 CHAPTER 40 When low, arrayed in robes of light, a nymph celestial came. She cleared the mists that dimmed my sight. Religion was her name. She proved the chastisement divine, and bade me kiss the rod. She taught this rebel heart of mine submission to its God. Anna Moore. 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. You are aware, perhaps, that my mother died when I was too young to retain any recollection of her. But my father soon married again, and in this step-parent, whom I remember with as much tenderness as if she had been my own mother, I found a love and care which fully compensated for 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, but rather sad face. She was a widow when my father married her, and had one son, who became at once 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 was then on the point of confiding to you a part of my early history, and convincing you that my own experience might well have taught me how to understand such a love. But I checked myself, for you were too young then to be burdened with the knowledge of so sad a story as mine, and I kept silent. 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, was such as to create mutual dependence. For though his was the leading spirit, the strong and determined will, and I was ever submissive to a role 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 and support. 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 understood or appreciated his many noble qualities, that seemed always to regard him with an eye of suspicion and dislike. To my supplicating looks and intriguing words, however, he ever lent a willing ear, and all my eloquence was sure to be at the service of my companion when he had a favour to obtain or an excuse to plead. That my father's sternness towards her son was a great cause of unhappiness to our mother, I can have no doubt, for I well remembered the anxiety with which she strove to conceal his fats and misdemeanours, and the frequent occasions on which she herself instructed me how to propitiate the parent, who for my sake would often forgive the boy, whose bold, adventurous, independent disposition was continually bringing him into collision with one of whose severity, when displeased, you have yourself had some opportunity to judge. My stepmother had been extremely 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 and trial to the pride of which even as a boy he had an unusual share, and often have I seen him chafed and irritated at the reception of favours which he well understood were far from being awarded by a paternal hand. My father in the meantime, who did not understand this feeling, mentally accusing him of gross ingratitude. As long as our mother was spared to us, we lived in comparative harmony, but at last, when I was just sixteen years old, she was stricken with sudden illness and died. Well do I remember the last night of her life, her calling me to the bedside, and saying, in a solemn voice, Emily, my dying prayer is that you will be a guardian angel to my boy. God forgive me, ejaculated the now tearful blind girl, if I have been faithless to the trust. He of whom I am telling you, for Emily carefully forebored to mention his name, was then about eighteen. He had lately become a clerk in my father's counting room, much against his will, for he earnestly desired a college at education. But my father was determined, and at his mother's, and my persuasion, he was induced to submit. My stepmother's death knit the tie between her son and myself more closely than ever. He still continued an inmate of our house, and we passed all the time that he could be spared from the office, in the enjoyment of each other's society. For my father was much from home, and when there, usually shot himself up in his library, leaving us to entertain each other. I was then a schoolgirl, fond of books, and an excellent student. How often, when you have spoken of the assistance Willie was to you in your studies, have I been reminded of the time when I too, received similar encouragement and aid from my own youthful companion and friend, who was ever ready to exert hand and brain in my behalf? We were not invariably happy, however. Often did my father's face wear that stern expression which I most dreaded to see, while the excited, disturbed, and occasionally angry countenance of his stepson, denoted plainly that some storm had occurred, probably at the counting-room, of which I had no knowledge, except from its after-effects. My office of mediate, or two, was suspended, from the fact that the difficulties which arose were usually concerning some real or supposed neglect or mismanagement of business matters on the part of the young and inexperienced clerk. A species of faults with which my father, a most thorough merchant and exact accountant, had very little patience, and to which the careless and un-business-like delinquent was exceedingly prone. My office went on thus for about six months, when it suddenly became evident that my father had either been powerfully influenced by insinuations from some foreign quarter, or had himself suddenly conceived a new and alarming idea. He is, as you are aware, a plain man, honest and straightforward in his purposes, whatever they may be, and even if it occurred to him to maneuver, incapable of carrying out successfully, or with tact, any species of artifice. Our eyes could not therefore long be close to the fact that he was resolved to put an immediate check upon the freedom of intercourse which had hitherto subsisted between the two youthful inmates of his house. To forward which purpose he immediately introduced into the family, in the position of housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis, who has continued with us ever since. The almost constant presence of this stranger, together with the sudden interference of my father, with such of our long-established customs as favored his stepson's familiar intimacy with me, sufficiently proved his intention to uproot and destroy, if possible, the closeness of our friendship. Nor was it surprising, considering the circumstance that I had already reached the period of womanhood, and the attachment between us could no longer be considered a childish one, while any other might be expected to draw forth my father's disapproval, since his wife's idolized son was as far as ever from being a favorite with him. My distress at these proceedings was only equalled by the indignation of my companion in suffering, whom no previous conduct on my father's part had ever angered as this did, nor did the scheme succeed in separating him from me, for while he on every possible occasion avoided the presence of that spy, as he termed Mrs. Ellis, his inventive genius continually contrived opportunities of seeing and conversing with me in her absence. A course of behavior calculated to give still greater coloring to my father's suspicions. I am convinced that he was mainly actuated to this course by a deep sense of unkindness and injustice, and a desire to manifest his independence of what he considered unwarrantable tyranny. Nor have I reasoned to believe that the idea of romance, or even future marriage with myself, entered it all into his calculations, and I, who at that time knew, or at least was influenced by no higher law than his will, lent myself unhesitatingly to a species of petty deception, to clude the vigilance which would have kept us apart. My father, however, as is frequently the case with people of his unsocial temperament and apparent obtuseness of observation, saw more of our maneuvering 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, for bore 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 first attempted, by availing himself of the earliest opportunity to transfer his stepson to a situation connected with his own mercantile establishment, either in a foreign country or a distant part of our own, and for bore until his plans were ripe to distress and grieve me by giving way to the feelings of annoyance and displeasure which were burning within him, for he was and had ever been as kind and indulgent toward his undeserving child as was consistent with the due maintenance of his authority. Before such a course could be carried out, however, circumstances 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 make yourself wretched by dwelling, for my sake, upon sorrows that are past. Past, replied Emily, recovering her voice and wiping away her tears. No, they are never past. It is only because I am so little want to speak of them that they overcome me now. 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 passing on to its great and eternal awakening, I desired to prove to my darling child the power of that heavenly faith which has turned my darkness into marvelous light, and made affliction such as mine the blessed harbingers of final joy. But I have not much more to tell, and that shall be in as few words as possible. She then went on, in a firm, though low, and suppressed voice. I was suddenly taken ill with a fever, Mrs. Ellis, whom I had always treated with coldness, and often with disdain, for you must remember I was a spoiled child, nursed me by night and day with a care and devotion which I had no right to expect at her hands, and under her watchful attendance, and the skillful treatment of our good Dr. Jeremy, even then the family physician. I began after some weeks to recover. One day, when I was sufficiently well to be up and dressed for several hours at a time, I went for change of air and scene into my father's library, the room next to my own, and there quite alone lay half-reclining upon the sofa. Mrs. Ellis had gone to attend to household duties, but before she left me she brought from the adjoining chamber, and placed within my reach a small table, upon which were arranged various files, glasses, etc., and among them everything which I could possibly require before her return. It was towards the latter part of an afternoon 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, together with periodical visits from my father, and felt therefore no common satisfaction and pleasure when my most congenial, but now nearly forbidden associate unexpectedly entered the room. He had not seen me since my illness, and after this unusually protracted and painful separation, our meeting was proportionately tender and affectionate. He had all the fire of a hot and ungoverned temper, a woman's depth of feeling warmed of heart, and sympathizing sweetness of manner. Well do I remember the expression of his noble face, the manly tones of his voice. As seated beside me on the wide couch, he bathed the temples of my aching head with cologne, which he took from the table nearby, 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 folded his arms and confronted his stepson with such a look of angry contempt as I had never before seen upon his face. The letter rose and stood before him with a glance of proud defiance, and then ensued a scene which I have neither the wish nor the 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, as he expressed it, 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 but just detected guilt of forgery, forgery of a large amount, and upon his benefactor's name. Through 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 in attestation, I dare pronounce him innocent. You cannot wonder, Gertrude, that in my feeble and invalid condition I was hardly capable of realizing at the time, far less of retaining any distinct recollection of the circumstances that followed my father's words. A few dim pictures, however, the last my poor eyes ever beheld, are still engraved upon my memory, and visible to my imagination. My father stood with his back to the light, and from the first moment of his entering the room I never saw his face again, but the countenance of the other, the object of his accusation, illumined as it was by the last rays of the golden sunset, stands ever in the foreground of my recollection. His head was thrown proudly back, conscious but injured innocence proclaimed itself in his clear, calm eye, which shrunk not from the closest scrutiny. His hand was clenched, as if he were vainly striving to repress the passion which proclaimed itself in the compressed lips, the set teeth, the deep and angry indignation which overspread his face. He did not speak. Apparently he could not command voice to do so, but my father continued to up-raid him, in language no doubt, cutting and severe, though I remember not a word of it. It was fearful to watch the working of the young man's face, while he stood there listening to taunts and enduring reproaches which were no doubt believed by him who uttered them to be just and merited, but which wrought the youth to a degree of frenzy which it was terrible indeed to witness. Suddenly he took one step forward, slowly lifting the clenched hand which had hitherto hung at his side. I know not whether he might then have intended to call heaven to witness his innocence of the crime with which he was charged, or whether he might have designed to strike my father, for I sprang from my seat, prepared to rush between them, and implore them for my sake to desist, but my strength failed me, and with a shriek I sunk back in a fainting fit. Oh, the horror of my awakening! How shall I find words to tell it? And yet I must listen, Gertrude. He, the poor, ruined boy, sprung to help me, and maddened by injustice, he knew not what he did. Heaven is my witness, I never blamed him, and if in my agony I uttered words that seemed like a reproach, it was because I was too frantic, and knew not what I said. What! exclaimed Gertrude. He did not. No, no, he did not. He did not put out my eyes, exclaimed Emily. It was an accident. He reached forward for the cologne which he had just had in his hand. There were several bottles, and in his haste he seized one containing a powerful acid which Mrs. Ellis had found occasion to use in my sickrum. It had a heavy glass stopper. And he—his hand was unsteady, and he spilt it all. On your eyes shrieked Gertrude. Emily bowed her head. Oh, poor Emily! cried Gertrude, and wretched, wretched young man! Wretched indeed, ejaculated Emily, bestow all your pity on him, Gertrude, for his was the harder fate of the two. Oh, Emily, how intense must have been the pain you endured! How could you suffer so, and live? Do you mean the pain from my eyes? That was severe indeed, but the mental agony was worse. What became of him, said Gertrude, what did Mr. Graham do? I cannot give you any exact account of what followed. I was in no state to know anything of my father's treatment of his stepson. You can imagine it, however. He banished him from his sight, and knowledge for ever. And it is easy to believe it was with no added gentleness, since he had now, beside the other crimes imputed to him, been the unhappy cause of his daughter's blindness. And did you never hear from him again? Yes, through the good doctor, who alone knew all the circumstances, I learned, after a long interval of suspense, that he had sailed for South America, and in the hope of once more communicating with the poor exile, and assuring him of my continued love, I rallied from the wretched state of sickness, fever, and blindness, into which I had fallen. The doctor had even some expectation of restoring sight to my eyes, which were in a much more hopeful condition. Several months passed away, and my kind friend, who was most diligent and persevering in his inquiries, having at length learned the actual residence and address of the ill-fated youth, I was commencing through the aid of Mrs. Ellis, whom pity had now wholly won to my service, a letter of love, and an entreaty for his return, when a fatal seal was put to all my earthly hopes. He died in a foreign land, alone, unnerced, untended, and uncared for. He died of the inhospitable Southern disease, which takes the stranger for its victim, and I, unhearing the news of it, sunk back into a more pitiable melody, and, alas for the encouragement the good doctor had held out of my gradual restoration to sight, I wept all his hopes away. Emily paused, Gertrude put her arms around her, and they clung closely to each other, grief and sorrow made to the union between them dearer than ever. I was then, Gertrude, continued Emily, a child of the world, eager for worldly pleasures and ignorant of any other. For a time, therefore, I dwelt in utter darkness, the darkness of despair. I began to again to feel my body's strength restored, and to look forward to a useless and miserable life. You can form no idea of the utter wretchedness in which my days were passed. Often have I since reproached myself for the misery I must have caused my poor father, who though he never spoke of it, was, I am sure, deeply pained by the recollection of the terrible scenes we had lately gone through, and who would, I am convinced, have given worlds to restore the past. But at last there came a dawn to my seemingly everlasting night. It came in the shape of a minister of Christ, our own dear Mr. Arnold, who opened the eyes of my understanding, lit the lamp of religion in my now softened soul, taught me the way to peace, and led my feeble steps into that blessed rest which even on earth remaineth to the people of God. In the eyes of the world I am still the unfortunate blind girl, one who, by her sad fate, is cut off from every enjoyment. But so great is the awakening I have experienced, that to me it is far otherwise, and I am ready to exclaim, like him who in old time experienced his Savior's healing power. Since I was blind, but now I see. Gertrude half-forgot her own troubles while listening to Emily's sad story, and when the letter laid her hand upon her head, and prayed that she too might be fitted for a patient endurance of trial, and be made stronger and better thereby. She felt her heart penetrated with that deep love and trust which seldom come to us except in the hour of sorrow, and proved that it is through suffering only we are made perfect. CHAPTER 41 As Mr. Graham had expressed in his letter the intention of being at the steamboat wharf in New York to meet his daughter and Gertrude on their arrival, Dr. Jeremy thought it unnecessary for him to accompany his charges further than Albany, where he could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to Boston with his wife over the western railroad. Mrs. Jeremy being now impatient to return home, and having, moreover, no disposition to revisit the great metropolis of New York during the warm weather. Good-bye, Gertie, said the doctor, as he bade them farewell on the deck of one of the Hudson River boats. I'm afraid you've lost your heart in Saratoga. You don't look quite so bright as you did when we first arrived there. It can't have strayed far, however, I think, in such a place as that, so be sure and find it before I see you in Boston. He had hardly gone, and it wanted a few minutes only of the time for the boat to start, when a gay group of fashionables made their appearance, talking and laughing too loud, as it seemed to Gertrude, to be well-bred. And conspicuous among them was Miss Clinton, whose companions were evidently making her the subject of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she feigned to be teased and half-offended, her smiling, blushing face gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. At length, the significant gestures of some of the party, and a half-smothered Hush, gave intimation of the approach of someone who must not overhear their remarks. And presently, William Sullivan, with a travelling bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm, and his countenance grave, as if he had not quite recovered from the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared in sight, past Gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined Isabel, placing his burden on a chair which stood near. He had hardly commenced speaking to Miss Clinton, however, before the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the passengers to quit the boat. And he was compelled to make a hasty movement to depart. As he did so, he drew a step nearer Gertrude, a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the former plainly distinguished the closing words of his remark. Then if you will do your best to return on Thursday, I will try not to be impatient in the meantime. A moment more, and the boat was on its way. Not, however, until a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had, to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that had already divided her from the shore. After which he saw the gentleman saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from his pocket, and commenced reading. As soon as the boat was fairly under way, and quiet prevailed in their neighborhood, Emily spoke softly to Gertrude, and said, "'Didn't I just now hear Isabel Clinton's voice?' "'She is here,' replied Gertrude, on the opposite side of the deck, but sitting with her back towards us. "'Didn't she see us?' "'I believe she did,' answered Gertrude. She stood looking this way while her party were arranging their seats. And then chose one which commanded a different view. "'Yes. Perhaps she is going to New York to meet Mrs. Graham.' "'Very possible,' replied Gertrude. I didn't think of it before.' There was then quite a pause. Emily appeared to be engaged in thought. Presently she asked, in the softest of whispers, who was the gentleman who came and spoke to her just before the boat started? William was the tremulous response. Emily pressed Gertrude's hand, and was silent. She too had overheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance. Several hours passed away, and they had proceeded some distance down the river, for the motion of the boat was rapid—too rapid as it seemed to Gertrude for safety. At first occupied by her own thoughts, and unable to enjoy the beautiful scenery, which a few weeks previously had caused her such keen delight, she had sat in a tonne of to-all-around, gazing down into the deep blue water, and communing with her own heart. Gradually however, she was led to observe several circumstances, which excited so much curiosity, and finally so much alarm, that effectually aroused from the train of reflection she had been indulging. She had leisure only to take into view her own and Emily's present situation, and its probable consequences. Several times, since they left Albany, had the boat in which they were passengers, passed and repast another of similar size, construction, and speed, likewise responsibly charged with busy living freight, and bound in the same direction. Occasionally during their headlong and reckless course, the contiguity of the two boats was such as to excite the serious alarm of one sex, and the unmeasured censure of the other. The rumour began to be circulated that they were racing, and racing desperately. Some few, regardless of danger, and entering upon the interest of the chase, with an insane and foolish excitement, watched with pleased eagerness the mad career of rival ambition. But by far the majority of the company, including all persons of reason and sense, looked on in indignation and fear. The usual stopping places on the river were either recklessly passed by, or only paused at, while, with indecent haste, passengers were shuffled backwards and forwards at the risk of life and limb, their baggage, or somebody else, unceremoniously flung after them. The panting snorting engine in the meantime bellowing with rage at the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom. Towards noon the fever of agitation had reached its height, and could not be wholly quieted even by the assurance from headquarters that there was no danger. Wood set with her hand locked in Emily's, anxiously watching every indication of terror, and endeavouring to judge from the countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-travelers the actual degree of their insecurity. Emily shut out from the sight of all that was going on, but rendered, through her acute hearing, vividly conscious of the prevailing alarm, was perfectly calm, though very pale, and from time to time questioned Gertrude concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with which was the principal cause of fear. At length, their boat for a few moments distanced its competitor, the assurance of perfect safety was impressively asserted, anxiety began to be relieved, and most of the passengers being restored to their wanted composure, the various parties scattered about the deck, resumed their newspapers, or their conversation. The gay group to which Isabelle Clinton belonged, several of whom had been the victims of nervous agitation and trembling, seemed reassured, and began once more to talk and laugh merrily. Emily, however, still looked pallid, and, as Gertrude fancied, a little faint. "'Let us go below, Emily,' said she, "'it appears now to be very quiet and safe. There are sofas in the ladies' cabin, where you can lie down, and we can both get a glass of water.'" Emily assented, and in a few minutes was comfortably reclining in a corner of the saloon, where she and Gertrude remained undisturbed until dinner-time. They did not go to the dinner-table, it was not their intention from the first, and after the agitation of the morning was far from being desirable, so they stayed quietly where they were, while the greater part of the passengers crowded from every part of the boat to invigorate themselves, after their fright, by the enjoyment of a comfortable meal, which they had reason to expect, as the racing appeared to have ceased, and everything was orderly and peaceable. Gertrude opened her travelling basket, and took out the package which contained their luncheon. It was not one of those luncheons which careful mothers provide for their travelling families. Choice in its material, and tempting in its arrangement, but consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected and put up at their hotel, in Albany, by Dr. Jeremy's direction. Gertrude looked from the little withered slices of tongue and stale bread, to the veteran sponge cakes which completed the assortment, and was hesitating, but she could most conscientiously recommend to Emily. When a civil-looking waiter appeared, bearing a huge tray of refreshments, which he placed upon a table close by, at the same time, turning to Gertrude, and asking if there was anything else he could serve her with. "'This is not for us,' said Gertrude, "'you have made a mistake.' "'No mistake,' replied the man, orders was for the blind lady and handsome young miss. "'I only bays orders. Anything further, miss?' Gertrude dismissed the man with the assurance that they wanted nothing more, and then, turning to Emily, asked, with an attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this Aladdin-like repast. "'Eat it, my dear, if you can,' said Emily, "'it is no doubt meant for us.' "'But to whom are we indebted for it?' "'To my blindness and your beauty, I suppose,' said Emily, smiling. She then continued, with wonderful simplicity. Perhaps the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on her inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us. "'At any rate, my child, you must eat it before it is cold.' "'I,' said Gertrude, conscious of her utter want of appetite, "'I am not hungry, but I will select a nice bit for you.' The sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really looked sad to see how little they had eaten. Gertrude drew out her purse, and after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired whom she should pay for the meal. "'Pay, miss,' said the man, grinning, "'bless my stars, "'de gentlemen pays for all.' "'Who? What gentleman?' asked Gertrude in surprise. But before the man could give her any reply, another white apron to individual appeared, and beckoned to his fellow waiter, who thereupon snatched up his tray and trotted off, bending beneath its weight, and leaving Gertrude and Emily to wonder who the benevolent gentleman might be. They finally came to the conclusion that this unexpected attention was due to the thoughtfulness of Dr. Jeremy, who must have given orders to that effect before he left the boat, and great was the unmerited praise, and the undeserved gratitude which the doctor received that day, for an act of considerate politeness of which the old gentleman, with all his kindness of heart, would never have dreamed. Dinner concluded, Emily again laid down, advised Gertrude to do the same, and supposing that her advice was being followed, slept for an hour. While her companions sat by, watching the peaceful slumber of her friend, and carefully and noiselessly brushing away every fly that threatened to disturb a repose much needed by Miss Graham, who could, in her feeble state of health, ill afford to spare the rest she had been deprived of for one or two previous nights. What time is it, asked she, on a waking? Nearly a quarter past three, replied Gertrude, glancing at her watch. A beautiful gift from a class of her former pupils. Emily started up. We can't be far from New York, said she. Where are we now? I don't know exactly, replied Gertrude. I think we must be near the palisades. If you will stay here, I will go and see. She passed across the saloon, and was about ascending the staircase, when she was startled and alarmed by a rushing sound, mingled with the hurried tread of feet. She kept on, however, though once or twice jostled by persons with frightened faces, who crowded past and pressed forward to learn the cause of the commotion. She had just gained the head of the stairway, and was looking fearfully around her. When a man rushed past, gasping for breath, his face of an ashen paleness, and shrieking the hurried word of alarm, fire, fire. A second more, and a scene of dismay and confusion ensued, too terrible for description. Shrieks rose upon the air, groans and cries of despair burst forth from hearts that were breaking with fear for others, or maddened at the certainty of their own destruction. Each called upon each for help, when all were alike helpless. Those who had never prayed before poured out their souls, and the fervent ejaculation, oh my God! Many a brain reeled, and at time of darkness and peril, many a brave spirit sickened and sunk under the fearfulness of their hour. Gertrude straightened her slight figure, and with her dark eyes almost starting from their sockets, gazed around upon her every side. All was alike too malt, but the destroyer was as yet discernible in one direction only. Towards the center of the boat, where the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the parched and inflammable vessel, a huge volume of flame was already visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts to shrink in crouch and horror. She gave but one glance, then bounded down the stairs, bent solely on rejoining Emily. But she was arrested at the very onset. One step only had she taken when she felt herself encircled by a pair of powerful arms, and a movement made to again rush with her upon deck. While a familiar voice gasped forth the words, Gertrude, my child, my own darling, be quiet, be quiet, I will save you. Well might he urge her to be quiet, for she was struggling madly. No, no, shouted she. Emily, Emily, let me die, let me die, but I must find Emily. Where is she? asked Mr. Phillips, for it was he. There, there, pointed Gertrude, in the cabin, let me go, let me go. He cast one look around him, then said, in a firm tone, be calm, my child, I can save you both, follow me closely. With a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin. In the farthest corner knelt Emily, her head thrown back, her hands clasped, and her face like the face of an angel. Gertrude and Mr. Phillips were by her side in an instant. He stooped to lift her in his arms. Gertrude at the same time exclaiming, Come, Emily, come, he will save us. But Emily resisted, leave me, Gertrude, leave me and save yourselves. Oh, said she, looking imploringly in the face of the stranger, leave me and save my child. Air the words had left her lips, however, she was born half way across the saloon, Gertrude following closely. If we can cross to the bows of the boat, we are safe, said Mr. Phillips, in a husky voice. To do so, however, proved impossible. The whole center of the boat was now one sheet of flame. Good heavens, exclaimed he, we are too late, we must go back. A moment more, and they had with much difficulty regained the long saloon. And now the boat, which as soon as the fire was discovered, had been turned towards the shore, struck upon the rocks, and parted in the middle. Her bows were consequently brought near to the land, near enough to almost ensure the safety of such persons as were at that part of the vessel, but alas for those near the stern, which was far out in the river, while the breeze which blew fresh from the shore fostered and spread the devouring flame in the very direction to place those who yet clung to the broken fragment between two equally fatal elements. Mr. Phillips first thought, on gaining the saloon, was to beat down a window sash, spring upon the guards, and drag Emily and Gertrude after him. Some ropes hung upon the guards. He seized one, and with the ease and skill of an old sailor, made it fast to the boat, then turned to Gertrude, who stood firm and unwavering by his side. Gertrude, said he, speaking distinctly and steadily, I shall swim to the shore with Emily. If the fire comes too near, cling to the guards. As a last chance, hold on to the rope. Keep your veil flying, I shall return. No, no, cried Emily, Gertrude go first. Hush, Emily, exclaimed Gertrude, we shall both be saved. Cling to my shoulder in the water, Emily, said Mr. Phillips, utterly regardless of her protestations. She took her once more in his arms. There was a splash, and they were gone. At the same instant, Gertrude was seized from behind. She turned, and found herself grasped by Isabel Clinton, who kneeling upon the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely to her as to utterly disable them both, at the same time shrieking in pitiable tones. Oh, Gertrude, Gertrude, save me! Gertrude tried to lift her up, but she was immovable, and without making the slightest effort to help herself, was madly winding Gertrude's thick traveling dress around her person, as if for protection from the flames. While ever, as they darted forth new and near lightnings, the frightened girl would cling more wildly to her companion in danger, at the same time praying, with piercing shrieks, that she would help and save her. But so long as Gertrude stood thus imprisoned, and restrained by the arms which were clasped entirely around her, she was powerless to do anything for her own or Isabel's salvation. She looked forth in the direction Mr. Phillips had taken, and to her joy she saw him returning. He had deposited Emily on board a boat, which was fortunately at hand, and was now approaching to claim another burden. At the same instant a volume of flames swept so near the spot where the two girls were stationed, that Gertrude, who was standing upright, felt the scorching heat, and both were almost suffocated with smoke. And now a new and heroic resolution took possession of the mind of Gertrude. One of them could be saved, for Mr. Phillips was within a few rods of the wreck. It should be Isabel. She had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied her. Moreover Willie loved Isabel. Willie would weep for her loss, and that must not be. He would not weep for Gertrude, at least not much, and if one must die it should be she. With Gertrude to resolve was to do. Isabel said she, in a tone of such severity, as one might employ towards a refractory child, with whom, as in this instance, milder remonstrances had failed. Isabel, do you hear me? Stand up on your feet. Do as I tell you, and you shall be saved. Do you hear me, Isabel? She heard, shuddered, but did not move. Gertrude stooped down, and forcibly wrenching apart the hands which were convulsively clenched, said, with a sternness which necessity alone exhorted from her. Isabel, if you do as I tell you, you will be on shore in five minutes, safe and well. But if you stay there behaving like a foolish child, we shall both be burnt to death. For mercy's sake, get up quickly and listen to me. Isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon Gertrude's calm, steadfast face, and said, in a moaning tone, What must I do? I will try. Do you see that person swimming this way? Yes. He will come to this spot, hold fast to that piece of rope, and I will let you gradually down to the water. But stay, and snatching the deep blue veil from her own head, she tied it round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of Isabel. Mr. Phillips was within a rod or two. Now, Isabel now, exclaimed Gertrude, or you will be too late. Isabel took the rope between her hands, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight of the water. One more hot burst of fire, however, which issued forth through the window, gave her renewed courage to brave a mere seeming danger, and aided by Gertrude, who helped her over the guards. She allowed herself to be let down to the water's edge. Mr. Phillips was fortunately just in time to receive her, for she was so utterly exhausted with fear that she could not have clung long to the rope. Gertrude had no opportunity to follow them with her eye. Her own situation, it may well be believed, was now all engrossing. The flames had reached her. She could hardly breathe, so enveloped was she in clouds of dark smoke, which had more than once been relieved by streaks of fire, which had darted out within a foot of her. She could hesitate no longer. She seized the piece of rope, now left vacant by Isabel, who was rapidly approaching a place of safety, and grasping it with all her might, leaped over the side of the fast-consuming vessel. How long her strength would have enabled her thus to cling? How long the guards, as yet unapproached by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable? There was no opportunity to test, for just as her feet touched the cold surface of the river, the huge wheel, which was but a little distance from where she hung, gave one sudden, expiring revolution, sounding like a death-durge through the water, which came foaming and dashed up against the side of the boat, and as it swept away again bore with it the light form of Gertrude. CHAPTER 42 Let us now revisit commerce scenes, and turn our eyes towards the quiet, familiar country-seat of Mr. Graham. The old gentleman himself, wearied with travels, and society but little congenial to his years, is pacing up and down his garden walks, stopping now and then to observe the growth of some favorite tree, or the overgrowth of some petted shrub, whose neglected, drooping twigs call for the master's pruning hand. His contented, satisfied countenance, denoting plainly enough how rejoiced he is to find himself once more in his cherished homestead. Perhaps he would not like to acknowledge it, but it is nevertheless a fact that no small part of his satisfaction arises from the circumstance that the repose and seclusion of his household is rendered complete and secure by the temporary absence of its bustling, excitable mistress, whom he has left behind him in New York. There is something pleasant, too, in being able to indulge his imagination so far as almost to deceive himself into the belief that the good old times have come back again when he was his own master. For to tell the truth, Mrs. Graham takes advantage of his years and growing infirmities, and rules him with wonderful tact. Emily and Gertrude, too, are closely associated with those good old times, and adds greatly to the delusion of his fancy to dwell upon the certainty that they are both in the house, and that he shall see them at dinner. A cozy, comfortable dinner, at which Mrs. Ellis will preside with her wanted formality and precision, and which no noisy intruding upstarts will venture to interrupt or disturb. Yes, Gertrude is there, as well as the rest, saved, she hardly knew how, from the watery grave that threatened and almost engulfed her, and established once more in the peaceful, venerable spot, now the dearest to her on earth. When with some difficulty restored to the consciousness which had utterly forsaken her in the protracted struggle between death and life, she was informed that she had been found and picked up by some humane individuals, who had hastily pushed a boat from the shore, and aided in the rescue of the sufferers, that she was clinging to a chair, which she had probably grasped when washed away by the sudden rushing of the water, and that her situation was such that, a moment more, and it would have been impossible to save her from the flames, close to which she was drifting. But all of this she had herself no recollection. From the moment when she committed her light weight to the frail tenure of the rope, until she opened her eyes in a quiet spot, and saw Emily leaning anxiously over the bed upon which she lay, all had been a blink to her senses. A few hours from the time of the terrible catastrophe brought Mr. Graham to the scene, and the next day restored all three in safety to the long-deserted old mansion house in D. This respectable, venerable habitation and its adjoining grounds were nearly the same aspect as when they met the admiring eyes of Gertie on the first visit that she made, Ms. Graham, in her early childhood, that long expected and keenly enjoyed visit, which proved a lasting topic for her youthful enthusiasm to dwell upon. The gray elm trees, casting their deep shade upon the green and velvety lawn in front, the neat, smooth gravel walk, which led to the doorstep, and then wound off in several directions into the mass of embowered shrubbery on the right and the peach orchard on the left, the old arbor with its luxuriant growth of wood-bine, the large summer house with its knotted, untrimmed, rustic pillars, the little fish pond in Fountain, and especially the flower garden, during the last season nearly restored by Gertrude's true friend, George, to its original appearance when under her superintendence. It had all the same friendly, familiar look as during the first happy summers, when Emily, sitting in her garden chair beneath the wide-spreading tulip tree, listened with delight to the cheerful voice, the merry laugh and the light step of the joyous little gardener, who, as she moved about in her favorite element among the flowers, seemed to her affectionate, loving, blind friend, the sweetest flora of them all. Now and then, a stray robin, the last of the numerous throng that had flocked to the cherry-feast and departed long ago, came hopping across the paths and over the neatly-trimmed box, lifting his head and looking about him with an air that seemed to say, It is time for me, too, to be off. A family of squirrels, on the other hand, old pets of Gertrude's, whom she loved to watch as they played in the willow-tree opposite her window, were just gathering in their harvest, and were busily journeying up and down, each with a nut in its mouth. For there were nut-trees in that garden, and quiet corners, such as squirrels love. Last year they did not come, at least they did not say, for Mrs. Graham and her new gardener voted them a nuisance. But this year they had had it all their own way, and were laying up rich stores for the coming winter. The old house itself had a look of contentment and repose. The hall door stood wide open. Mr. Graham's armchair was in its usual place. Gertrude's birds, of which Mrs. Ellis had taken excellent care, were hopping about on the slender perches of the great Indian cage which hung on the wide pieza. The old house-dog lay stretched in the sun, sure that nobody would molest him. Plenty of flowers once more graced the parlor, and all was very still, very quiet, and very comfortable. And Mr. Graham thought so, as he came up the steps, padded the dog, whistled to the birds, sat down in the armchair, and took the morning paper from the hand of the neat housemaid, who came bringing it across the hall. The dear old place was the dear old place still. Time seemed only to lend it additional grace, to give it an air of greater peace, seclusion, and repose. But how is it with the inmates? Mr. Graham, as we have already hinted, has been having new experiences. And although some features of his character are too closely enraught to be ever wholly eradicated, he is, in many respects, a changed man. The time had once been when he would have resisted courageously every innovation upon his domestic prejudices and comforts. But old age and ill health had somewhat broken his spirit, and subdued his hitherto invincible will. Just at this crisis, too, he united his fortunes with one who had sufficient energy of purpose, combined with just enough good-nature intact, to gain her point on every occasion when she thought it material to do so. She indulged him to be sure, in his favorite hobbies, allowed him to continue in the fond belief that his sway, when he chose to exercise it, was indisputable, and yet contrived to decide herself in all important matters, and had at last driven him to such extremity that he had taken it for his maxim to get what comfort he could, and let things take their course. No wonder, therefore, that he looked forward to a few weeks of old-fashioned enjoyment, much as a schoolboy does to his vacation. Emily is sitting in her own room, carelessly clad in a loose wrapper. She is paler than ever, and her face has an anxious, troubled expression. Every time the door opens, she starts, trembles, a sudden flush overspreads her face, and twice already during the morning she has suddenly burst into tears. Every exertion, even that of dressing, seems a labor to her. She cannot listen to Gertrude's reading, but will constantly interrupt her, to ask questions concerning the burning boat, her own and others' rescue, and every circumstance connected with the terrible scene of agony and death. Her nervous system is evidently fearfully shattered, and Gertrude looks at her in weeps, and wonders to see how her wanted calmness and composure have forsaken her. They have been together since breakfast, but Emily will not allow Gertrude to stay with her any longer. She must go away and walk, or at least change the scene. She may come back in an hour and help her dress for dinner. A ceremony which Miss Graham will by no means omit. Her chief desire seeming to be to maintain the appearance of health and happiness and the presence of her father. Gertrude feels that Emily is an earnest, that she really wishes to be left alone, and believing that, for the first time, her presence even is burdensome. She retires to her own room, leaving Emily to bow her head upon her hands, and, for the third time, utter a few hysterical sobs. Gertrude is immediately followed by Mrs. Ellis, who shuts the door, seats herself, and with a manner of her own, alone sufficient to excite alarm, adds to the poor girl's fear and distress by declaiming at length upon the dreadful effect the recollection of that shocking accident is having upon poor Emily. She's completely upset, is the housekeeper's closing remark, and if she don't begin to get better in a day or two, I don't hesitate to say there's no knowing what the consequences may be. Emily is feeble and not fit to travel. I wished for my part she had stayed at home. I don't approve of traveling, especially in these shocking, dangerous times. Fortunately for poor Gertrude, Mrs. Ellis is at length summoned to the kitchen, and she is left to reflect upon the strange circumstances of the last few days, days fraught to her with a matter of thought for years, if so long a time had been allowed her. A moment, however, and she is again interrupted. The housemaid who carried Mr. Graham his paper has something for her, too—a letter. With a trembling hand she receives it, scarcely daring to look at the writing or postmark. Her first thought is of Willie, but before she could indulge either a hope or a fear on that score the illusion is dispelled. For though the postmark is New York, and he might be there, the handwriting is wholly strange. Another idea, of scarcely less moment, flashes into her mind, and hardly able to breathe from the violence of the emotions by which she is oppressed. She breaks the seal and reads, My darling Gertrude, my much-loved child, for such you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone rung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to my heart and call you mine. A dozen times before I had been seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone. But the voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. Had I seen you happy, gay, and light-hearted, I would not have asked to share your joy. Far less would I have cast a shadow on your path. But you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of Kindred, and makes you a thousand times my daughter. For I am a wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others woe. You have a kind and gentle heart, my child. You have wept once for the stranger sorrows. Will you now refuse to pity, if you cannot love, the solitary parent, who, with a breaking heart and a trembling hand, writes the ill-fated word that dooms him, perhaps, to the hatred and contempt of the only being unearthed, with whom he can claim the fellowship of a natural tie? Peace before have I striven to utter it, and laying down my pen, have shrunk from the cruel task. But hard as it is to speak, I find it harder to still the beating of my restless heart. Therefore listen to me, that what may be for the last time. Is there one being on earth whom you shudder to think of? Is there one associated, only in your mind, with deeds of darkness and of shame? Is there one name which you have from your childhood, learned to a poor and hate? And in proportion, as you love your best friend, have you been taught to shrink from, and despise, her worst enemy? It cannot be otherwise. Ah, I tremble to think how my child will recoil from her father, when she learns the secret, so long preserved, so sorrowfully revealed, that he is Philip Amory. As Gertrude looked up when she had finished reading this strange and unintelligible letter, her countenance expressed only complete bewilderment. Her eyes glistened with great tears. Her face was flushed with wonder and excitement, but she was evidently at a total loss to account for the meaning of the stranger's words. She sat for an instant wildly gazing into vacancy. Then springing suddenly up, with the letter grasped in one hand, ran across the entry towards Emily's room, to share with her the wonderful contents, and eagerly ask her opinion of their hidden meaning. She stopped, however, when her hand was on the door lock. Emily was already ill, the victim of agitation and excitement. It would not do to distress or even disturb her. And retreating to her own room as hastily as she had come, Gertrude once more sat down, to re-paruse the singular words and endeavor to find some clue to the mystery. That Mr. Philips and the letter-writer were identical she at once perceived. It was no slight impression that his exclamation and conduct during the time of their imminent danger on board the boat had left upon the mind of Gertrude. During the three days that had succeeded the accident, the words, my child, my own darling, had been continually ringing in her ears and haunting her imagination. Now the blissful idea would flash upon her that the noble, disinterested stranger, who had risked his life so daringly in her own and Emily's cause, might indeed be her father, and every fiber of her being had thrilled at the thought, while her head grew dizzy and confused with the strong sensation of hope that agitated and almost overwhelmed her brain. Then again she had repulsed the idea, as suggesting only the height of impossibility and folly, and had compelled herself to take a more rational and probable view of the matter, and believe that the stranger's words and conduct were merely the result of powerful and overwhelming excitement, or possibly the indications of a somewhat disordered and unsettled imagination, a supposition which much of his previous behavior seemed to warrant. Her first inquiries on recovering consciousness had been for the preserver of Emily and Isabelle, but he had disappeared. No trace of him could be obtained, and Mr. Graham soon arriving and hurrying them from the neighborhood, she had been reluctantly compelled to abandon the hope of seeing him again, and was consequently left entirely to her own vague and unsatisfactory conjectures. The same motives which now induced her to forbear consulting Emily concerning the mysterious epistle had hitherto prevented her from imparting the secret of Mr. Phillips in explicable language and manner, but she had dwelt upon them none of us, and day and night had silently pondered, not only upon recent events, but on the entire demeanor of this strange man towards her ever since the earliest moment of their acquaintance. The first perusal of the letter served only to excite and alarm her, and neither called forth distinct ideas and impressions, nor added life and coloring to those she had already formed. But as she sat for more than an hour, gazing upon the page, which she read and reread until it was blistered and blotted with the great tears that fell upon it, the varying expression of her face denoted the emotions that, one after another possessed her, and which at last, snatching a sheet of paper, she committed to writing with a feverish rapidity that betrayed how deeply, almost fearfully, her whole being, heart, mind, and body, bent and staggered beneath the weight of contending hopes, anxieties, warmly and kindled affections, and gloomy upstarting fears. My dear, dear father, if I may dare to believe that you are so, and if not that, my best of friends, how shall I write to you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery? Father, blessed word, oh, that my noble friend were indeed my father. Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas, I feel a sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. I never before remember to have heard the name of Philip Amory. My sweet, pure, and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the world, and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and I trust to my own. Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide world. Never had, or could have, one might as well war with an angel of heaven, as with a creature so holy and lovely as she. Nor bid me to think of yourself as a man of sin and crime. It cannot be. It would be wronging a noble nature to believe it. And I say again, it cannot be. Gladly would I trust myself to repose on the bosom of such a parent. Gladly would I hail the sweet duty of consoling the sorrows of one so self-sacrificing, so kind, so generous, whose life has been so freely offered for me, and for others whose existence was dearer to me than my own. When you took me in your arms and called me your child, your darling child, I fancied that the excitement of that dreadful scene had for the moment disturbed your mind and brain so far as to invest me with a false identity. Perhaps confound my image with that of some loved and absent one. I now believe that it was no sudden madness, but rather that I have been all along mistaken for another, whose glad office it may perhaps be to cheer a father's saddened life, while I remain unrecognized, unsought. The fatherless, motherless one I am accustomed to consider myself. If you have lost the daughter, God grant she may be restored to you, to love you as I would do, were I so blessed as to be that daughter. And I consider me not a stranger. Let me be your child in heart. Let me love, pray, and weep for you. Let me pour out my soul and thankfulness for the kind care and sympathy you have already given me. And yet, though I disclaim it all, and dare not, yes, dare not dwell for a moment on the thought that you are otherwise than deceived in believing me or child. My heart leaps up in spite of me, and I tremble and almost cease to breathe as there flashes upon me the possibility, the blissful, God-given hope. No, no, I will not think of it, lest I could not bear to have it crushed. Oh, what am I writing? I know not. I cannot endure the suspense long. Write quickly, or come to me, my father. For I will call you so once, though perhaps never again." Gertrude. Mr. Phillips, or rather Mr. Amory, for we will call him by his true name, had either forgotten or neglected to mention his address. Gertrude did not observe this circumstance until she had folded, and was preparing to direct her letter. She then recollected the unfortunate omission, and for a moment experienced a severe pang in the thought that her communication would never reach him. She was reassured, however, on examining the postmark, which was evidently New York, to which place she unhesitatingly addressed her misive, and then unwilling to trust it to other hands, tied on her bonnet, caught up a veil with which to protect and conceal her agitated face, and hastened to deposit the letter herself in the village post office. To persons of an excitable and imaginative temperament there is perhaps no greater or more painful state of trial than that occasioned by severe and long-continued suspense. When we know precisely what we have to bear, we can usually call to our aid the needed strength and submission. But a more than ordinary patience and forbearance is necessary to enable us calmly and tranquilly to await the approach of an important crisis, big with events the nature of which we can have no means of foreseeing, but which will inevitably exercise an all-controlling influence upon the life. One moment hope usurps the mastery, and promises a happy issue. We smile, breathe freely, and banish care and anxiety, but an instant more, and some word, look, or even thought changes the whole current of our feelings. Clouds take the place of smiles, the chest heaves with sudden oppression, fear starts up like a nightmare, and in proportion, as we have cherished a confident joy, are we plunged into the torture of doubt or the agony of despair. Gertrude's case seemed a peculiarly trying one. She had been already for a week past struggling with a degree of suspense and anxiety which agitated her almost beyond endurance, and now a new occasion of uncertainty and mystery had arisen, involving in its issues an almost equal amount of self-questioning and torture. It seemed almost beyond the power of so young, so sensitive, and so inexperienced a girl, to rally such self-command as would enable her to control her emotions, disguise them from observation, and compel herself to endure alone and in silence this cruel dispensation of her destiny. But she did do it, and bravely, too, whether the greatness of the emergency called forth, as it ever does in a true-hearted woman, a proportionate greatness of spirit, whether the complication of her web of destiny compelled her, with closed hands and a submissive will, to cease all efforts for its disentaglement, or whether with that humble trust which ever grew more deep and ardent as the sense of her own helplessness pressed upon her, she turned for help to him whose strength is made perfect in weakness. It is certain that, as she took her way towards home after depositing the letter in the Postmaster's hand, the firmness of her step, the calm uplifting of her eye, gave token that she that moment conceived a brave resolve, a resolve which, during the two days that intervened, Ayrshire received the expected reply, never for one moment deserted her. And it was this, she would endeavor to suspend for the present those vain conjectures, that fruitless weighing of probabilities which served only to harass her mind, puzzle her understanding, and destroy her peace. She would ponder no more on matters which concerned herself, but with a desperate effort, turn all her mental and all her physical energy into some other and more disinterested channel, and patiently wait until the cloud which hung over her fate should be dissipated by the light of truth and explanation triumph over mystery. She was herself surprised afterwards when she called to mind and brought up in long array the numerous household, domestic, and friendly duties which she almost unconsciously accomplished in those few days during which she was wrestling with thoughts that were ever struggling to be uppermost, and were only kept down by a force of will that was almost exhausting. She dusted and rearranged every book in Mr. Graham's extensive library, unpacked and put in their appropriate places every article of her own and Emily's long scattered wardrobe, aided Mrs. Ellis and her labors to restore order to the China-closet and the linen-press, and many other neglected or long postponed duties now found a time for their fulfillment. In these praise were the efforts to drive away such reflections as were fatal to her peace, and employ her hands, at least if not her heart, in such services as might promote the comfort and well-being of others. Let us leave her for the present. CHAPTER 43 Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth, for empire's sake, nor empire to affect, for glory's sake, by all thy argument. MILTON In a well-furnished private parlor of one of those first-class hotels in which New York City abounds, Philip Amory sat alone. It was evening, the window curtains were drawn, the gas lamps burning brightly, bringing out the gorgeous colors of the gaily tinted carpet and draperies, and giving a cheerful glow to the room. The comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly with the pale countenance and desponding attitude of its solitary inmate, who, with his head bowed upon his hands, leaned upon a table in the center of the apartment. He had sat for nearly an hour in precisely the same position, without once moving or looking up. With his left hand, upon which his forehead rested, he had thrust back the wavy masses of his silvered hair, as if their lightweight were too oppressive for his heated brow. And the occasional movement of his fingers, as they were slowly passed to and fro beneath the graceful curls, alone gave evidence that he had not fallen asleep. Finally he started up, straightened his commanding figure to its full height, and slowly commenced pacing the room. A light knock at the door arrested his measured steps. A look of nervous agitation and annoyance overspread his countenance. He again flung himself into his chair, and in reply to the servants announcing, a gentleman, sir, was preparing to say, I cannot be interrupted, but it was too late. The visitor had already advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly closed and retreated. The newcomer, a young man, stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but checked himself, somewhat abashed at the unexpected coldness of the reception he met from his host, who rose slowly and deliberately to meet his guest, while the cloud upon his countenance, and the frigid manner in which he touched the young man's cordially offered hand, seemed to imply that the latter's presence was unwelcome. Excuse me, Mr. Phillips, said William Sullivan, for it was he who had thus unintentionally forced an entrance to the secluded man. I am afraid my visit is an intrusion. Do not speak of it, replied Mr. Emery. I beg you, will be seated, and he politely handed a chair. Willie availed himself of the offered seat, no further than to lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing. You are changed, sir, continued he, since I last saw you. Yes, I am, returned the other, absently. Your health, I fear, is not. My health is excellent, said Mr. Emery, interrupting his unfinished remark. Then seeming for the first time to realize the necessity of exerting himself in order to sustain the conversation, he added, it is a long time, sir, since we met. I have not yet forgotten the debt I owe you for your timely interference between me and Ali, the Arab trader, with his rascally army of Bedouin rogues. Do not name it, sir, replied Willie. Our meeting was fortunate indeed, but the benefit was as mutual as the danger to which we were alike exposed. I cannot think so. You seemed to have a most excellent understanding with your own party of guides and attendants, Arabs though they were. True, I have had some experience in eastern travel, and usually know how to manage these infamable spirits of the desert. But at the time I joined you, I was myself entering the neighborhood of hostile tribes, and might soon have found our party over-awed, but for the advantage of having joined forces with yourself. You set but a modest value upon your conciliatory powers, my young man, to you who are so well acquainted with the facts in the case. I can hardly claim the merit of frankness for the acknowledgment that it was only my own hot temper and stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent danger which you were fortunately able to avert. No, no, you must not deprive me of the satisfaction of once more expressing my gratitude for your invaluable aid. You are making my visit, sir, said Willie, smiling, the very reverse of what it was intended to be. I did not come here this evening to receive, but to the best of my ability to render thanks. For what, sir? asked Mr. Emery, abruptly, almost roughly, you owe me nothing. The friends of Isabella Clinton, sir, owe you a debt of gratitude, which it will be impossible for them ever to repay. You are mistaken, Mr. Sullivan. I have done nothing which places that young lady's friends under a particle of obligation to me. Did you not save her life? Yes, but nothing was further from my intention. Willie smiled. It could have been no accident, I think, which led you to risk your own life to rescue a fellow passenger. It was no accident indeed which led to Miss Clinton's safety from destruction. I am convinced of that, but you must not thank me. It is due to another than myself that she does not now sleep in death. May I ask to whom you refer? Your words are mysterious. I refer to a dear and noble girl whom I swam to that burning wreck to save. Her veil had been agreed upon as a signal between us. That veil carefully thrown over the head of Miss Clinton, whom I found clinging to the spot assigned to, to her whom I was seeking, deceived me, and I bore in safety to the shore the burden which I had ignorantly seized from the gaping waters, leaving my own darling who had offered her life as a sacrifice to— Oh, not to die, exclaimed Willie. No, to be saved by a miracle. Go thank her for Miss Clinton's life. I thank God, said Willie, with fervor, that the horrors of such scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like that. The hitherto stern countenance of Mr. Amory softened as he listened to the young man's enthusiastic outburst of admiration at Gertrude's noble self-devotion. Who is she? Where is she? continued Willie. Ask me not, replied Mr. Amory, with the gesture of impatience. I cannot tell you if I would. I have not seen her since that ill-fated day. His manner, even more than his words, seemed to intimate an unwillingness to enter into any further explanation regarding Isabelle's rescue, and Willie, perceiving it, stood for a moment silent and irresolute. Then advancing a step nearer, he said, Though you so utterly disclaim, Mr. Phillips, any participation in Miss Clinton's happy escape, I feel that my errand here would be but imperfectly fulfilled if I should fail to deliver the message which I bring to one, who was at least the final means, if not the original cause of her safety. Mr. Clinton, the young lady's father, desired me to tell you that, in saving the life of his only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but herself, were doomed to an early life, you have prolonged his own days, and rendered him grateful to that degree which words on his part are powerless to express. But that, as long as his feeble life is spared, he shall never cease to bless your name, and pray to heaven for its choicest gifts upon you and those who dwell next your heart. There was a slight moisture in the clear penetrating eye of Mr. Henry, but a bland and courteous smile upon his lip, as he said, and replied to Willie's words, All this from Mr. Clinton, very gentlemanly and equally sincere, I doubt not, but you surely do not mean to thank me wholly in his name, my young friend. Have you nothing to say for your own sake? Willie looked surprised at the question, but replied, unhesitatingly, Certainly, sir, as one of a large circle of acquaintances and friends, whom Ms. Clinton honors with her regard, you may rest assured that my admiration and gratitude for your disinterested exertions are unbounded, and not only on her account, but on that of every other whom you had the noble satisfaction of rescuing from a most terrific form of death and destruction. Am I to understand, by your words, that you speak only as a friend of humanity, and that you felt no deep personal interest in any of my fellow passengers? I was unacquainted with nearly all of them. Ms. Clinton was the only one whom I had known for any greater length of time than during two or three days of Saratoga intercourse, but I should certainly have felt deeply grieved at her death, since I was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her father, my respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who was now much enfeebled in health, could hardly survived so severe a shock as the loss, under such harrowing circumstances, of an only child whom he almost idolizes. You speak very coolly, Mr. Sullivan, are you aware that the prevailing belief gives you credit for feeling more than a mere friendly interest in Ms. Clinton? The gradual dilating of Willie's large gray eyes as he fixed them inquiringly upon Mr. Emery, the half scrutinizing, half astonished expression which crept over his face, as he deliberately seated himself in the chair, which until then he had not occupied. Were sufficient evidence of the effects of the question so unexpectedly put to him? Sir, said he, I either misunderstood you, or the prevailing belief is a most mistaken one. Then you never before heard of your own engagement? Never, I assure you, is it possible that so idle a report has obtained an extensive circulation among Ms. Clinton's friends? Sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of Saratoga life, to hear it not only whispered from ear to ear, but openly proclaimed as a fact worthy of credit. I am exceedingly surprised and vexed at what you tell me, said Willie, looking really disturbed and chagrined. Nonsensical and false, as such a rumour is. It will vary naturally, if it should reach Ms. Clinton, be a source of indignation and annoyance to her, and it is on that account, far more than my own, that I regret the circumstances which have probably given rise to it. Do you refer to considerations of delicacy on the lady's part, or have you the modesty to believe that her pride would be wounded by having her name thus coupled with that of her father's junior partner, a young man hitherto unknown to fashionable circles? But excuse me, perhaps I am stepping on dangerous ground, and your own pride may shrink from the frankness of my speech. By no means, sir, you wronged me if you believe my pride to be of such a nature. But in answer to your question, I have not only reference to both the motives you name, but to many others. When I assert my opinion of the resentment Ms. Clinton would probably cherish, if the foolish and unwarranted remarks you mention should chance to reach her ears. Mr. Sullivan, said Mr. Amory, drawing his chair near to Willie's, and speaking in a tone of great interest. Are you sure you are not standing in your own light? Are you aware that undue modesty, coupled with false and overstrained notions of refinement, has before now stood in the way of many a man's good fortune, and is likely to interfere largely with your own? How so, sir? You speak in riddles, and I am ignorant of your meaning. Can some young fellows like you, continued Mr. Amory, can I know, just in command, almost any amount of property for the asking? But many such chances rarely occur to one individual, and the world will laugh at you if you waste so fair an opportunity as that which you now enjoy. Opportunity for what? You surely do not mean to advise me. I do, though. I am older than you are, and I know something of the world. A fortune is not made in a day, nor is money a thing to be despised. Mr. Clinton's life is, I daresay, and feebled, and almost worn out and toiling after that wealth, which will soon be the inheritance of his daughter. She is young, beautiful, and the pride of that high circle in which she moves. Both father and daughter smile upon you. You need not look disconcerted. I speak as between friends, and you know the truth of that which strangers have observed, and which I have frequently heard mentioned as beyond doubt. Why then do you hesitate? I trust you are not deterred from taking advantage of your position by any romantic and chivalrous sense of inferiority on your part, or unworthiness to obtain so fair a prize. Mr. Phillips, said Willie, with hesitation and evident embarrassment. The comments of mere casual acquaintances, such as the greater part of those with whom Miss Clinton associated in Saratoga, are not in the least to be depended upon. The peculiar relations in which I stand towards Mr. Clinton have been such as of late to draw me into constant intercourse, both with himself and his daughter. He is almost entirely without relatives, has scarcely any trustworthy friend at command, and therefore appears, perhaps to the world, more favorably disposed towards me than would be found to be the case should I aspire to his daughter's hand. The lady herself, too, has so many admirers that it would be the height of vanity in me to believe. Poo-poo! exclaimed Mr. Phillips, springing from his chair, and as he commenced pacing the room, clapping the young man heartily upon the shoulder, tell that, Sullivan, to a greater novice, a more unsophisticated individual than I am. It is very becoming in you to say so. But though I hate to flatter, a few slight reminders will hardly harm a youth who has such a very low opinion in his own merits. Pray, who was the gentleman for whose society Miss Clinton was, a few nights since, so ready to forego the music of Albani, the brilliancy of the well-lighted and crowded hall, and the smiles and compliments of a whole train of adores? With whom, I say, did she, in comparison with all this, prefer a quiet moonlight walk in the garden of the United States Hotel? Well, he hesitated a moment, while endeavoring to rally his recollection. Then, as if the circumstance and its consequences had just flashed upon him, he exclaimed, I remember, that, then, was one of the causes of suspicion. I was, on that occasion, a messenger merely, to summon Miss Isabel to the bedside of her father, by whom I had been anxiously watching for hours, and who, unawakening from a long protracted and almost lethargic sleep, which had excited the alarm of the physician, inquired for his daughter with such eagerness that I did not hesitate to interrupt the pleasure of the evening, and call her to the post of duty, which awaited her in the cottage occupied by Mr. Clinton, at the furthest extremity of the grounds to which I accompanied her by moonlight. Mr. Amory almost left outright, cast upon Willie, for the first time, that look of sweet bidnignity, which, though rare, well became his fine countenance, and exclaimed, so much for watering-place gossip, I believe I must forebear speaking of any further evidences of a tender interest manifested by either of you. But these things apart, and there is every reason to believe, my dear Sullivan, that though the young lady's heart be still, like her fortune, in the united keeping of herself and her father, there is nothing easier than for you to win and claim them both. You are a rising young man, and possess business talent indispensable, I hear, to the elder party. If with your handsome face, figure, and accomplishments, you cannot render yourself equally so to the younger. There is no one to blame but yourself. Willie laughed. If I had that object in view, I know of no one to whom I would so soon come for encouragement as to use her, but the flattering prospect you hold out is quite wasted upon me. Not if you were the man I think you, replied Mr. Amory. I cannot believe you will be such a fool. I beg your pardon for using so strong a term, as to allow yourself to be blinded to the opportunity you see held out before you, of making that appearance in society, and taking that stand in life, to which your birth, your education, and your personal qualities entitle you. Your father was a respectable clergyman, always an honorable profession, you enjoyed and profited by every advantage in your youth, and have done yourself such credit in India as would enable you, with plenty of capital at command, to take the lead in a few years among mercantile men. All this indeed might not, probably would not, give you an opportunity to mingle freely and at once, and the highest ranks of our aristocracy, but a union with Miss Clinton would entitle you immediately to such a position as yours of assiduous effort could hardly win, and you would find yourself at twenty-five at the highest point in every respect to which you could possibly aspire. Not have you, I venture to say, lived for six years utterly deprived of female society, without becoming proportionately susceptible to such uncommon grace and beauty as Miss Clinton's. A man just returned from a long residence abroad is usually thought to be an easy prey to the charms of the first of his fair countrywoman into whose society he may chance to be thrown, and it can scarcely then be wondered at if you are subdued by such winning attractions as are rarely to be met with in this land of beautiful women, nor can it be possible that you have for six years toiled beneath an Indian sun, without learning to appreciate as it deserves, the unlooked for, but happy and honorable termination of your toils, the easily attained rest from labour, whose crowning blessing will be the possession of your beautiful bride. A moment's pause ensued, during which Mr. Amory set watching the countenance of Willie, while he awaited his reply. He was not kept long in ignorance of the effect his glowing picture had produced. Mr. Phillips, said Willie, speaking with prompt decision, and a nervous energy which proved how heartfelt were the words he uttered. I have not indeed spent many of the best years of my life toiling beneath a burning sun, and in a protracted exile from all that I held most dear, without being sustained and encouraged by high hopes, aims, and aspirations. But you must judge me greatly if you believe that the ambition that his hitherto spurred me on can find its gratification in those rewards which you have so vividly presented to my imagination. No, sir, believe me, though these advantages may seem beyond the grasp of most men, I aspire to something higher yet, and should think my best endeavours wasted indeed if my hopes and wishes tended not to a still more glorious good. And to what quarter do you look for the fulfilment of such flattering prospects? asked Mr. Amory, in an ironical tone of voice. Not to the gay circles of fashion, replied Willie. Not yet to that moneyed aristocracy which awards to each man his position in life. I do not depreciate an honourable standing in the eyes of my fellow men. I am not blind to the advantages of wealth, or insensible to the claims of grace and beauty. But these were not the things for which I left my home, and it is not to claim them that I have now returned. Young as I am, I have lived long enough, and seen enough of the ill, to lay to the heart the belief that the only blessings worth striving for are something more enduring, more satisfying, than doubtful honours, precarious wealth, or fleeting smiles. To what, then, may I ask, do you look forward? To a home, and that, not so much for myself, though I have long pined for such a rest, as for another, with whom I hope to share it. A year since, and Willie's lip trembled, his voice shook with emotion, as he spoke, and there were others, beside that dear one whose image now entirely fills my heart, whom I had fondly hoped, and should deeply have rejoiced, to see reaping the fruits of my exertions. But we were not permitted to meet again. And now—but pardon me, sir, I did not mean to intrude upon you, my private affairs. Go on, said Mr. Emery, go on. I deserve some degree of confidence, and return for the disinterested advice I have been giving you. Speak to me as to an old friend. I am much interested in what you say. It is long since I have spoken freely of myself, said Willie, but frankness is natural to me, and since you profess a desire to learn something of my aim in life, I know of no motive I have for reserve or concealment. But my position, sir, even as a child, was singular, and you must excuse me if I refer to it for a moment. I could not have been more than twelve or fourteen years of age when I began to realize the necessity which rested upon me. My widowed mother and her aged father were the only relatives, almost the only friends I knew. One was feeble, delicate, and quite unequal to active exertion. The other was old and poor, being wholly dependent upon the small salary he received for officiating as sextant of a neighboring church. You are aware, for I have mentioned it in our earlier acquaintance abroad, that in spite of these circumstances they maintained me for several years, in comfort and decency, and gave me an excellent education. At an age when kites and marbles are want to be all-engrossing, I became possessed with an earnest desire to relieve my mother and grandfather of a part of their burden of care and labour, and with this purpose and view saw and obtained a situation in which I was well treated and well paid, and which I retained until the death of my excellent master. Even for a time I felt bitterly the want of employment, became desponding and unhappy, a state of mind which was fostered by constant association with one of so melancholy and despairing a temperament as my grandfather, who, having met with great disappointment in life, held out no encouragement to me, but was forever hinting at the probability of my utterly failing in every scheme for success and advancement. I bitterly regretted, at the time, the depressing influence of the old man's innuendos, but I have since thought they answered a good purpose, for nothing so urged me on to ever-increasing efforts as the indomitable desire to prove the mistaken nature of his gloomy predictions, and few things have given me more satisfaction than the assurances I have frequently received during the few past years that he came at last to a full conviction that my prosperity was established beyond a doubt, and that one of his ill-fated family was destined to escape the trials and evils of poverty. My mother was a quiet gentlewoman, small in person, with great simplicity, and some reserve of manner. She loved me like her own soul. She taught me everything I know of goodness. There is no sacrifice I would not have made for her happiness. I would have died to save her life, but we shall never meet again in this world. And I—I—am learning to be resigned. For these two, and one other, whom I shall speak of presently, I was ready to go away, and strive and suffer, and be patient. The opportunity came, and I embraced it. And soon one great object of my ambition was one. I was able to earn a competency for myself and for them. In the course of time, luxuries even were within my means, and I had begun to look forward to a not very distant day, when my long looked-for return should render our happiness perfect and complete. I little thought then that the sad tidings of my grandfather's death were on their way, and the news of my mother's slow, but equally sure decline so soon to follow. It is true, however, they are both gone, and I should now be so solitary as almost too long to follow them. But for one other, whose love will bind me to earth so long as she is spared. And she, exclaimed Mr. Amory, with an eagerness which willy, and grossed with his own thoughts, did not observe. It is a young girl, continued willy, without family, wealth or beauty, but with a spirit so elevated as to make her great, a heart so noble as to make her rich, a soul so pure as to make her beautiful. Mr. Amory's attitude affixed attention, his evident waiting to hear more, and boldened willy to speak still further. There lived in the same house which my grandfather occupied, an old man, a city lamp-lighter. He was poor, poorer even than we were. But I will venture to say there never was a better or a kinder-hearted person in the world. One evening, when engaged in his round of duty, he picked up and brought home a little ragged child, whom a cruel woman had just thrust into the street to perish with cold or die a more lingering death in the alms-house. For nothing but such devoted care as she received from my mother and Uncle True, so we always called her old friend, could have saved the feeble, half-starred creature from the consequences of long-continued exposure and ill-treatment. Through their unwaried watching and efforts she was spared to repay in after-years all, and more than all, the love bestowed upon her. She was at that time miserably thin and attenuated, sallow and extremely plain in her appearance, besides being possessed of a violent temper which she had never been taught to restrain, and a stubbornness of will which undoubtedly resulted from her having long lived in opposition to all the world. All this, however, did not repel Uncle True. Under whose loving influence, new and hitherto undeveloped virtues and capacities soon began to manifest themselves. In the atmosphere of love in which she now lived, she soon became a changed being, and when, in addition to the example and precepts taught her at home, a divine light was shed upon her life by one who, herself sitting in darkness, cast a hallow forth from her own spirit to illumine those of all who are blessed with her presence. She became what she has ever since been, a being to love and trust for a lifetime. For myself there were no bounds to the affection I soon came to cherish for the little girl, to whom I was first attracted by compassion merely. We were constantly together. We had no thoughts, no studies, no pleasures, sorrows, or interests that were not shared. I was her teacher, her protector, the partner of all her childish amusements, and she, on her part, was by turns and advising, consoling, sympathizing, and encouraging friend. In this latter character she was indispensable to me, for she had a hopeful nature, and a buoyancy of spirit which often imparted itself to me. I well remember when my kind employer died, and I was plunged in boyish grief and despair, the confidence and energy with which she, then very young, inspired me. The relation between her and Uncle True was beautiful. Boy as I was I could not but view with admiration the old man's devoted love for the adopted darling of his latter years, his birdie, as he always called her, and the deep and grateful affection which she bore him in return. During the first few years she was wholly dependent upon him, and seemed only a fond, affectionate child. But a time came at last when the case was reversed, and the old man, stricken with disease, became infirm and helpless. It was then that the beauty of her woman's nature shone forth triumphant, and, oh, how gently, child as she was, she guided his steps as he descended to the grave. Often have I gone to his room at midnight, fearing lest he might be in need of care, which she, in her youth and in experience, would be unable to render. And never shall I forget the little figure seated calmly by his bedside, at an hour when many of her years would be shrinking from fears conjured up by the night and the darkness, with a lamp dimly burning on a table before her, and she herself, with his hand in hers, sweetly soothing his wakefulness by her loving words, or with her eyes bent upon her little Bible, reading to him holy lessons. But all her care could not prolong his life, and shortly before I went to India he died, blessing God for the peace imparted to him through his gentle nurse. It was my task to soothe our little Gertie's sorrows, and do what I could to comfort her, an office which, before I left the country, I was rejoiced to transfer to the willing hands of the excellent blind lady who had long befriended both her and Uncle True. Before I went away, I solemnly committed to Gertie, who had in one instance proved herself both willing and able the care of my mother and grandfather. She promised to be faithful to the trust, and nobly was that promise kept. In spite of the unkindness and deep displeasure of Mr. Graham, the blind lady's father, upon whose bounty she had for a long time been dependent, she devoted herself heart and hand to the fulfillment of duties which in her eyes were sacred and holy. In spite of suffering, labor, watching, and privation, she voluntarily foresoaked ease and pleasure, and spent day and night in the patient service of friends whom she loved with a greater love than a daughter's, for it was that of a saint. With all my earnestness of purpose, I could never have done half that she did. I might have loved as much, but none but a woman's heart could have conceived and planned. None but a woman's hand could have patiently executed the deeds that Gertrude wrought. She was more than a sister to me before. She was my constant correspondent, my dearest friend. Now she is bound to me by ties that are not of earth nor of time. Suddenly, said Mr. Emery, who had waited patiently for the conclusion of Willie's story, I can well understand that a man of a generous spirit could hardly fail to cherish a deep and lasting gratitude for one who devoted herself so disinterestedly to a trying and toilsome attendance upon the last hours of beloved friends, to whose wants he himself was prevented from ministering. And the warmth with which you eulogize this girl does you credit, Sullivan. She must, too, be a young person of great excellence, to have fulfilled so faithfully and well a promise of such remote date that it would probably have been ignored by a less disinterested friend. But do not let any enthusiastic sense of honor induce you to sacrifice yourself on the shrine of gratitude. I shall find it hard to believe that a young man who has had the ambition to mark out and the energy to pursue such a course on the road to fortune as you have thus far successfully followed can in his sober senses have made a serious resolve to unite himself and his prospects with an insignificant little playmate of unacknowledged birth without beauty or fortune, unless there is already a standing engagement by which he is unwillingly bound, or he allows himself to be drawn unto matrimony by the belief that the highest compliment he can pay, namely the offer of himself, will alone cancel the immense obligations under which he labors. May I ask if you are already shackled by promises? I am not, replied Willie. Then listen to me a moment. My motives are friendly when I beg you not to act rashly in a matter which will affect the happiness of your whole life, and to hear, with patience, too, if you can, for Willie already gave symptoms of restlessness, the few words which I have to say on the subject. You are much mistaken, my young friend, if you believe that the happiness of Gertie, as you call her, a very ugly name, by the way, can be insured any more than your own by an ill-assorted union of which you will both find occasion to repent. You have not seen her for six years. Think, then, of all that has happened in the meantime, and beware how you act with precipitation. You have all this time been living abroad, engaged in active life, growing in knowledge of the world, and its various phases of society. In India, to be sure, you witnessed a mode of life wholly different from that which prevails with us, or in European cities. But the independence, both of character and manner, which you there acquired, fitted you admirably for the polished sphere of Parisian life, to which you were so suddenly introduced, and in which, I may say without flattery, you met with such marked success. Notwithstanding the privilege you enjoyed of being presented in polite circles, as the friend of a man so well known, and so much respected as Mr. Clinton, you cannot have been insensible to the marked attentions bestowed upon you by American residents abroad, or unaware of the advantage you enjoyed, on your return home, from having been known as the object of such favor. Though not so fortunate as to meet you in Paris, I was there at the same time with yourself, and had some opportunity of being acquainted with facts which I am sure you would have too much modesty to acknowledge. That you were not wholly devoid of taste for choice society, it is easy to infer. Since otherwise you would never have been able to render yourself an ornament to it, or even maintain a place within its precincts. It is also equally evident that your pride must have been flattered, and your views in life somewhat biased by the favorable reception you have met, both abroad and at home, not only from your own sex, but also from the young, fair, and beautiful woman who have honored you with their smiles, and among whom she whose name the crowd already associates with your own stands preeminent. When I think of all this, and of those pecuniary hopes you may so reasonably indulge, and on which I have already dilated, then imagine you suddenly flinging all these aside to chivalrously throw yourself at the feet of your mother's little nurse. I confess I find it impossible to keep silent, and avoid reminding you of the reaction that must come, the disappointment that must ensue, on finding yourself at once and forever, shot out from participation and pleasures which have been within your reach, and voluntarily discarded. You must remember that much of the consideration which is to be paid to a young bachelor of growing prospects ceases to be awarded to him after marriage, and is never extended to his bride, unless she be chosen from the select circles to which he aspires, this unproportioned orphan with whom you propose to share your fate, this little patient schoolmistress. I did not tell you she had ever been a teacher, exclaimed Willie, stopping short in his walk up and down the room, which letterly he had been, in his turn, pacing impatiently, while he listened to Mr. Emery's words. I did not tell you anything of the sort, how did you know it? Mr. Emery, who by his negligence had thus betrayed more knowledge than he had been supposed to possess, hesitated a moment, but quickly recovering himself, answered with a parent frankness. To tell the truth, Sullivan, I have seen the girl, in company with an old doctor. Dr. Jeremy asked Willie quickly, the same, when did you see her, how did it happen? Do not question me, said Mr. Emery, petulantly, as if the matter were of little consequence, and he did not choose to be interrogated. I happened to see the old gentleman in the course of my travels, and this Gertrude Flint was with him. He told me a few facts concerning her, nothing to her disadvantage, however, in warning you against the Missy Lyons I speak only in general terms. Willie looked at Mr. Emery, in a half-scrutinizing, half-wondering manner, and appeared on the point of persisting in his attempt to learn further particulars, but Mr. Emery, taking up the thread of his previous conversation, went on, without giving him a chance to speak. This Gertrude, as I was saying, Sullivan, will be a dead weight upon your hands, a constant drawback to all your efforts for the attainment of fashionable society, in which it is hardly to be expected she can be exactly fitted to shine. You yourself pronounce her to be without wealth or beauty, of her family, you know nothing, and have certainly little reason to expect that, if discovered, it would do her any credit. I believe, then, that I only speak from the dictates of common sense, when I bid you beware how you make, in the disposal of yourself, such a very unequal bargain. I am very willing to believe, sir, said Willie, resuming his seat, and settling himself into a composed attitude, that the arguments you have so powerfully brought to bear upon a question most important to my welfare are grounded upon calm reasoning, and a disinterested desire to promote my prosperity. I confess you are the last man, judging from our short, but for the length of time, intimate acquaintance, from whom I should have expected such advice, for I had believed you so independent of the opinion, and so indifferent to the applause of the world, that they would weigh but little with you, and forming estimates for the guidance of others. Still, though your suggestions have failed to influence, or in the least degree change my sediments or intentions, I fully appreciate, and thank you for the sincerity and earnestness with which you have sought to mold my judgment by your own, and will reply to your arguments, with such frankness, as will, I think, persuade you that, so far from following the impulses of a blind enthusiasm, to plunge with haste and precipitation into a course of action hereafter to be deplored, I am actuated by feelings which reason approves, and which have already stood the test of experience. You speak truly when you impute to me a natural taste for good society, a taste which poverty, and the retirement in which my boyhood was passed, gave me little opportunity to manifest, but which had, nevertheless, no small influence in determining my aims and ambition in life. The fine houses, equipages, and clothes of the rich, had far less charm to my fancy than the high-bred ease, refinement, and elegance of manner, which distinguished some few of their owners who chanced to come under my observation, and much as I desired the attainment of wealth for the sake of its own intrinsic advantages, and the means it would afford of contributing to the comfort and happiness of others. It would have seemed to me divested of half its value, should it fail to secure to its possessor a free admittance to the polite and polished circles upon which I looked with admiring eyes. I needed not, therefore, the social deprivations I experienced in India to prepare me to enter with eager zest into the excitement and pleasure of piracy in life, to switch through the kindness and partiality of Mr. Clinton. I obtained, as you are, it seems, aware, a free and immediate introduction. It is true I was summoned thither at a time when my spirits had been for months struggling with the depression occasioned by sad news from home, and had not, therefore, the least disposition to avail myself of Mr. Clinton's politeness, but the feebleness of his health, and his inability to enter largely into the gaities of the place, compelled me continually to offer myself as an escort to his daughter, who, fond of society, and reluctant to submit to any exclusion from it, invariably accepted my services, thus drawing me into the very whirl and vortex of fashionable life, in which I confess I soon found much to flatter, bewilder, and intoxicate. I could not be insensible to the privileges so unexpectedly accorded to me, nor could my vanity be wholly proof against the assaults made upon it, nor was my manliness of character alone at stake. My position in fashionable circles, through other and more serious temptations in my way, the soundness of principle and simplicity of habit implanted in me from childhood, and hither too preserved intact, soon found themselves at stake. I had withstood every kind of gross temptation, but my new, and refined associates now presented it to me in that more subtle form, which often proves a snare to those over whom, had it come without disguise, it would have no power. The wine-cup could never have enticed me to the course and disgusting scenes of drunken revelry, but held in the hands of the polished gentleman, who had, but a moment before, been the recipients of popular favour and woman's smiles. It sparkled with a richer luster, and its bitter dregs were forgotten. The professed game-ster, the well-known rogue, would in vain have sought me for an accomplice, but I was not equally on my guard against the danger which awaited me from other and unexpected quarters. For how could I believe that my friends, Mr. Clinton's friends, the ornaments of the sphere in which they moved, would unfairly win my money, involve me in entanglements, and lead me on to rune? I almost wonder, as I look back upon the few first weeks of my residence in Paris, that I did not finally fall a victim to some one of the numerous snares that were, on every side, spread for my destruction, and into which my social disposition, my fearless, and at the same time, unsophisticated nature, rendered me especially prone to fall. Nothing I am persuaded but the recollection of my pure-minded and watchful mother, whose recent death had given new freshness and life to the memory of her many warning-councils. At the time they were bestowed, deemed by me unnecessary, but now, in the moment of danger, springing up and arming themselves with a solemn meaning. Nothing but the consciousness of her gentle spirit ever hovering around my path, saddened by my conflicts, rejoicing in my triumphs, could ever have given me courage and perseverance to resist, shun, and finally escape altogether, the pitfalls into which my unwary steps would have plunged me. These darker evils, however, successfully combated and subdued, there were others of scarcely less magnitude awaiting me, and in which much of my future well-being and usefulness were involved. In the unvaried round of pleasure in which my days and nights even were frequently passed, there was much to gratify my self-love, foster my ambition, and annihilate every worthier emotion. And here, believe me, my safety lay in my success. Had I approached the outskirts of fashionable life, and been compelled to linger, with longing eyes, at the threshold, I might even now be loitering there, a deceived spectator of joys which it was not permitted to me to enter and share, or having gained a partial entrance, be eagerly employed in pushing my way onward. Admitted, however, at once, into the very arcana of a sphere, I was eager to penetrate. My eyes were soon opened to the vain, hollow, and worthless nature of the bobble fashion. Not that I did not meet within its courts, the grace, wit, talent, and refinement, which I had hoped to find there, or that these were invariably accompanied by other and less attractive qualities. No, I truly believe there is no class which cannot boast of its heroes and heroines, that there are within the walls of fashionable life men and women who would grace a wilderness. Nor do I despise forms and ceremonies which are becoming in themselves, and conducive to elegance and good-breeding. As long as one class is distinguished by education and refined manners, and another is marked by ignorance and vulgarity, there should be, and there must, in the nature of things, be a dividing line between the two, which neither, perhaps, would desire to overstep. But this barrier is not fashion, which both abroad and at home often times excludes the former, and gives free admittance to the latter, and if I presume to adopt a higher standard, it is because I have had so close an acquaintance, with that already set up, that I can judge how little it is to be trusted. You are young, said Mr. Emery, to be such a philosopher. Many a man has turned away with disgust, from an aristocracy into which he could himself gain no admittance, but few renounce it voluntarily. Few, perhaps, replied Willie, few young men, at least, have such opportunities as I have had to penetrate its secrets. I trust I may say without treachery, since I speak in general terms only, that I have seen more ignorance, more ill-breeding, more meanness, and more immorality in the so-called aristocracy of our country, than I should have believed it possible would be tolerated there. I have frequently known instances in which the most accomplished gentleman, or the most beautiful lady, of a gay circle, has given evidence of unpardonable want of information on the most common topics. I have seen elegant evening assemblies, disgraced by a degree of rudeness and incivility, which reflected as little credit on the taste as on the feelings. I have seen the profuse and lavish expenditure of today atoned for by a selfish and despicable parsimony on the morrow. And I have seen a want of principle exhibited by persons of both sex, which proves that a high position on earth is no security against such contamination of the soul as must wholly unfit it for an exalted place hereafter. I have witnessed no less myself, said Mr. Emery, but my experiences have not been like those of other men, and my sight has been sharpened by circumstances. I am still astonished that you should have been awake to these facts. I was not at first, answered Willie. It was only gradually that I recovered from the dazzling blinding effect which the glitter and show of fashion imposed upon the clearness of my perceptions. My suspicions of its falsehood and vanity were based upon instances of selfishness, folly, and cold-heartedness, which one after another came to my knowledge. I could relate to you the thousand mean deceits, the contemptible rivalries, the gross neglect of sacred duties, which came under my immediate observation. But I will not betray the secrets of individuals, or weary you with their recital. Especially was I astonished at the effect of an uninterrupted pursuit of pleasure upon the sensibilities, the tempers, and the domestic affections of women. Though bearing within my heart an image of female goodness and purity, this sweet remembrance, this living ideal, might possibly have been driven from its throne, and supplanted by some one of the lovely faces, which at first bewildered me by their beauty, had these last been the index to souls of equal perfection. There may be, I have no doubt there are, noble and excellent women, moving in the highest walks of life, whose beauty, grace, and other outward adornments are less admirable than their own high natures. But among those with whom I became familiarly acquainted, there was not one who could in the least compare with her who was continually present in my memory, who is still, and ever must be, a model to her sex. It is no wonder that others failed to come up to my conception of all that is lovely in women, since the character of Gertrude Flint was the standard by which each in my mind was measured. How could I help contrasting the folly, the worldliness, and the cold-heartedness around me, with the cultivated mind, the self-sacrificing, and affectionate disposition, of one who possesses every quality that can adorn life, whether at home or abroad? You have indeed failed to convince me that Gertrude can in any way be a drawback or a disadvantage to the man who shall be so fortunate as to call her his. For my own part, I desire no better, no more truly aristocratic position in life, than that to which she is so well entitled, and to which she would be one of the brightest ornaments. The aristocracy of true refinement, knowledge, grace, and beauty. You talk to me of wealth. Gertrude has no money in her purse, but her soul is the pure gold, tried in the furnace of sorrow and affliction, and thence come forth bright and unalloyed. You speak of family and an honourable birth. She has no family, and her birth is shrouded in mystery. But the blood that courses in her veins would never disgrace the race from which she sprung, and every throb of her unselfish heart allies her to all that is noble. You are eloquent on the subject of beauty. When I parted from Gertrude she was, in all but character, a mere child, being only twelve or thirteen years of age. Though much altered and improved since the time when she first came among us, I scarcely think she could have been said to possess much of what the world calls beauty. For myself it was a matter of which I seldom thought or cared, and had I been less indifferent on the subject, she was so dear to me that I should have been utterly unable to form an impartial judgment of her claims in this respect. I well remember, however, the indignation I once felt at hearing a fellow clerk, who had accidentally met her in one of our walks, sneeringly contrast her personal appearance with that of her mutual employer's handsome daughter, the same Miss Clinton of whom we have been speaking, and the proportionate rapture with which I listened to the excellent teacher, Miss Brown, when on a certain occasion being present at a school examination, I overheard her commenting to a lady upon Gertrude's wonderful promise in person as well as in mind. Whether the first part of this promise has been fulfilled, I have no means of judging. But as I recall her dignified and graceful little figure, her large intelligent sparkling eyes, the glow of feeling that lit up her whole countenance, and the peaceful, almost majestic expression which purity of soul imparted to her yet childish figures. She stands forth to my remembrance, the embodiment of all that I hold most dear. Six years may have outwardly changed her much, but they cannot have robbed her of what I prized the most. She has charms over which time can have no power, a grace that is a gift of heaven, a beauty that is eternal. Could I ask for more? Do not believe, then, continued he, after a short pause, that my fidelity to my early playmate is an emotion of gratitude merely. It is true I owe her much, far more than I can ever repay. But the honest warmth of my affection for the noble girl springs from the truest love of a purity of character and singleness of heart which I have never seen equaled. What is there in the weary sum and foolish walks of fashion, the glitter and show of wealth, the homage of an idle crowd that could so fill my heart, elevate my spirit, and inspire my exertions? As the thought of a peaceful, happy home, blessed by a presiding spirit so formed for confidence, love, and a communion that time can never dissolve, and eternity will but render more secure and unbroken. And she, whom you love so well, are you sure, asked Mr. Phillips, speaking with visible effort, and faltering ere he had completed his sentence? No, answered Willie, anticipating the question. I know what you would ask. I am not sure. I have no reason to indulge the hopes I have been dwelling upon so fondly, but I do not regret having spoken with such openness and candor. For should she grieve my heart by her coldness, I should still be proud to have loved her. Until this time, ever since I gained my native land, I have been shackled with duties, which sacred as they were have chafed a spirit longing for freedom to follow its own impulses. In this visit to you, sir, and as he spoke, he rose to depart. I have fulfilled the last obligation imposed upon me by my excellent friend, and to-morrow I shall be at liberty to go where duty alone prevented me from at once hastening. He offered his hand to Mr. Emery, who grasped it with a cordiality very different from the feeble greeting he had given him on his entrance. Good-bye, said he, you carry with you my best wishes for a success, which you seem to have so much at heart. But some day or other I feel sure you will be reminded of all I have said to you this evening. Strange man, thought Willie, as he walked towards his own hotel. How warmly he shook my hand at parting, and with what a friendly manner he bade me farewell, notwithstanding the coldness of the reception he gave me, and the pertinacity with which, throughout my whole visit, I rejected his opinions and repelled his advice.