CHAPTER XVII.
And thou must sail upon this sea, a long,
Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck,
The foolish must. O, then, be early wise.
Ware.
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Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a
meeting of bank-directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the
dining-room. Willie still detained Gertrude in the little library
below stairs, and Emily, with the moonlight now streaming across
the chamber, which was none the less dark to her on that account,
was indulging in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on
her hand; her face, usually so placid, was sad and melancholy in
its expression; and her whole appearance and attitude denoted despondency
and grief. As thought pressed upon thought, and past
sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sunk upon
the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled
through her fingers.
Suddenly, a hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick
start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual preoccupation
of mind had made Gertrude's approaching step unheard.
“Is anything the matter, Miss Emily?” said Gertrude. “Do
you like best to be alone, or may I stay?”
The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question,
touched Emily. She drew her towards her, saying, as she did so,
“O yes, stay with me;” then observing, as she passed an arm
round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated,
she added, “but what is the matter with you, Gerty?
What makes you tremble and sob so?”
At this, Gertrude broke forth with, “O, Miss Emily! I
thought you were crying when I came in, and I hoped you would
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let me come and cry with you; for I am so miserable I can't do
anything else.”
Calmed herself by the more vehement agitation of the child
Emily endeavored to discover the cause of this evidently new and
severe affliction. It proved to be this: Willie had been to tell
her that he was going away, going out of the country; as Gertrude
expressed it, to the very other end of the world—to India.
Mr. Clinton was interested in a mercantile house at Calcutta, and
had offered William the most favorable terms to go abroad as
clerk to the establishment. The prospect thus afforded was far
better than he could hope for by remaining at home; the salary
was, at the very first, sufficient to defray all his own expenses,
and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming every
year more and more dependent upon him. The chance, too, of
future advancement was great; and, though the young man's
affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no
hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest
prompted. He agreed to the proposal, and, whatever his own
struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years' banishment,
he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully
about it to his mother and grandfather.
“Miss Emily,” said Gertrude, when she had acquainted her
with the news, and become again somewhat calm, “how can I
bear to have Willie go away? How can I live without Willie?
He is so kind, and loves me so much! He was always better than
any brother, and, since Uncle True died, he has done everything
in the world for me. I believe I could not have borne Uncle
True's death if it had not been for Willie; and now how can I
let him go away?”
“It is hard, Gertrude,” said Emily, kindly, “but it is no
doubt for his advantage; you must try and think of that.”
“I know it,” replied Gertrude,—“I suppose it is; but, Miss
Emily, you do not know how I love Willie. We were so much
together; and there were only us two, and we thought everything
of each other; he was so much older than I, and always took
such good care of me! O, I don't think you have any idea what
friends we are!”
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Gertrude had unconsciously touched a chord that vibrated
through Emily's whole frame. Her voice trembled as she answered,
“I, Gertrude! not know, my child! I know better than
you imagine how dear he must be to you. I, too, had”—then
checking herself, she paused abruptly, and there was a few moments'
silence, during which Emily got up, walked hastily to the
window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and
then, returning to Gertrude, said, in a voice which had recovered
its usual calmness, “O, Gertrude! in the grief that oppresses
you now, you little realize how much you have to be thankful for.
Think, my dear, what a blessing it is that Willie will be where
you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant
news of his friends.”
“Yes,” replied Gerty; “he says he shall write to his mother
and me very often.”
“Then, too,” said Emily, “you ought to rejoice at the good
opinion Mr. Clinton must have of Willie; the perfect confidence
he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. I
think that is very flattering.”
“So it is,” said Gertrude; “I did not think of that.”
“And you have lived so happily together,” continued Emily,
“and will part in such perfect peace. O, Gertrude! Gertrude!
such a parting as that should not make you sad; there are so
much worse things in the world. Be patient, my dear child, do
your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting,
that will quite repay you for all you suffer in the separation.”
Emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words.
Gertrude's eyes were fixed upon her friend with a very puzzled
expression. “Miss Emily,” said she, “I begin to think everybody
has trouble.”
“Certainly, Gertrude; can you doubt it?”
I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought
other folks were more fortunate. I faucied that rich people
were all happy; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful
thing, I supposed you were used to it; and you always looked so
pleasant and quiet, I took it for granted nothing ever vexed you
now. And then, Willie!—I believed once that nothing could make
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him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he hadn't any
place, I saw him really cry; and then, when Uncle True died, and
now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he
could hardly speak, he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since
I see that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come,
though you try to keep them back, I think the world is full of
trials, and that everybody gets a share.”
“It is the lot of humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it
to be otherwise.”
“Then who can be happy, Miss Emily?”
“Those only, my child, who have learned submission; those
who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving Father,
and, obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod.”
“It is very hard, Miss Emily.”
“It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can
rightly be called happy; but, if, even in the midst of our distress,
we can look to God in faith and love, we may, when the world is
dark around, experience a peace that is a forestaste of heaven.”
And Emily was right. Who that is striving after the Christian
life has not experienced moments when, amid unusual discouragements
and disappointments, the heart, turning in love and trust to
its great Source, experiences emotions of ecstatic joy and hope,
that never come to the prosperous and the world-called happy?
He who has had such dreams of eternal peace can form some conception
of the rest which remaineth for the people of God, when,
with an undivided affection, and a faith undimmed by a single
doubt, the soul reposes in the bosom of its Creator.
Gertrude had often found in time and the soothing influences
of religious faith some alleviation to her trials; but never, until
this night, did she feel a spirit not of earth, coming forth from the
very chaos of sorrow into which she was plunged, and enkindling
within her the flame of a higher and nobler sensation than she
ever yet had cherished.
When she left Emily that night, it was with a serenity which is
strength; and, if the spirit of Uncle True, looking down upon
her through the bright star which she so loved, sighed to see the
tears which glittered in her eyes, it was reässured by the smile
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of a heaven-lit light that played over her features, and when she
sunk to slumber stamped them with the seal of peace.
Willie's departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a
week in which to make those arrangements which a mother's
thoughtfulness deems necessary. Her hands were therefore full
of work, and Gerty, whom Emily at once relinquished for the
short time previous to the vessel's sailing, was of great assistance
to her. Willie was very busy daytimes, but was always
with them in the evening.
On one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and, his mother
and grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put
aside her sewing, he said to her, “Come, Gerty, if you are not
afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as
we used to in old times; there will be no more such warm days
as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and
watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner.”
“O, Willie,” said Gertrude, “do not speak of our never being
together in this old place again! I cannot bear the thought;
there is not a house in Boston I could ever love as I do this.”
“Nor I,” replied Willie; “but there is not one chance in a
hundred, if I should be gone five years, that there would not be a
block of brick stores in this spot, when I come to look for it. I
wish I did not think so, for I shall have many a longing after the
old home.”
“But what will become of your mother and grandfather, if
this house is torn down?”
“It is not easy to tell, Gerty, what will become of any of us
by that time; but, if there is any necessity for their moving, I
hope I shall be able to provide a better house than this for them.”
“You won't be here, Willie.”
“I know it, but I shall be always hearing from you, and we
can talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. The idea
of any such changes, after all,” added he, “is what troubles me
most in going away; I think they would miss me and need me
so much. Gertrude, you will take care of them, won't you?”
“I!” said Gertrude, in amazement; “such a child as I!—what
can I do?”
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“If I am gone five or ten years, Gerty, you will not be a child
all that time, and a woman is often a better dependence than a
man; especially such a good, brave woman as you will be. I
have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of Uncle True; and,
whenever I imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, I
always think of you, and hope you will be near them; for I know,
if you are, you will be a greater help than I could be. So I leave
them in your care, Gerty, though you are only a child yet.”
“Thank you, Willie,” said Gertrude, “for believing I shall do
everything I can for them. I certainly will, as long as I live.
But, Willie, they may be strong and well all the time you are gone;
and I, although I am so young, may be sick and die, — nobody
knows.”
“That is true enough,” said Willie, sadly; “and I may die
myself; but it will not do to think of that. It seems to me I
never should have courage to go if I did n't hope to find you all
well and happy when I come home. You must write to me every
month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and I am sure
she will want you to do nearly all the writing; and, whether my
letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you
know. And, Gerty, you must not forget me, darling; you must
love me just as much when I am gone, — won't you?”
“Forget you, Willie! I shall be always thinking of you, and
loving you the same as ever. What else shall I have to do? But
you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be different,
and you will not think half as much of me, I know.”
“If you believe that, Gertrude, it is because you do not know.
You will have friends all around you, and I shall be alone in a
foreign land; but every day of my life my heart will be with you
and my mother, and I shall live here a great deal more than there.”
They were now interrupted by Mr. Cooper's return, nor did they
afterwards renew the conversation on the above topics; but the
morning Willie left them, when Mrs. Sullivan was leaning over a
neatly-packed trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and
Mr. Cooper's head was bowed lower than usual, while the light
had gone out in the neglected pipe, which he still held in his hand,
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Willie whispered to Gerty, who was standing on a small chest of
books, in order to force down the lid for him to lock it, “Gerty,
dear, for my sake take good care of our mother and grandfather,—
they are yours almost as much as mine.”
On Willie's thus leaving home, for the first time, to struggle
and strive among men, Mr. Cooper, who could not yet believe that
the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him
many a caution against indulging hopes which never would be
realized, and reminded him again and again that he knew nothing
of the world.
Mrs. Sullivan bestowed on her son but little parting counsel.
Trusting to the lessons he had been learning from his childhood,
she compressed her parental advice into few words, saying,
“Love and fear God, Willie, and do not disappoint your mother.”
We pause not to dwell upon the last night the youth spent at
home, his mother's last evening prayer, her last morning benediction,
the last breakfast they all took together (Gertrude among
the rest), or the final farewell embrace.
And Willie went to sea. And the pious, loving, hopeful
woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tenderness
and pride, maintained now her wonted spirit of self-sacrifice,
and gave him up without a murmur. None knew how she struggled
with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sustained
her. No one had given the little widow credit for such
strength of mind, and the neighbors wondered much to see how
quietly she went about her duties the day before her son sailed;
and how, when he had gone, she still kept on with her work, and
wore the same look of patient humility that ever characterized her.
At the present moment, when emigration offers rare hopes and
inducements, there is scarcely to be found in New England a village
so insignificant, or so secluded, that there is not there some
mother's heart bleeding at the perhaps life-long separation from a
darling son. Among the wanderers, we hope, — ay, we believe
that there is many a one who is actuated, not by the love of gold,
the love of change, the love of adventure, but by the love he
bears his mother, — the earnest longing of his heart to save her
from a life of toil and poverty. Blessings and prosperity to him
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who goes forth with such a motive! And, if he fail, he has not
lived in vain; for, though stricken by disease or violence at the
very threshold of his labors, he dies in attestation of the truth
that there are sons worthy of a mother's love, a love which is the
highest, the holiest, the purest type of God on earth.
And now, in truth, commenced Gertrude's residence at Mr. Graham's,
hitherto in various ways interrupted. She at once commenced
attending school, and until the spring labored diligently at
her studies. Her life was varied by few incidents, for Emily never
entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any
at all, and Gertrude formed no intimate acquaintances among
her companious. With Emily she passed many happy hours;
they took walks, read books and talked much with each other, and
Miss Graham found that in Gertrude's observing eyes, and her
feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within
their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the outside
world. In errands of charity and merey Gertrude was either
her attendant or her messenger; and all the dependants of the
family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for
the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising the
child, who, though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a
fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement and a dignity of bearing,
which impressed them all with the conviction that she was no
beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune, — and all
were in the invariable habit of addressing her as Miss Gertrude.
Mrs. Eilis' prejudices against her were still strong; but, as Gertrude
was always civil, and Emily prudently kept them much
apart, no unhappy result had yet ensued.
Mr. Graham, sceing her sad and pensive, did not at first take
much notice of her; but, having on several occasions found his
newspaper carefully dried, and his spectacles miraculously restored,
after a vain search on his part, he began to think her a smart girl;
and when, a few weeks after, he took up the last number of the
Working Farmer, and saw, to his surprise, that the leaves were
cut and carefully stitched together, he, supposing she had done it
for her own benefit, pronounced her decidedly an intelligent girl.
She went often to see Mrs. Sullivan, and, as, the spring advanced,
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they began to look for news of Willie. No tidings had come,
however, when the season arrived for the Grahams to remove
into the country for the summer. A letter, written by Gertrude
to Willie, soon after they were established there, will give some
idea of her situation and mode of life.
After dwelling at some length upon the disappointment of not
having yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last
visit she had made his mother before leaving the city, she went
on to say: “But you made me promise, Willie, to write about
myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred
at Mr. Graham's which concerned me in any way; so, if my letter
is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for I have much
to tell of our removal to D—, and of the way in which we live
here, so different from our life in Boston. I think I hear you
say, when you have read so far, `O dear! now Gerty is going to
give me a description of Mr. Graham's country-house!' — but
you need not be afraid; I have not forgotten how, the last time I
undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop
me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had
lived there all your life, for I had described it to you as often as
once a week ever since I was eight years old. I made you beg
my pardon for being so uncivil; but I believe I talked enough
about my first visit here to excuse you for being quite tired of
the subject. Now, however, quite to my disappointment, everything
looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then;
and, though I do not mean to describe it to you again, I must
just tell you that the entry and piazzas are much narrower than
I expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer-houses
not nearly so large. Miss Emily asked me, a day or two ago,
how I liked the place, and if it looked as it used to. I told her
the truth; and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at
my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was
always so with things we had seen when we were little children.
“I need not tell you that Miss Emily is kind and good to me as
ever; for nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could
ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world.
I can never do half enough, Willie, to repay her for all her
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goodness to me; and yet, she is so pleased with little gifts, and so
grateful for trifling attentions, that it seems as if everybody might
do something to make her happy. I found a few violets in the
grass yesterday, and when I brought them to her she kissed and
thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds; and little
Ben Gately, who picked a hatful of dandelion-blossoms, without a
single stem, and them rang at the front-door bell asked for Miss
Ga'am, so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for
his trouble, and a `thank you, Bennie,' that he will not soon
forget. Was n't it pleasant in Miss Emily, Willie?
“Mr. Graham has given me a garden, and I mean to have
plenty of flowers for her, by and by, — that is, if Mrs. Ellis does n't
interfere; but I expect she will, for she does in almost everything.
Willie, Mrs. Ellis is my trial, my great trial. She is
just the kind of person I cannot endure. I believe there are
some people that other people can't like, — and she is just the sort
I can't. I would not tell anybody else so, because it would not
be right, and I do not know as it is right to mention it at all; but
I always tell you everything. Miss Emily talks to me about her,
and says I must learn to love her; and when I do I shall be an
angel.
“There, I know you will think that is some of Gerty's old
temper; and perhaps it is, but you don't know how she tries me:
it is in little things that I cannot tell very easily, and I would
not plague you with them if I could, so I won't write about her
any more, — I will try to be perfect, and love her dearly.
“You will think that now, while I am not going to school, I
shall hardly know what to do with my time; but I have plenty to
do. The first week after we came here, however, I found the
mornings very dull. You know I am always an early riser; but,
as it does not agree with Miss Emily to keep early hours, I never
see her until eight o'clock, full two hours after I am up and dressed.
When we were in Boston, I always spent that time studying;
but this spring, Miss Emily, who noticed that I was growing fast,
and heard Mr. Arnold observe how pale I looked, fancied it would
not do for me to spend so much time at my books; and so, when
we came to D—, she planned my study-hours, which are very
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few, and arranged that they should take place after breakfast and in
her own room. She also advised me, if I could, to sleep later in
the morning; but I could not, and was up at my usual time, wandering
around the garden. One day I was quite surprised to find
Mr. Graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits; but he
is a queer man. He asked me to come and help him plant onionseeds,
and I rather think I did it pretty well, for after that he
let me help him plant a number of things, and label little sticks
to put down by the side of them. At last, to my joy, he offered
to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where I might raise
flowers. He does not care for flowers, which seems so strange;
he only raises vegetables and trees.
“And so I am to have a garden. But I am making a very
long story, Willie, and have not time to say a thousand other
things that I want to. O! if I could see you, I could tell you
in an hour more than I can write in a week. In five minutes I
expect to hear Miss Emily's bell, and then she will send for me
to come and read to her.
“I long to hear from you, dear Willie, and pray to God, morning
and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of
you to your loving Gerty.”
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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
