The Lamplighter Part 47

"Why?" asked Netta. "Is he very agreeable? Is he supposed to be the favoured one?"

"I should think there was no doubt of it," answered Mr. Petrancourt. "I believe it is generally thought to be an engagement. He was in Paris with them during the spring, and they all came home in the same steamer.

Everybody knows it is the wish of Mr. Clinton's heart, and Miss Isabel makes no secret of her preference."

"Oh, certainly," interposed Mrs. Pentracourt; "it is an understood thing."

What became of Gertrude all this time? Could she, who for six years had nursed the fond idea that to Willie she was, and should still continue to be, all in all--could she stand patiently by and hear him thus disposed of and given to another? She did do it; not consciously, however, for her head swam round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of Mr. Phillips, who held her arm so tightly that, though he felt, the rest could not see how she trembled. Fortunately, too, none but he saw her blanched face; and, as she stood in the shadow, he alone was watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, the death-like pallor of her countenance.

Standing there with her heart beating, and almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened, heard, and comprehended every word. She could not, however, have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more accident might have betrayed her excited condition. But Mr.

Phillips acted, spoke, and moved for her, and she was spared an exposure from which her sensitive spirit would have shrunk.

"Mr. Sullivan!" said he. "Ah! a fine fellow; I know him. Miss Gertrude, I must tell you an anecdote about that young man;" and moving forward in the direction in which they had been walking when they met the party from the concert, he related that he and Mr. Sullivan were, a few years previous, travelling across an Arabian desert, when the latter proved of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering tribe of Bedouins. He stopped in his narration and perceived that all danger of observation was pa.s.sed, and without ceremony placed her in an arm-chair just by. "Sit here," said he, "while I bring you a gla.s.s of water." He wrapped her mantle tightly about her and walked quickly away.

Oh, how Gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerately leaving her and giving her time to recover herself! It was the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindest. He saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she would soon rally her powers.

When here returned she was perfectly calm. She tasted the water, but he did not urge her to drink it; he knew she did not require it. "I have kept you out too long," said he; "come, you had better go in now."

She rose; he put her arm once more through his, guided her feeble steps to a window which opened into her and Emily's room; and then, pausing a moment, said in a meaning tone, at the same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing eye, "You exhort me, Miss Gertrude, to have faith in everybody; but I bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest you believe too much. Where you have good foundation for confidence, abide by it, if you can, firmly, but trust nothing which you have not fairly tested, and rest a.s.sured that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy of credit. Good night." What an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned Gertrude! They came to her with all the force of a prophecy, and struck deep into her heart.

During their long and regular correspondence no letter had come from Willie that did not breathe a devoted affection for Gertrude--an exclusive affection, in which there could be no rivalship. All his thoughts of home and future happy days were inseparably a.s.sociated with her; and although Mrs. Sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was one of her characteristics, never broached the subject to Gertrude, her whole treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. The bold declaration on Willie's part, conveyed in the letter received by Gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his prayers, his labours were now all for her, was not a more convincing proof of the tender light in which he regarded her than all their previous intercourse had been. Should Gertrude, then, distrust him? Should she at once set aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence to his prompt desertion of his early friend? No! she resolved to banish the unworthy thought; to cherish still the firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself which would yet satisfy her aching heart.

Gertrude continued during the remainder of the evening in an elevated frame of mind, and she was able to go back to the drawing-room for Emily, say good night to her friends with a cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and went quietly to sleep. But this calmness of mind, however, was the result of strong excitement, and therefore could not last. The next morning she yielded to depressed spirits, and the effort which she made to rise, dress, and go to breakfast was almost mechanical. She excused herself from her customary walk with the doctor, for to that she felt unequal. Her first wish was to leave Saratoga; she longed to go home, to be in a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her; and when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it, and said, smilingly, "None for you, Gerty; but one for Emily, which is the next best thing, I suppose."

To Gertrude this was the _very_ best thing, for it was a long-expected letter from Mr. Graham, who had arrived at New York, and desired them to join him there the following day. Gertrude could hardly conceal her satisfaction, and Emily, delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, was eager to prepare for leaving.

They retired to their own room, and Gertrude's time until dinner was occupied in packing. During the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously hoping that Willie would make his appearance at their hotel; now she dreaded such an event. To meet him in so public a manner, too, as must here be inevitable, would be insupportable; she would prefer to be in Boston when he should first recognize her; and, if she tormented herself yesterday with the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day.

She was therefore relieved when, after dinner, Mr. Phillips proposed to drive to the lake. Dr. Gryseworth and one of his daughters had agreed to take seats in a carriage he had provided, and he hoped she would not refuse to occupy the fourth.

At the lake Dr. Gryseworth and his daughter Ellen had been persuaded by a party whom they had met there to engage in bowling. Mr. Phillips and Gertrude declined taking part, and stood looking on. As they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of water, a couple approached and took up a position near them. Mr. Phillips was screened from their observation by the trunk of a tree, and Gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, yet the paleness of her face as they drew near indicated that she saw and recognized William Sullivan and Isabel Clinton. The words which they spoke fell distinctly upon her ear. "Shall I then be so much missed?"

asked Isabel, looking earnestly into the face of her companion, who, with a serious air, was gazing out upon the water.

"Missed!" replied he, turning towards her and speaking in a slightly reproachful voice; "how can it be otherwise? Who can supply your place?"

"But it will be only two days."

"A short time under ordinary circ.u.mstances," said Willie, "but an eternity----" He here checked himself and made a sudden motion to proceed on their walk. Isabel followed him, saying, "But you will wait here until my return?"

He turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look of his features was visible to Gertrude as he said, with earnestness, "Certainly; can you doubt it?" The strange, fixed, unnatural expression of Gertrude's countenance as she listened to this conversation, to her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness.

"Gertrude!" exclaimed Mr. Phillips, after watching her for a moment; "Gertrude, for Heaven's sake do not look so! Speak, Gertrude! What is the matter?"

But she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that stony face; she evidently did not hear him. He took her hand. It was cold as marble. His face now wore an appearance of distress almost equal to her own; great tears rolled down his cheeks. Once he stretched forth his arms as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a little child, but he repressed the emotion. "Gertrude," said he, leaning forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers, "what have these people done to you? Why do you care for them? If that young man has injured you--the rascal!--he shall answer for it;" and he sprung to his feet. The words and the action brought Gertrude to herself. "No, no!" said she, "he is not that. I am better now. Do not speak of it; don't tell," and she looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling-alley. "I am a great deal better;" and to his astonishment--for the fearful, rigid look upon her face had frightened him--she rose with composure and proposed going home.

He accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way up the hill, where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of their party, driving toward Saratoga. During the whole drive and the evening which followed Gertrude preserved this same unnatural composure.

Once or twice before they reached the hotel Dr. Gryseworth asked her if she felt ill. The very tones of her voice were constrained--so much so that Emily asked, "What is the matter, my dear child?"

But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties of the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and arranged with the Gryseworths to see them in the morning.

Emily was the more troubled of the two, for she could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole demeanour, the better concealed sufferings of Gertrude. Gertrude neither knew at the time, nor could afterwards recall, one-half the occurrences of that evening. She never could understand what it was that sustained her and enabled her, half unconsciously, to perform her part in them. How she so successfully concealed her misery she never could comprehend or explain.

That Willie was faithless to his first love she could not doubt; and with this conviction she realised that the stay of her life had fallen.

Uncle True and Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was still a dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or less dependent upon Gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the a.s.surance of their love, two had, long before they pa.s.sed away, come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm; and the other trusted to her to guide her uncertain steps, but those steps were tending downwards to the grave. Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lean? To whom could she with confidence turn for counsel, protection, support, and love? To whom but Willie? And Willie had given his heart to another--and Gertrude would soon be left alone! No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself sick, faint, and exhausted. And then she thought she heard voices, as in her childhood, whispering, "Gerty!--Gerty!--poor little Gerty!" She sank upon her knees, her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet resignation of her countenance gave evidence that in her prayer to G.o.d her soul held deep communion with its Maker, and once more her spirit was uttering the simple words, "Here am I, Lord!"

Oh, blessed religion, which can sustain the heart in such an hour as this! Oh, blessed faith and trust which, when earthly support fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its G.o.d!

And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and sees Emily, whom she believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety and the sobs of Gertrude banished slumber, is standing by her side.

"Gertrude," said she, "are you in trouble, and did you seek to hide it from me? Do not turn from me, Gertrude!" and, throwing her arms around her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, "Tell me all, my darling! What is the matter with my poor child?"

And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to her the only secret she had ever kept from her; and Emily wept as she listened, and when Gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart, exclaiming with an excitement which Gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually placid blind girl, "Strange, strange, that you, too, should be thus doomed! Oh, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is less bitter than mine!"

And then in the darkness of that midnight hour was Gertrude's confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty years before had blighted Emily's youth, and which was still vivid to her recollection casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her blindness was but a single feature.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

A TALE OF SORROW.

"I was younger than you, Gertrude," said she, "when my trial came, and hardly the same person in any respect that I have been since you first knew me. My mother died when I was too young to retain any recollection of her; but my father soon married again, and in that step-parent I found a love and care which fully compensated my loss. I can recall her now as she looked towards the latter part of her life--a tall, delicate, feeble woman, with a very sweet face. She was a widow when my father married her, and had one son, who became my sole companion, the partner of all my youthful pleasures. You told me, many years ago, that I could not imagine how much you loved Willie, and I then had nearly confided to you my early history, and to convince you that my own experience taught me how to understand such a love; but I checked myself, for you were too young then to know so sad a story as mine. How dear my young playmate became to me no words can express. The office which each filled, the influence which each of us exerted upon the other, created mutual dependence; for though his was the leading spirit, the strong and determined will, and I was ever submissive to a rule which to my easily influenced nature was never irksome, there was one respect in which my bold young protector and ruler ever looked to me for aid. It was to act as mediator between him and my father; for while the boy was almost an idol to his mother, he was ever treated with coldness and distrust by my father, who never appreciated his n.o.ble qualities, but seemed always to regard him with dislike.

"That my father's sternness towards her son was distressing to our mother I doubt not; for I remember the anxiety with which she strove to conceal his faults and the frequent occasions on which she instructed me to propitiate the parent, who, for my sake, would often forgive the boy, whose adventurous disposition was continually bringing him into collision with one of whose severity, when displeased, you can judge. My step-mother had been poor in her widowhood, and her child having inherited nothing which he could call his own, was wholly dependent upon my father's bounty. This was a stinging cause of mortification to the pride of which even as a boy he had an unusual share; and often have I seen him irritated at the reception of favours which he well understood were far from being awarded by a paternal hand.

"While our mother was spared to us we lived in comparative harmony, but when I was sixteen years old she suddenly died. Well do I remember the last night of her life, her calling me to her bedside and saying, 'Emily, my dying prayer is that you will be a guardian angel to my boy!'

G.o.d forgive me," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the tearful blind girl, "if I have been faithless in the trust!

"He of whom I am telling you was then about eighteen. He had lately become a clerk in my father's employ against his will, for he desired a collegiate education; but my father was determined, and at his mother's and my persuasion he was induced to submit. My step-mother's death knit the tie between her son and myself more closely than ever. He continued an inmate of our house, and we pa.s.sed a deal of time in the enjoyment of each other's society; for my father was much from home, and when there, retired to his library, leaving us to entertain each other. I was then a school-girl, fond of books, and an excellent student. How often, when you have spoken of the help Willie was in your studies, have I been reminded of the time when I received similar encouragement and aid from my youthful friend, who was ever ready to exert hand and brain in my behalf! But we were not invariably happy. Often did my father's face wear a frown which I dreaded to see; while the disturbed and occasionally angry countenance of his step-son denoted that some storm had occurred, probably at the counting-house, of which I had no knowledge, except from its after effects. My office of mediator, too, was suspended from the fact that the censure arose concerning some supposed mismanagement of business matters by the young and inexperienced clerk. Matters went on thus for six months, when it became evident that my father had either been influenced by insinuations from some foreign quarter, or had himself conceived a new idea. He is honest and straightforward in his purposes, whatever they may be, and incapable of carrying out any species of artifice. We saw that he was resolved to put a check upon the freedom of intercourse which had subsisted between the two youthful inmates of the house, to forward which purpose he introduced in the position of housekeeper Mrs. Ellis, who has continued with us ever since. The almost constant presence of this stranger, and the interference of my father with his step-son's familiar intimacy with me, indicated his intention to destroy the closeness of our friendship.

"It is true, I lent myself unhesitatingly to a species of petty deception to elude the vigilance which would have kept us apart. My father, however, saw more of our man[oe]uvring than we were aware of, and imagined far more than ever in reality existed. He watched us carefully, and, contrary to his usual course of proceeding, forbore for a time any interference. I have since been led to think that he designed to wean us from each other in a less unnatural manner than that which he had at first attempted, by taking the earliest opportunity to transfer his step-son to a situation connected with his own mercantile establishment in a foreign country, or a distant part of our own; and forbore, until his plans were ripe, to distress me by giving way to the feelings of displeasure which were burning within him--for he was, and had ever been, as kind and indulgent towards his undeserving child as was consistent with a due maintenance to his authority.

"Before such a course could be carried out, however, circ.u.mstances occurred, and suspicions became aroused, which destroyed one of their victims, and plunged the other----"

Here Emily's voice failed her. She laid her head upon Gertrude's shoulder and sobbed bitterly.

"Do not try to tell me the rest, dear Emily," said Gertrude. "It is enough for me to know that you are so unhappy. Do not distress yourself by dwelling, for my sake, upon past sorrows."

"Past!" replied Emily, recovering her voice and wiping away her tears. "No, they are never past. Nor am I unhappy, Gertrude. It is but rarely that my peace is shaken; nor would I now allow my weak nerves to be unstrung by imparting to another the secrets of that never-to-be-forgotten time of trial, were it not that, since you know so well how harmoniously and sweetly my life is pa.s.sing on to its great and eternal awakening, I desire to prove to my darling child the power of that heavenly faith which has turned my darkness into marvellous light, and made afflictions such as mine the blessed harbingers of ever-during joy.

"I was suddenly taken ill with a fever. Mrs. Ellis, whom I had always treated with coldness, and often with disdain, nursed me by night and day with a care and devotion which I did not expect, and under her nursing, and the skilful treatment of Dr. Jeremy, I began to recover.

One day, when I was able to be up and dressed for several hours at a time, I went for change of air and scene into my father's library, and there lay half reclining upon the sofa. Mrs. Ellis had gone to attend to household duties, but before she left me she placed within my reach a small table, upon which were arranged various phials, gla.s.ses, etc., and other things which I might require before her return. It was in an evening in June, and I lay watching the approach of sunset from an opposite window. I was oppressed, with a sad sense of loneliness, for during the past six weeks I had enjoyed no society but that of my nurse and periodical visits from my father; and felt, therefore, no common pleasure when my most congenial but now nearly forbidden a.s.sociate entered the room. He had not seen me since my illness, and after this protracted and painful separation our meeting was tender and affectionate. He had, with all the fire of a hot and ungoverned temper, a woman's depth of feeling, warmth of heart, and sympathising sweetness of manner. Well do I remember the expression of his n.o.ble face, the manly tones of his voice, as, seated beside me on the wide couch, he bathed the temples of my aching head with eau-de-cologne, which he took from the table near by, at the same time expressing again and again his joy at once more seeing me.

"How long we had sat thus I cannot tell, but the twilight was deepening in the room when we were suddenly interrupted by my father, who entered abruptly, came towards us with hasty steps, but stopping short when within a yard or two, confronted his step-son with such a look of angry contempt as I had never before seen upon his face. The latter rose and stood before him with a glance of proud defiance, and then ensued a scene which I have neither the wish nor power to describe.

"It is sufficient to say that in the double accusation which my excited parent now brought against the object of his wrath, he urged the fact of his seeking by mean, base, and contemptible artifice to win the affections, and with them the expected fortune, of his only child as a secondary and pardonable crime compared with his deeper, darker, and just but detected guilt of forgery--forgery of a large amount, and upon his benefactor's name.

"To this day, so far as I know," said Emily, with feeling, "that charge remains uncontradicted; but I did not then, I do not now, and I never _can_ believe it. Whatever were his faults--and his impetuous temper betrayed him into many--of this dark crime--though I have not even his own word of attestation--I dare p.r.o.nounce him innocent.