CHAPTER XX.
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command,
And yet a spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.
Wordsworth.
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It was the twilight of a sultry September day, and, wearied with
many hours' endurance of an excessive heat, unlooked for so late
in the season, Emily Graham sat on the front piazza of her father's
house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze, which had
just sprung up. The western sky was still streaked with brilliant
lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the
moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day
and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams
upon Emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm,
which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of
her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble.
Ten years had passed since Emily was first introduced to the
reader; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time upon
her face and figure, that she looked scarcely any older than on
the occasion of her first meeting Gertrude in Mr. Arnold's church.
She had even then experienced much of the sorrow of life, and
learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for
every pain. Even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge
she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her
countenance: the one in a sobered and subdued expression, which
usually belongs to more mature years; the other, in that sweet, calm
smile of trust and hope, which proclaims the votary of Heaven.
Therefore time had little power upon her, and as she was then
so was she now; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more
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lovely in heart and life. A close observer might, however, perceive
in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of
interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of
life, than she had formerly evineed; and this was due, as Emily
felt and acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one
to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her
lively sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation
of the entertaining and the ludicrous, as well as the beautiful and
the true, and her earnest and unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved
friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed,
had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost
dormant, and become what Uncle True bade her be, eyes to her
benefactor.
On the present occasion, however, as Emily sat alone, shut out
from the beautiful sunset, and unconscious of the shadows that
played over her in the moonlight, her thoughts seemed to be sad.
She held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and,
as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze,
she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would
cross her features.
At length, some one emerges from behind the high fence which
sereens the garden from public gaze, and approaches the gate.
None but Emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step;
but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer,
whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance,
time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize
in her our little quondam Gertrude.
The present Gertrude—for she it is—has now become a young
lady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and her figure is
slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered
brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that
may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station.
She has taken off her bonnet, and is swinging it by the string,—a
habit she always had as a child; so we will acquit her of any
coquettish desire to display an unusually fine head of hair.
Gertrude's eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now
look too large for her face; and, if her mouth be less classically
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formed than the strict rule of beauty would commend, one can easily
forgive that, in consideration of two rows of small pearly teeth,
which are as regular and even as a string of beads. Her neat
dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her simple black
mantle does not conceal the roundness of her taper waist.
What then? Is Gertrude a beauty?
By no means. Hers is a face and form about which there
would be a thousand different opinions, and out of the whole number
few would pronounce her beautiful. But there are faces
whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch,—tell-tale faces,
that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within; faces that
now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden
at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that
which the soul abhors, and now, again, are sanctified by the divine
presence, when the heart turns away from the world and itself, and
looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude's.
There are forms, too, which, though neither dignified, queenly or
fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a self-possession, a power of
moving lightly and airily in their sphere, and never being in any
one's way,—and such a form was Gertrude's.
Whatever charm these attractions might give her,—and there
were those who estimated it highly,—it was undoubtedly greatly
enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing
any attractions at all. The early-engrafted belief in her own personal
plainness had not yet deserted her; but she no longer felt
the mortification she had formerly labored under on that account.
As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quick-ened
her pace, and, joining her near the door-step, where a path
turning to the right led into the garden, passed her arm affectionately
over Emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness,
and Gertrude's superior height and ability to act as guide,
had of late rendered usual, and, turning into the walk which led
from the house, said, while she drew the shawl closer around her
blind friend,
“Here I am again, Emily! Have you been alone ever since I
went away?”
“Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been quite worried
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to think you were travelling about in Boston this excessively warm
day.”
“It has not hurt me in the least; I only enjoy this cool breeze
all the more; it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the
city!”
“But, Gerty,” said Emily, stopping short in their walk, “what
are you coming away from the house for? You have not been to
tea, my child.”
“I know it, Emily, but I don't want any supper.”
They walked on for some time, slowly and in perfect silence.
At last Emily said,
“Well, Gertrude, have you nothing to tell me?”
“O, yes, a great deal, but—”
“But you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like
to speak it; is it not so?”
“I ought not to have the vanity, dear Emily, to think it would
trouble you very much; but, ever since last evening, when I told
you what Mr. W. said, and what I had in my mind, and you
seemed to feel so hadly at the thought of our being separated, I
have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do.”
“And I, on the other hand, Gertrude, have been reproaching
myself for allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the
matter, lest I should be influencing you against your duty, or, at
least, making it harder for you to fulfil. I feel that you are right,
Gertrude, and that, instead of opposing, I ought to do everything
I can to forward your plans.”
“Dear Emily!” exclaimed Gertrude, vehemently, “if you
thought so from what I told you yesterday, you would be convinced,
had you seen and heard all that I have to-day.”
“Why? are matters any worse than they were at Mrs. Sullivan's?”
“Much worse than I described to you. I did not then know
myself all that Mrs. Sullivan had to contend with; but I have
been at their house nearly all the time since I left home this morning
(for Mr. W. did not detain me five minutes), and it really
does not seem to me safe for such a timid, delicate woman as Mrs.
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Sullivan to be alone with Mr. Cooper, now that his mind is in
such a dreadful state.”
“But, do you think you can do any good, Gertrude?”
“I know I can, dear Emily; I can manage him much better
than she can, and at the same time do more for his comfort and
happiness. He is like a child now, and full of whims. When he
can possibly be indulged, Mrs. Sullivan will please him at any
amount of inconvenience, and even danger, to herself; not only
because he is her father, and she feels it her duty, but I actually
think she is afraid of him, he is so irritable and violent. She
tells me he often takes it into his head to do the strangest things,
such as going out late at night, when it would be perfectly unsafe;
and sleeping with his window wide open, though his room is on
the lower floor.”
“Poor woman!” exclaimed Emily; “what does she do in such
cases?”
“I can tell you, Emily, for I saw an instance of it to-day.
When I first went in this morning, he was preparing to make a
coal-fire in the grate, notwithstanding the heat, which was becoming
intense in the city.”
“And Mrs. Sullivan?” said Emily.
“Was sitting on the lower stair, in the front entry, crying.”
“Poor thing!” murmured Emily.
“She could do nothing with him,” continued Gertrude, “and
had given up in despair.”
“She ought to have a strong woman, or a man, to take care of
him.”
“That is what she dreads, more than anything. She says it
would kill her to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to
be by a stranger; and, besides, I can see that she shrinks from the
idea of having any one in the house to whom she is unaccustomed.
She is exceedingly neat and particular in all her arrangements,
has always done her work herself, and declares she would sooner
admit a wild beast into her family than an Irish girl.”
“Her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her
yet, has it?”
“O, no. She was saying, to-day, how strange it seemed,
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when she had been looking forward so long to the comfort of a
new and well-built tenement, that, just as she had moved in and
got everything furnished to her mind, she should have this great
trial come upon her.”
“It seems strange to me,” said Emily, “that she did not sooner
perceive its approach. I noticed, when I went with you to the
house in E—street, the failure in the old man's intellect.”
“I had observed it for a long time,” remarked Gertrude, “but
never spoke of it to her; and I do not think she was in the least
aware of it, until about the time of their removal, when the
breaking up of old associations had a sad effect upon poor Mr.
Cooper.”
“Don't you think, Gertrude, that the pulling down of the
church, and his consequent loss of employment, were a great
injury to his mind?”
“Yes, indeed, I am sure of it; he altered very much after that,
and never seemed so happy, even while they were in the house in
E—street; and when the owners of that land concluded to take
it for stores and warehouses, and gave Mrs. Sullivan notice that she
would be obliged to leave, the old sexton's mind gave way entirely.”
“Sad thing!” said Emily. “How old is he, Gertrude?”
“I don't know exactly, but I believe he is very old; I remember
Mrs. Sullivan's telling me, some time ago, that he was near
eighty.”
“Is he so old as that? Then I am not surprised that these
changes have made him childish.”
“O, no. Melancholy as it is, it is no more than we may any of
us come to, if we live to his age; and, as he seems for the most
part full as contented and happy as I have ever seen him appear,
I do not lament it so much on his own account as on Mrs. Sullivan's.
But I do, Emily, feel dreadfully anxious about her.”
“Does it seem to be so very hard for her to bear up under it?”
“I think it would not be, if she were well; but there is something
the matter with her, and I fear it is more serious than she allows,
for she looks very pale, and has, I know, had several alarming ill
turns lately.”
“Has she consulted a physician?”
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“No; she doesn't wish for one, and insists upon it she shall
soon be better; but I do not feel sure that she will, especially as
she takes no care of herself; and that is one great reason for my
wishing to be in town as soon as possible. I am anxious to have
Dr. Jeremy see her, and I think I can bring it about without her
knowing that he comes on her account. I'll have a severe cold
myself, if I can't manage it in any other way.”
“You speak confidently of being in town, Gertrude; so I suppose
it is all arranged.”
“O, I have not told you, have I, about my visit to Mr. W.?
Dear, good man, how grateful I ought to be to him! He has
promised me the situation.”
“I had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to
you at Mrs. Bruce's.”
“You hadn't, really! Why, Emily, I was almost afraid to
mention it to him. I couldn't believe he would have sufficient
confidence in me; but he was so kind! I hardly dare tell you
what he said about my capacity to teach, you will think me so
vain.”
“You need not tell me, my darling; I know, from his own lips,
how highly he appreciates your ability; you could not tell me
anything so flattering as what he told me himself.”
“Dear Uncle True always wanted me to be a teacher; it was
the height of his ambition. He would be pleased, wouldn't he,
dear Emily?”
“He would no doubt have been proud enough to see you assistant
in a school like Mr. W.'s. I am not sure, however, but he
would think, as I do, that you are undertaking too much. You
expect to be occupied in the school the greater part of every
morning, and yet you propose to establish yourself as nurse to
Mrs. Sullivan, and guardian to her poor old father. My dear
child, you are not used to so much care, and I shall be constantly
troubled for you, lest your own health and strength give way.”
“O, dear Emily, there is no occasion for any anxiety on my
account; I am well and strong, and fully capable of all that I
have planned for myself. My only dread is in the thought of
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leaving you; and the only fear I have is, that you will miss me,
and perhaps feel as if—”
“I know what you would say, Gertrude. You need not fear
that; I am sure of your affection. I am confident you love me
next to your duty, and I would not for the world that you should
give me the preference. So dismiss that thought from your mind,
and do not carry with you the belief that I would be selfish
enough to desire to retain you a moment. I only wish, my dear,
that for the present you had not thought of entering the school.
You might then have gone to Mrs. Sullivan's, staid as long as
you were needed, and perhaps found, by the time we are ready to
start on our southern tour, that your services could be quite dispensed
with; in which case, you could accompany us on a journey
which I am sure your health will by that time require.”
“But, dear Emily, how could I do that? I could not propose
myself as a visitor to Mrs. Sullivan, however useful I might intend
to be to her; nor could I speak of nursing to a woman who will not
acknowledge that she is ill. I thought of all that, and it seemed
to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the world, to
bring it about; for I have been with you so long that Mrs. Sullivan,
I have no doubt, thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive
way of life. It was only when Mr. W. spoke of his wanting an
assistant, and, as I imagined, hinted that he should like to employ
me in that capacity, that the present plan occurred to me. I
knew, if I told Mrs. Sullivan that I was engaged to teach there,
and that you were not coming to town at all, but were soon going
south, and represented to her that I wanted a boarding-place for
the winter, she would not only be loth to refuse me a home with
her, but would insist that I should go nowhere else.”
“And it proved as you expected?”
“Exactly; and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of
my being with her, that I realized still more how much she needed
some one.”
“She will have a treasure in you, Gertrude; I know that, very
well.”
“No, indeed! I do not hope to be of much use. The feeling
I have is, that, however little I may be able to accomplish, it will
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be more than any one else could do for Mrs. Sullivan. She has
lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the city,
and I do not really know of any one, except myself, whom she
would willingly admit under her roof. She is used to me and
loves me; I am no restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist
in whatever she is doing, although she often says that I live a
lady's life now, and am not used to work. She knows, too, that
I have an influence over her father; and I have,—strange as it
may seem to you,—I have more then I know how to account for
myself. I think it is partly because I am not at all afraid of him,
and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly because
I am more of a stranger than Mrs. Sullivan. But there is
still another thing which gives me a great control over him. He
naturally associates me in his mind with Willie; for we were for
some years constantly together, both left the house at the same
time, and he knows, too, that it is through me that the correspondence
with him is chiefly carried on. Since his mind has been
so weak, he seems to think continually of Willie, and I can at
any moment, however irritable or wilful he may be, make him
calm and quiet by proposing to tell him the latest news from his
grandson. It does not matter how often I repeat the contents of
the last letter, it is always new to him; and you have no idea,
Emily, what power this little circumstance gives me. Mrs. Sullivan
sees how easily I can guide his thoughts, and I noticed what
a load of care seemed to be taken from her mind by merely having
me there to-day. She looked so happy when I came away to-night,
and spoke so hopefully of the comfort it would be during
the winter to have me with her, that I felt repaid for any sacrifice
it has been to me. But when I came home, and saw you, and
thought of your going so far away, and of the length of time it
might be before I should live with you again, I felt as if—”
Gertrude could say no more. She laid her head on Emily's
shoulder, and wept.
Emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. “We have
been very happy together, Gerty,” said she, “and I shall miss
you sadly; half the enjoyment of my life has of late years been
borrowed from you. But I never loved you half so well as I do
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now, at the very time that we must part; for I see in the sacrifice
you are making of yourself one of the noblest and most
important traits of character a woman can possess. I know how
much you love the Sullivans, and you have certainly every reason
for being attached to them, and desiring to repay your old obligations;
but your leaving us at this time, and renouncing, without
a murmur, the southern tour from which you expected so much
pleasure, proves that my Gerty is the brave, good girl I always
hoped and prayed she might become. You are in the path of
duty, Gertrude, and will be rewarded by the approbation of your
own conscience, if in no other way.”
As Emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the garden,
and were here met by a servant-girl, who had been looking
for them to announce that Mrs. Bruce and her son were in the
parlor, and had asked for them both.
“Did you get her buttons in town, Gertrude?” inquired Emily.
“Yes, I found some that were an excellent match for the dress;
she probably wants to know what success I had; but how can I
go in?”
“I will return to the house with Katy, and you can go in at
the side-door, and reach your own room without being seen. I
will excuse you to Mrs. Bruce for the present; and, when you
have bathed your eyes, and feel composed, you can come in and
report concerning the errand she intrusted to you.”
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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
