the next morning introduced to her friends an apparently affable host.
But this serenity was disturbed long before the Sabbath drew to a close. As he walked up the aisle, before morning service, with Emily, according to custom, leaning upon his arm, his brow darkened at seeing Isabel complacently seated in that corner of the old fashioned pew which had for years been sacred to his blind daughter. Mrs. Graham winked at her niece, but Isabel was mentally rather obtuse, and was subjected to the mortification of having Mr. Graham remove her from the seat, in which he placed Emily, while the displaced occupant, who had been so mean for the last three Sundays to deprive Miss Graham of this old-established right, was compelled to sit in the only vacant place, beside Mr. Graham, with her back to the pulpit. And very angry was she at observing the smiles visible upon many countenances in the neighboring pews.
Mr. Graham had not been at home a week before he understood the state of feeling in the mind of his wife and Isabel, and the manner in which it was likely to act upon the happiness of the household. He saw that Emily was superior to complaint; she had never in her life complained; he observed, too, Gertrude's devotion to his much-loved child, and it stamped her in his mind as one who had a claim to his regard which should never be disputed. It is not, then, to be wondered at, that when Mrs. Graham made her intended insinuations against his youthfulprotégée, Mr. Graham treated them with contempt.
He had known Gertrude from a child. She was high-spirited—he had sometimes thought her wilful—butnevermean or false. It was no use to tell him all that nonsense;—he was glad that it was all off between Kitty and Bruce; for Ben was an idle fellow, and would never make a good husband; and, as to Kitty, he thought her much improved of late, and if it were owing to Gertrude's influence, the more they saw of each other the better.
Mrs. Graham was in despair. "It is all settled," said she to Isabel. "It is no use to contest the point; Mr. Graham is firm as a rock, and as sure aswego to Europe, Emily and Gertrude will gotoo."
She was almost startled; therefore, by an excess of good-luck, when informed, a few days afterwards, that the couple she had so dreaded to have of the party were to be left behind, at Miss Graham's special request. Emily's scruples with regard to mentioning to her father the little prospect of pleasure the tour was likely to afford her all vanished when she found that Gertrude would be a still greater sufferer from the society to which she would be subjected.
Blind as she was, Emily understood and perceived almost everything that was passing around her. Quick of perception, and with a hearing rendered doubly intense by her want of sight, the events of the summer were, perhaps, more familiar to her than to any other member of the family. She more than suspected the exact state of matters betwixt Mr. Bruce and Gertrude, though the latter had never spoken to her on the subject. She imagined how Kitty was involved in the affair (no very difficult thing to conceive by one who enjoyed the confidence which the simple-hearted girl unconsciously made during her intercourse with her).
As Mrs. Graham's and Isabel's abuse of power became more open, Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Prime considered the embargo upon free speech in Miss Graham's presence wholly removed; and any pain which the knowledge of their neglect might have caused her was more than compensated to Emily by the proofs it had called forth of devoted attachment and willing service on the part of her adopted child, as she loved to consider Gertrude.
Calmly and promptly did she resolve to adopt a course which should free Gertrude from her self-sacrificing service. She encountered much opposition from her father; but he had seen, during the previous winter at the South, how Emily's infirmity unfitted her for travelling, especially when deprived of Gertrude's attendant eyes; he now realised how contrary to her tastes and habits were those of his new wife and her nieces; and, unwilling to be convinced of the folly of his sudden choice, and probably of unhappiness from it, he appreciated the wisdom of Emily's proposal, and felt relief in the adoption of a course which would satisfy all parties.
Mrs. Warren's pleasant boarding-house was chosen by Emily for her own and Gertrude's winter home; and one month from the time of Mr. Graham's return from New York his country-house was closed; he, his wife, Isabel, and Kitty went to Havre; Mrs. Ellis went to enjoy a little rest from care with some cousins at the eastward; and Mrs. Prime was established as cook in Mrs. Warren's household.
Although ample arrangements were made by Mr. Graham, and sufficient means provided for the support of both Emily and Gertrude, the latter was anxious to be usefully employed, and, therefore, resumed a portion of her school duties at Mr. W's. Much as Emily loved Gertrude's constant presence, she gladly resigned her for a few hours every day, rejoiced in the spirit which prompted her exertions, and rewarded her with praise. In the undisturbed enjoyment of each other's society, and in their intercourse with a small, intelligent circle of friends, they passed a season of sweet tranquility. They read, walked, and communed, as in times long past. Together they attended lectures, concerts, and galleries of art.
It was a blissful and an improving winter which they passed together. They lived not for themselves alone; the poor blessed them, the sorrowful came to them for sympathy, and the affection which they inspired in the family circle was boundless. Spring came and passed while there, and they were loth to leave a place where they had been so happy; at last a sudden failure in Emily's health occurred, and Dr. Jeremy's peremptory command caused them to seek the country air.
Added to her anxiety about Emily, Gertrude began to feel much troubled at Willie Sullivan's long silence; no word from him for two or three months. Willie could not have forgotten or meant to neglect her. That was impossible. She tried, however, not to feel disturbed about it, and gave all her care to Emily, who now began indeed to require it.
They went to the sea-side for a few weeks; but the bracing atmosphere brought no strength to the blind girl's feeble frame. She was obliged to give up her daily walks; a continued weariness robbed her step of its elasticity, and her mind became subject to depression, while her nervous temperament became so susceptible that the utmost care was requisite to preserve her from all excitement.
The doctor often came to see his favourite patient; but as she got worse instead of better, he ordered her back to the city, declaring that Mrs. Jeremy's front chamber was as cool and comfortable as the contracted apartments of the crowded boarding-house at Nahant, and he insisted upon both her and Gertrude to take up their quarters for a week or two; and then, if Emily were no better, he hoped to have leisure to start off with them in search of health. Emily thought she was doing very well where she was, and was afraid to be troublesome to Mrs. Jeremy.
"Don't talk about trouble, Emily; you ought to know Mrs. Jeremy better by this time. Come up to-morrow; I'll meet you at the cars! Good-bye!"
Gertrude followed him. "I see, doctor, you think Emily is not so well."
"No; how should she be? What with the sea roaring on one side, and Mrs. Fellows's babies on the other, it's enough to wear away her strength. I won't have it so! This isn't the place for her, and do you bring her up to my house to-morrow."
"The babies don't usually cry as much as they have to-day," said Gertrude, smiling; "and as to the ocean, Emily loves dearly to hear the waves rolling in."
"Knew she did!" said the doctor. "Shan't do it; bad for her; it makes her sad, without her knowing why. Bring her up to Boston, as I tell you."
It was three weeks after the arrival of his visitors before the popular physician could steal away from his patients to enjoy a few weeks' recreation in travelling. For his own sake he would hardly have thought of attempting so unusual a thing as a journey; and his wife, too, loved home so much better than any other place that she was loth to start for parts unknown; but both were willing to sacrifice their long-indulged habits for the advantage of their young friends.
Emily was decidedly better; and viewed with pleasure the prospect of visiting West Point, Catskill, and Saratoga, even on her own account; and when she reflected upon the probable enjoyment the trip would afford Gertrude, she felt herself endowed with new strength for the undertaking. Gertrude needed change of scene and diversion of mind almost as much as Emily. The excessive heat, and her constant attendance in the invalid's room, had paled the roses in her cheeks, while care and anxiety had weighed upon her mind.
New York was their first destination; but the heat and dust of the city were almost insufferable, and during the day they passed there only Dr. Jeremy ventured out of the hotel except once, when Mrs. Jeremy and Gertrude went in search of dress-caps. But the doctor passed the whole day in the revival of old acquaintances, and some of these warm-hearted friends having presented themselves at the hotel in the evening to be introduced to Mrs. Jeremy and her companions, their room was enlivened until a late hour by the cheerful conversation of a group of elderly men, who, as they recalled the scenes and incidents of their youthful days, seemed to renew their youthful spirits. The conversation, however, was not of a character to exclude the ladies from participating in as well as enjoying it. Emily listened with delight to a conversation which had such varied charms, and shared with Gertrude the admiration of the doctor's friends, who were all excited to the warmest sympathy for her misfortune.
Upon hearing that Dr. Jeremy's party was going up the Hudson next morning, Dr. Gryseworth, of Philadelphia, who had been a student of our good doctor's, expressed his pleasure to meet them on the boat, and to introduce to Gertrude his two daughters, whom he was to accompany to Saratoga to meet their grandmother.
Gertrude, who slept soundly until wakened by Miss Graham, started up in astonishment on seeing her dressed and standing by the bedside—a most unusual circumstance, as Gertrude's morning kiss was wont to be Emily's first intimation of daylight.
"Six o'clock, Gerty, and the boat starts at seven! The doctor has knocked at our door."
"How soundly I have slept!" exclaimed Gertrude. "I wonder if it's a pleasant day."
"Beautiful!" replied Emily, "but very warm. The sun was shining so brightly that I had to close the blinds on account of the heat."
Gertrude made haste, but was not quite dressed when they were summoned to breakfast. She had trunks to lock, and therefore insisted upon the others preceding her to the breakfast-hall. The company was small, consisting only of two parties besides Dr. Jeremy's, and a few gentlemen, most of them business men. Of those who still lingered at the table when Gerty made her appearance, there was only one whom she particularly observed during the few moments allowed for breakfast.
This was a gentleman who sat at some distance from her, idly balancing his tea-spoon on the edge of his cup. He seemed quite at his leisure, and previous to Gertrude's entrance had won Mrs. Jeremy's animadversions by a slight propensity to make a more critical survey of her party than she found agreeable.
"Do, pray," said she to the doctor, "send the waiter to ask that man to take something himself; I can't bear to have anybody looking at me so when I'm eating!"
"He isn't looking at you, wife; it's Emily that has taken his fancy. Emily, my dear, there's a gentleman, over opposite, who admires you exceedingly."
"Is there?" said Emily, smiling, "I am very much obliged to him. May I venture to return the compliment?"
"Yes. He's a fine-looking fellow, though wife, here, doesn't seem to like him very well."
Gertrude now joined them, and, as she made her morning salutions to the doctor and his wife, and gaily apologised to the former for her tardiness, the fine colour which mantled her countenance, and the deep brilliancy of her eyes, drew affectionate admiration from the kind old couple, and were, perhaps, the cause of the stranger's attention being transferred from the lovely face of Emily to the more youthful and eloquent features of Gertrude. Taking her seat, she soon perceived the notice she was attracting. It embarrassed her, and she was glad to see, in a few minutes, the gentleman rise and depart. As he passed out, she had an opportunity of observing him, which she had not done while he sat opposite to her. He was above the middle height, slender, but finely formed, and of a dignified bearing. His features were rather sharp, but expressive, and even handsome; his dark eyes were most penetrating, while his compressed lips indicated strength of resolution and will.
His hair was peculiar; it was deeply tinged with grey, and in the vicinity of his temples, white. This was strikingly in contrast with the youthful fire of his eye, and the lightness of his step, that instead of seeming the effect of age, it enhanced the contradictory claims of his otherwise apparent youth and vigour.
"What a queer-looking man," exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy, when he had passed out.
"An elegant-looking man, isn't he?" said Gertrude.
"Elegant?" rejoined Mrs. Jeremy. "What! with that grey head?"
"I think it's beautiful," said Gertrude; "but I wish he didn't look so melancholy; it makes me quite sad to see him."
"How old should you think he was?" asked Dr. Jeremy.
"About fifty," said Mrs. Jeremy.
"About thirty," said Gertrude.
"A wide difference," remarked Emily. "Doctor, you must decide the point."
"Impossible! I wouldn't venture to tell that man's age within ten years, at least. Wife has got him old enough, certainly; perhaps I might see him as low as Gertrude's mark. Age never turnedhishair grey!—that is certain."
To travellers in the United States, a trip from Boston into New York state is an everyday affair, scarce worth calling a journey; but to Dr. Jeremy it was a momentous event, calling the good physician out of a routine of daily professional visits, which, for twenty years, had not been interrupted by a week's absence from home, and plunging him at once into that whirl of hurry, tumult, and excitement, which exists on all our great routes, especially in the summer season.
The doctor was by nature and habit a social being; never shrinking from intercourse with his fellow-men, but seeking and enjoying their companionship. He knew how to adapt himself to the taste of young and old, rich and poor, and was well acquainted with city life in all its forms. In the art of travelling, however, he was totally unversed.
Thankful were the party when they were safe on the steamboat; and were congratulating themselves and each other, when the doctor called from the other end of the saloon—"Come, come, wife—Gertrude, Emily! what are you staying down in this confined place for? you'll lose the best view;" and, coming toward them, he took Gertrude's arm, and would have hurried her away, leaving Mrs. Jeremy and Emily to follow; but Gertrude would not trust Emily to ascend the cabin-stairs under any guardianship but her own, and Mrs. Jeremy immediately engaged the doctor in an animated discussion as to the advisability of his adopting a straw hat, which the thoughtful wife had brought from home. By the time the question was settled, and Emily, at Gertrude's persuasion, had been induced to change her thin mantilla for a light travelling-cloak, the boat had proceeded some distance, and when our party gained the head of the stairs, and looked about them for seats on deck, not a single vacant bench was to be seen. There was a large number of passengers, nearly all of whom were collected at the stern of the boat. Dr. Jeremy went in search of chairs.
"Don't let us stay here," whispered Mrs. Jeremy to Gertrude and Emily. "Let's go right back before the doctor comes! There are beautiful great rocking-chairs down in the cabin, without a soul to sit in them, and I'm sure we ain't wanted here to make up a company. I hate to stand with all these people staring at us, and crowing to think they've got such nice places; don't you, Emily?" Mrs. Jeremy just then forgot that Emily could not see. But Gertrude never forgot it; and, as she stood with her arm lightly pressed around her friend's waist, to prevent the motion of the boat from throwing her off her balance, they attracted attention; the one so bright, erect, and strong with youth and health, that she seemed a fit protector for the other, who, in her sweet and gentle helplessness, leaned upon her so trustingly.
Here Mrs. Jeremy was interrupted by the salutation of Dr. Gryseworth, who insisted upon giving up his seat to Mrs. Jeremy; and another gentleman, till now unnoticed by our party, rose, and bowing politely, placed his own chair for Emily, and walked quickly away. It was the stranger whom they had seen at breakfast. Gertrude recognised his keen, dark eye, and his singular hair; and, as she thanked him, and placed Emily in the seat, she coloured under his earnest glance. But Dr. Gryseworth soon claimed her attention for the introduction to his daughters, and all thoughts of the retreating stranger were banished for the present.
The Misses Gryseworth were intelligent-looking girls; the eldest, lately returned from Europe, where she had been travelling with her father, was considered a very elegant and superior person, and Gertrude was charmed with the lady-like cordiality with which they both made her acquaintance, and still more with the sympathising attentions which they paid to Emily. By the time that Dr. Jeremy returned with a chair he found Gertrude and Dr. Gryseworth comfortably accommodated, and was thus enabled to sink at once into his seat, and into that state of easy unconcern which became his pleasant, genial temperament.
Long before the boat reached West Point, where the Jeremys were to land, an excellent understanding subsisted between Gertrude and the Misses Gryseworth. They had been about an hour in each other's society, when Netta Gryseworth, glancing towards another part of the boat, said in an undertone, "Ellen, do invite Mr. Phillips to come back and be introduced to Miss Flint!—see how lonesome the poor man looks."
Gertrude followed the direction of Netta's eye, and saw the stranger of the morning at some distance, slowly pacing up and down, with a serious and distracted air.
"He has not been near us for an hour," said Netta.
"I hope we have not frightened your friend away," said Gertrude.
"Oh, no, indeed!" replied Ellen. "Although Mr. Phillips is but a recent acquaintance, we have found him so independent, and sometimes so whimsical, that I am never astonished at being suddenly forsaken by him. There are some people, you know, for whom it is always sufficient excuse to say,It is their way. I wish he would condescend to join us again, however; I should like to introduce him to you, Miss Flint."
"You wouldn't like him," said Netta.
"Now, that is not fair, Netta!" said her sister, "to prejudice Miss Flint against my friend. You mustn't let her influence you," said she to Gertrude. "She hasn't known him half as long as I have; and I do not dislike him. My straightforward sister never likes odd people, and I must confess that Mr. Phillips is eccentric; but he interests me all the more on that account, and I am sure he and you would have many ideas and sentiments in common."
"How can you say so, Ellen?" said Netta. "I think they are totally different."
"You must consider Netta's remark complimentary, Miss Flint," said Ellen; "it would not be quite so much so if it had come from me."
"But you wished me to become acquainted with your oddity," said Gertrude. "I suspect you act on the principle that one's misfortunes should be shared by one's friends."
Netta laughed. "Not exactly," said she; "it was compassionfor himthat moved me. I can't help pitying him when he looks so home-sick, and I thought your society would brighten him up and do him good."
"Ah, Netta!" said her sister, "he has excited your sympathy, I see. A few days more, and I shouldn't be surprised if you went beyond me in your admiration of him. If so, take care, you transparent creature, not to betray your inconsistency." Then she said to Gertrude, "Netta met Mr. Phillips only yesterday and has not seemed very favourably impressed. Father and I were passengers in the same steamer in which he came from Liverpool a few weeks ago. He had an ill turn in the early part of the voyage, and it was in a professional way that father first made his acquaintance. I was surprised at seeing him on board to-day, for he mentioned no such intention yesterday."
Gertrude suspected that the young lady might herself be the cause of his journey; but she did not say so, and the conversation taking another turn, Mr. Phillips was not again adverted to, though Gertrude observed, just before the boat stopped at West Point, that Dr. Jeremy and Dr. Gryseworth had joined him, and that the trio were engaged in a colloquy which seemed to interest them all. At West Point, Gertrude parted from her new friends, who expressed a wish to meet in Saratoga.
Our travellers passed one night only at West Point. The weather continued hot, and Dr. Jeremy, perceiving that Emily drooped under the oppressive atmosphere, was desirous to reach the summit of Catskill Mountain before the coming Sabbath.
One solitary moonlight evening sufficed to give Gertrude some idea of the beauties of the place. She could not observe it in detail, only as a whole; but, thus presented in all the dreamy loveliness of a summer's night, it left on her mind a vague sentiment of wonder and delight at the surpassing sweetness of what seemed rather a glimpse of Paradise than an actual show of earth, so harmonious was the scene, so still, so peaceful. "Emily, darling," said she, as they stood together in a rustic arbour, commanding the most striking prospect both of the river and the shore, "it looks like you; you ought to live here and be the priestess of such a temple;" and, locking her hand in that of Emily, she poured into her ear the holy and elevated sentiments to which the time and the place gave birth.
At an early hour in the morning they steamed up the river. But West Point was hardly passed before Gertrude's watchful eye detected in Emily's countenance signs of weariness and debility. Sacrificing, without hesitation, the pleasure she was herself deriving from beautiful scenes through which the boat was passing, she proposed that they should seek the cabin, where Miss Graham might rest in greater stillness. But Emily would not listen to the proposal; would not think of depriving Gertrude of the pleasure she knew she must be experiencing.
"The prospect is all lost upon me now, Emily," said Gertrude. "I see only your tired face. Do go and lie down, if it be only to please me; you hardly slept at all last night."
"Are you talking of going below?" exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy. "I, for one, shall be thankful, too; it's as comfortable again, and we can see all we want to from the cabin windows; can't we, Emily?"
"Should you really prefer it?" inquired Emily.
"Indeed, I should!" said Mrs. Jeremy, with such emphasis that her sincerity could not be doubted.
"Then, if you will promise to stay here, Gertrude," said Emily, "I will go with Mrs. Jeremy."
Gertrude assented to the plan; but insisted upon first accompanying them, to find a vacant berth for Emily, and see her under circumstances which would promise repose. Emily was too weak to endure the noise on deck, and after she had laid down in the quiet saloon, Gertrude stood smoothing back her hair, and watching her pale countenance, until she was accused of violating the agreement, and was at last sent off by the good-natured doctor's lady, who declared herself perfectly well able to take care of Emily.
"You'd better make haste back," she said, "before you lose your seat; and, Gerty, don't let the doctor come near us; he'll be teasing us to go back again, and we shall not." Mrs. Jeremy untied her bonnet-strings, put her feet up in the opposite chair, clapped her hands at Gertrude, and bade her begone.
Gertrude ran off laughing, and a smile was on her face when she reached the staircase. As she came up with her quick and light step, a tall figure moved aside to let her pass. It was Mr. Phillips. He bowed, and Gertrude, returning the salutation, passed on to the place she had left, wondering how he came to be again their travelling companion. He could not have been on board previously to her going below with Emily.
Gertrude had sat about five minutes, when a shadow passed before her, and looking up, she betrayed a little confusion at again encountering a pair of eyes, whose magnetic gaze bewildered her. She was turning away, when the stranger spoke. "Good morning, young lady! our paths still lie in the same direction, I see. Will you honour me by making use of my guide-book?"
As he spoke he offered her a little book containing a map of the river, and the shores on either side. Gertrude took it, and thanked him. As she unfolded the map he stationed himself a few steps distant, and leaned over the railing, in an apparently absent state of mind; nor did he speak to her again for some minutes. Then, suddenly turning towards her, he said, "You like this very much?"
"Very much," said Gertrude.
"You have never seen anything so beautiful before in your life." He did not seem to question her; he spoke as if he knew.
"It is an old story to you, I suppose," said Gertrude.
"What makes you think so?" asked he, smiling.
Gertrude was disconcerted by his look, and still more by his smile; it changed his whole face so—it made him look so handsome, and yet so melancholy. She blushed and could not reply; he saved her the trouble. "That is hardly a fair question, is it? You probably think you have as much reason for your opinion as I had for mine. You are wrong, however; I never was here before; but I am too old a traveller to carry my enthusiasm in my eyes—as you do," added he, after a moment's pause, during which he looked her full in the face. Then seeming to perceive the embarrassment which his scrutiny of her features caused, he turned away, and a shadow passed over his fine countenance, lending it for a moment an expression of mingled bitterness and pathos, which served to disarm Gertrude's confusion.
Presently, taking a vacant chair next hers, he directed his attention to a beautiful country residence on their right, spoke of its former owner, whom he had met in a foreign land, and related some interesting anecdotes concerning a journey which they had taken together. This introduced other topics, chiefly connected with wanderings in countries almost unknown; and so rich and varied was the stranger's conversation, so graphic were his descriptions, so exuberant his imagination, and so powerful his command of words and his gift of expressing his thoughts, that his listener sat entranced with delight.
When Dr. Jeremy came in search of his young charge, conversation between her and the stranger had assumed so much ease and freedom that the doctor opened his eyes in astonishment, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaimed, "This is pretty well, I declare!"
Gertrude did not see the doctor approach, but looked up at the sound of his voice. Conscious of the surprise it must be to find her talking so familiarly with a stranger, she coloured slightly; but observing that her companion only smiled, she felt rather amused than embarrassed; and she began to feel confidence in her fellow-traveller, who rose, shook hands with Dr. Jeremy, to whom he had, the previous day, been introduced, and said, with perfect composure, "Will you have the kindness, sir, to present me to this lady? We have already had some conversation together, but do not yet know by what name we may address each other."
Dr. Jeremy having performed the ceremony of introduction, Mr. Phillips bowed gracefully, and looked at Gertrude in such a benignant, fatherly way, that she hesitated not to take his offered hand. He detained hers a moment while he said, "Do not be afraid of me when we meet again;" and then walked away, and paced slowly up and down the deck until passengers for Catskill were summoned to dinner, when he, Dr. Jeremy, and Gertrude went below. The doctor tried to rally Gertrude about her grey-headed beau, declaring that he was yet young and handsome, and that she could have his hair dyed any colour she pleased. But he could not succeed in annoying her in that way, for her interest in him, which she could not deny, was quite independent of his personal appearance.
The bustle, however, of dinner, and going on shore at Catskill, banished from the doctor's head all thought of everything except the safety of himself, his ladies, and their baggage.
Emily, whose nervous system was somewhat disordered, clung tremblingly to Gertrude; and Gertrude found herself, she knew not how, leaning on the arm of Mr. Phillips, to whose silent exertions they were both indebted for their safety in disembarking. Mrs. Jeremy was counting up the trunks, while her husband was loudly denouncing the steamboat, its conductors, and the whole hurrying, skurrying Yankee nation.
Two stage-coaches were waiting at the wharf to take passengers up the mountain, and before Dr. Jeremy had turned his back upon the river, Emily and Gertrude were placed in one of them by Mr. Phillips, who, without speaking, took this office upon himself, and then went to inform the doctor of their whereabouts, and the doctor and his wife soon joined them.
Before they had gained the road leading to the Mountain House, they became conscious of the vast difference between the temperature of the river and that of the inland country, and, in being suddenly deprived of the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed on board the boat, they fully realised the extreme heat of the weather. For the first few miles Gertrude's care was required to shield Emily and herself from the rays of the burning sun; and it was a great relief when they reached the beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the mountain. The atmosphere being clear, the gradually widening prospect was beautiful, and Gertrude's delight was such that the restraint imposed by stage-coach decorum was almost insupportable. When, therefore, the ascent became so laborious that the gentlemen alighted to relieve the weary horses, Gertrude gladly accepted Dr. Jeremy's proposal that she should accompany him on a walk of a mile or two.
Gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the active doctor soon left the coaches far behind. At a sudden turn in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the spot, when they were startled by hearing a voice, saying, "A fine landscape, certainly!"
It came from Mr. Phillips, seated upon a moss-grown rock, against which Gertrude was leaning. His attitude was easy and careless, his broad-brimmed straw hat lay on the ground, and his snow-besprinkled hair was tossed back from his high and expanded forehead. He immediately joined Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude.
"You have got the start of us, sir," said the former.
"Yes; I have walked from the village—my practice always when the roads are such that no time can be gained by riding."
As he spoke, he placed in Gertrude's hand, without looking at her, or seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich laurel blossoms. She would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that it afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking with the doctor, as if she had not been present.
All three resumed their walk. Mr. Phillips and Dr. Jeremy conversed in an animated manner, and Gertrude, content to be a listener, soon perceived that she was not the only person to whom the stranger had power to render himself agreeable. Dr. Jeremy engaged him upon a variety of subjects, upon all of which he appeared equally well informed; and Gertrude smiled to see her old friend rub his hands together—his mode of expressing satisfaction.
Gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to that science. Again, she was sure that geology must have been with him an absorbed study, so intimate seemed his acquaintance with mother earth; and both of these impressions were in turn dispelled when he talked of the ocean like a sailor, of the counting-house like a merchant, of Paris like a man of fashion and the world. In the meantime she walked beside him, silent but not unnoticed; for, as they approached a rough and steep ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should become fatigued. Dr. Jeremy declared his belief that Gerty could outwalk them both; and, thus satisfied, Mr. Phillips resumed the broken thread of their discourse, into which Gertrude was drawn almost unawares.
Mr. Phillips no longer seemed in Gertrude's eyes a stranger—he was a mystery, but not a forbidding one. She longed to learn the history of a life which many an incident of his own narrating proved to have been made up of strange and mingled experience; especially did her sympathetic nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated melancholy which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made his very smile a sorrowful thing. Dr. Jeremy, who shared her curiosity, asked a few questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's history; but in vain. Mr. Phillips' lips were sealed on the subject.
The doctor now felt very weary, and seating themselves by the roadside, they awaited the arrival of the coach. There had been a short silence, when the doctor, looking at Gertrude, remarked, "There will be no church for us to-morrow, Gerty."
"No church," exclaimed Gerty, gazing about her with a look of reverence; "howcanyou say so?"
Mr. Phillips smiled, and said in a peculiar tone, "There is no Sunday here, Miss Flint; it doesn't come up so high."
He spoke lightly—too lightly, Gertrude thought—and she replied with some seriousness and much sweetness, "I have often rejoiced that the Sabbath has been sentdowninto thelowerearth; the higher we go the nearer we come, I trust, to the eternal Sabbath."
Mr. Phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying. There was an expression about his mouth which Gertrude did not like; but she could not find it in her heart to reproach him for the slight sneer which his manner, rather than his look, implied; for as he gazed a moment or two into vacancy there was in his absent countenance such a look of sorrow that she could only pity and wonder. The coaches now came up, and, as he placed her in her former seat, he resumed his wonted serene and kind expression, and she felt convinced that it was only doing justice to his frank and open face to believe that nothing was hid behind it that would not do honour to the man.
An hour brought them to the Mountain House, and to their joy they were shown to some of the most excellent rooms the hotel afforded. As Gertrude stood at the window of the chamber allotted to herself and Emily, and heard the loud murmurs of some of her fellow-travellers who were denied any tolerable accommodation, she could not but be astonished at Dr. Jeremy's unusual good fortune. Emily, being greatly fatigued with the toilsome journey, had supper brought to her own room, and Gertrude partaking of it with her, neither of them sought other society that night, but at an early hour went to rest. The last thing that Gertrude heard before falling asleep was the voice of Dr. Jeremy saying, as he passed their door, "Take care, Gerty, and be up in time to see the sun rise."
But she was not up in time, nor was the doctor; neither of them had calculated upon the sun being such an early riser; and though Gertrude sprang up almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which banished regret at having overslept herself, since nothing, she thought, could be more glorious than that which now lay outspread before her.
Far out to the distant horizon nothing was to be seen but a sea of snowy clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower earth and hid it from view. Vast, solid, and of the most perfect whiteness, they stretched on every side, forming, as they lay in thick masses, between which not a crevice was discernible, an unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the earth. The foliage of the oaks, the pines, and the maples, which had found root in this lofty region, was rich in varied hues, and tame and fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches. Gertrude gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and go out upon the platform.
She was soon joined by Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy, the former full of life, and dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance proclaimed how unwillingly she had forgone her morning nap. The doctor rubbed his hands as they joined Gertrude. "Very fine, this, Gerty! A touch beyond anything I had calculated upon," Gertrude turned upon him her beaming eyes, but did not speak.
The doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which they stood, placed his hands beneath his coat tails, and indulged in a soliloquy, made up of short exclamations and interjectional phrases, expressive of his approbation.
"Why, this looks queer, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Jeremy, rubbing her eyes, and gazing about her; "but I daresay it would be just so an hour or two hence. I don't see what the doctor would make me get up so early for." Then she darted forward, exclaiming, "Dr. Jeremy, for mercy's sake, don't stand so near the edge of that precipice! Why, are you crazy, man? You frighten me to death! You'll fall over and break your neck!"
Finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, Mrs. Jeremy grew so disturbed by his dangerous position that, looking most imploringly at Gertrude, she begged her to get the doctor away, for the poor man was so venturesome he would surely be killed.
"Suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house," suggested Gertrude; "it looks attractive."
"So it does," said Mrs. Jeremy; "beautiful little shady path. Come, doctor, Gerty and I are going to walk up here—come!"
The doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed.
"Ah!" said he, "that is the path the man at the office spoke about; it leads up to the pine gardens. We'll climb up, by all means, and see what sort of a place it is."
Gertrude led the way, all walking in single file, for the path was a mere foot-track. The ascent was very steep, and they had not proceeded far before Mrs. Jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue, stopped short, and declared her inability to reach the top; she would not have come if she had known what a hard hill she would have to climb. Encouraged and assisted by her husband and Gertrude, she was induced to make a further attempt; and they had gone on some distance, when Gertrude, who was some steps in advance, heard Mrs. Jeremy give a slight scream. She looked back; the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the picture of consternation, was trying to pass him and retrace her steps down the hill.
"What is the matter?" asked Gertrude.
"Matter!" cried Mrs. Jeremy; "why, this hill is covered with rattlesnakes; and here we are all going up to be bitten to death!"
"No such thing, Gerty!" said the doctor, still laughing. "I only told her there had been one killed here this summer, and now she's making it an excuse for turning back."
"I don't care!" said the good-natured lady, half laughing herself, in spite of her fears; "if there's been one, there may be another; and I won't stay a minute longer! I thought it was a bad enough place before, and now I am going down faster than I came up."
Finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her, calling to Gertrude and assuring her there was no danger, and begging her wait for him at the top of the hill, where he would join her after he left his wife in safety at the hotel. Gertrude, therefore, went on alone. For the first few yards she looked about her, and thought of rattlesnakes; but the path was so well worn that she felt sure it must be often trod, and was probably safe; and the beauty of the place engrossed all her attention. After active climbing, she reached the highest point of ground, and found herself once more on the elevated platform, from which she could look forth upon the unbroken sea of clouds.
She seated herself at the foot of an immense pine-tree, removed her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise; and she inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze. She had sat thus but a moment when a slight rustling noise startled her; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was springing to her feet; but hearing a low sound, as of some one breathing, turned her eyes in the direction from which it came, and saw, only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep. She went towards it with a careful step, and before she could see the face, the large straw hat and the long, blanched, wavy hair betrayed the identity of the individual. Mr. Phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his head was pillowed upon his arm, his eyes were closed, and his attitude denoted perfect repose. Gertrude stood still and looked at him. As she did so, his countenance suddenly changed; the peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy look which had at first excited her sympathy. His lips moved, and in his dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, "No! no! no!" each time that he repeated the word pronouncing it with more emphasis; then wildly throwing one arm above his head he let it fall heavily upon the ground, and, the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simply words, "Oh, dear!" much as a grieved and tired child might do as he leans his head upon his mother's knee.
Gertrude was deeply touched. She forgot that he was a stranger; she only saw a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair, open forehead; she leaned over him, brushed it away, and, as she did so, one of her tears fell upon his cheek. He awoke, and looked full in the face of the embarrassed girl, who started, and would have hastened away; but, leaning on his elbow, he caught her hand and detained her. He gazed at her a moment without speaking; then said, in a grave voice, "My child, did you shed that tear for me?"
She did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening with the dew of sympathy.
"I believe youdid," said he, "and from my heart I bless you! But never again weep for a stranger. You will have woes enough of your own if you live to be my age."
"If I had not had sorrows," said Gertrude, "I should not know how to feel for others; if I had not often wept for myself I should not weep now for you."
"But you are happy?"
"Yes."
"Some find it easy to forget the past."
"Ihave not forgotten it."
"Children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more than a child."
"Ineverwas a child," said Gertrude.
"Strange girl!" soliloquised her companion. "Will you sit down and talk with me a few minutes?"
Gertrude hesitated.
"Do not refuse; I am an old man, and very harmless. Take a seat here under this tree, and tell me what you think of the prospect."
Gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old man, and calling her a child; but, old or young, she had it not in her heart to fear him, or refuse his request. She sat down, and he seated himself beside her, but did not speak of the prospect, or of anything, for a moment or two; then turning to her abruptly, he said, "So you never were unhappy in your life?"
"Never?" exclaimed Gertrude. "Oh, yes; often."
"But never long?"
"Yes, I can remember whole years when happiness was a thing I had never even dreamed of."
"But comfort came at last. What do you think of those to whom it never comes?"
"I know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them."
"What can you do for them?"
"Hopefor them—prayfor them!" said Gertrude, with a voice full of feeling.
"What if they be past hope—beyond the influence of prayer?"
"There are no such," said Gertrude, with decision.
"Do you see," said Mr. Phillips, "this curtain of thick clouds, now overshadowing the world? Even so many a heart is weighed down and overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness."
"But the light shines brightly above the clouds," said Gertrude.
"Above! well, that may be; but what avails it to those who see it not?"
"It is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the mountain-top; but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which brings himabove the clouds," replied Gertrude, with enthusiasm.
"Few ever find the road that leads so high," responded her melancholy companion; "and those who do cannot live long in so elevated an atmosphere. They must come down from their height, and again dwell among the common herd; again mingle in the warfare with the mean, the base, and the cruel."
"But they have seen the glory; they know that the light is ever burning on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce the gloom at last. See, see," said she, her eyes glowing with the fervour with which she spoke—"even now the heaviest clouds are parting; the sun will soon light up the valley!"
She pointed as she spoke to a wide fissure which was gradually disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on either side, and then turned to the stranger to see if he observed the change; but, with the same smile upon his unmoved countenance, he was watching, not the display of nature in the distance, but that close at his side. He was gazing with intense interest upon the young and ardent worshipper of the beautiful and the true; and, in studying her features and observing the play of her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed that Gertrude—believing he was not listening to her words, but had fallen into one of his absent moods—ceased speaking, rather abruptly, and was turning away, when he said——
"Go on, happy child! Teachme, if you can, to see the world tinged with the rosy colouring it wears foryou; teach me to love and pity as you do that miserable thing calledman. I warn you that you have a difficult task, but you seem to be very hopeful."
"Do you hate the world?" asked Gertrude, with straightforward simplicity.
"Almost," was Mr. Phillips' answer.
"Ididonce," said Gertrude, musingly.
"And will again, perhaps."
"No, that would be impossible; it has been a good foster mother to its orphan child, and now I love it dearly."
"Have they been kind to you?" asked he, with eagerness. "Have heartless strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for them?"
"Heartless strangers!" exclaimed Gertrude, the tears rushing to her eyes. "Oh, sir, I wish you could have known my Uncle True, and Emily, dear, blind Emily! you would think better of the world for their sakes."
"Tell me about them," said he, and he looked fixedly down into the precipice which yawned at his feet.
"There is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor, and the other wholly blind; and yet they made everything rich, and bright, and beautiful to me—a poor, desolate, injured child."
"Injured! Then you acknowledge that you had previously met with wrong and injustice?"
"I!" exclaimed Gertrude; "my earliest recollections are only of want, suffering, and much unkindness."
"And these friends took pity on you?"
"Yes. One became an earthly father to me, and the other taught me where to find a heavenly one."
"And ever since then you have been free and light as air, without a wish or care in the world."
"No, indeed, I did not say so—I do not mean so," said Gertrude. "I have had to part from Uncle True, and to give up other dear friends, some for years and some forever; I have had many trials, many lonely, solitary hours, and even now am oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and dread."
"How, then, so cheerful and happy?" asked Mr. Phillips.
Gertrude had risen, for she saw Dr. Jeremy approaching. She smiled at Mr. Phillips' question; and after looking into the deep valley beneath her, gave him a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent tone, "I see the gulf yawning beneath me, but I lean upon the Rock of Ages."
Gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one anxiety and dread oppressed her; for, mingled with a fear lest the time was fast approaching when Emily would be taken from her, she had of late been grieved by the thought that Willie Sullivan, towards whom her heart yearned with more than a sister's love, was forgetting the friend of his childhood, or ceasing to regard her with the love of former years. It was now some months since she had received a letter from India; the last was short, and written in a haste which Willie apologised for on the score of business duties; and Gertrude was compelled unwillingly to admit the chilling presentiment that, now that his mother and grandfather were no more, the ties which bound the exile to his native home were sensibly weakened.
Nothing would have induced her to hint, even to Emily, a suspicion of neglect on Willie's part; nothing would have shocked her more than hearing such neglect imputed to him by another; and still, in the depths of her heart, she sometimes mused with wonder upon his long silence, and his strange diminution of intercourse between herself and him. During several weeks, in which she had received no tidings, she had still continued to write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have reached him by every mail. What, then, but illness or indifference could excuse his never replying to her faithfully-despatched missives?
Dr. Jeremy's approach was the signal for hearty congratulations between himself and Mr. Phillips; the doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright Sabbath morning in the mountains; and Mr. Phillips, compelled to exert himself and conceal the gloom which weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease, and even playfulness, which astonished Gertrude, who walked back to the house wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. She did not see him at breakfast, and at dinner he sat at some distance from Dr. Jeremy's party, and merely gave a graceful salutation to Gertrude as she left the dining-hall.
The Jeremys stayed two days longer at the Mountain House; the invigorating air benefited Emily, who appeared stronger than she had done for weeks past, and was able to take many a little stroll in the neighborhood of the house. Gertrude was never weary of the glorious prospect; and an excursion which she and the doctor made on foot to the cleft in the heart of the mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a distance of two hundred feet into the valley below, furnished the theme for many a descriptive reverie, of which Emily reaped a part of the enjoyment. They saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had disappeared. Dr. Jeremy inquired of their host concerning him, and learned that he left at an early hour on Monday, and took up a pedestrian course down the mountain. The doctor was disappointed, for he liked Mr. Phillips much, and had flattered himself, from some particular inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route, that he had an idea of attaching himself to their party.
"Never mind, Gertie," said he, "I daresay we shall come across him yet some time when we least expect it."