CHAPTER XXII.
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
Shakspeare.
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Left at three years of age dependent upon the mercy and
charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, Gertrude
had, during the period of her residence at Nan Grant's,
found little of that mercy, and still less of that charity. But,
although her turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she received,
she was then too young to reason upon the subject, or
come to any philosophical conclusions upon the general hardness
and cruelty of humanity; and, had she done so, such impressions
could not but have been effaced amid the atmosphere of love and
kindness which surrounded her during the succeeding period,
when, cherished and protected in the home of her kind fosterfather,
she enjoyed a degree of parental tenderness which rarely
falls to the lot of an orphan.
And having, through a similar providence, found in Emily additional
proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not
always needed to bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of
sympathy and affection, she had hitherto, in her unusually happy
experience, felt none of the evils that spring from dependence
upon the bounty of strangers. The unfriendly conduct of Mrs.
Ellis had, at times, been a source of irritation to her; but the
housekeeper's power and influence in the family were limited by
her own dependence upon the good opinion of those she served,
and Gertrude's patience and forbearance had at last nearly disarmed
her enmity.
From Mr. Graham she had until now experienced only kindness.
On her first coming to live with them, he had, to be sure,
taken very little notice of her, and, so long as she was quiet,
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wellmannered, and no trouble to anybody, had been quite indifferent
concerning her. He observed that Emily was fond of the girl
and liked to have her with her; and, though he wondered at her
taste, was glad that she should be indulged. It was not long,
however, before he was led to notice in his daughter's favorite a
quickness of mind and propriety of deportment which had the
effect of creating an interest in her that soon increased to positive
partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gardening,
and her perseverance in laboring among her flowers. He
not only set off a portion of his grounds for her use, but, charmed
with her success during the first summer after the appropriation
was made, added to the original flower-garden, and himself
assisted in laying out and ornamenting it. Emily formed no plan
with regard to Gertrude's education to which she did not obtain
a ready assent from her father; and Gertrude, deeply grateful for
so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obligation
and regard, by treating Mr. Graham with the greatest
respect and attention.
But, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations,
Mr. Graham possessed neither the disinterested, forbearing
spirit of Uncle True, or the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of
Emily. Mr. Graham was a liberal and highly respectable man;
he had the reputation, as the world goes, of being a remarkably
high-minded and honorable man; and not without reason, for his
conduct had oftentimes justified this current report of him. But,
alas! he was a selfish man, and often took very one-sided views. He
had supported and educated Gertrude,—he liked her,—she was
the person whom he preferred for a travelling companion for
himself and Emily,—nobody else had any claim upon her to
compare with his,—and he either could not or would not see that
her duty lay in any other direction.
And yet, while he was ready to act the tyrant, he deceived
himself with the idea that he was the best friend she had in the
world. He was not capable of understanding that kind of
regard which causes one to find gratification in whatever tends to
the present or future welfare of another, without reference to
himself or his own interests. Acting, therefore, under the
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influence of his own prejudiced and narrow sentiments, Mr. Graham
gave way to his ill-temper, and distressed Gertrude by the first
really harsh and severe language he had ever used towards her.
During the long hours of a wakeful and restless night, Gertrude
had ample time to review and consider her own situation
and circumstances. At first, her only emotion was one of grief
and distress, such as a child might feel on being reproved; but
that gradually subsided, as other and bitter thoughts rose up in
her mind. “What right,” thought she, “has Mr. Graham to treat
me thus,—to tell me I shall go with them on this southern journey,
and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation,
and ought to be in my own? Does he consider that my freedom
is to be the price of my education, and am I no longer to be able
to say yes or no? Emily does not think so; Emily, who loves
and needs me a thousand times more than Mr. Graham, thinks I
have acted rightly, and assured me, only a few hours ago, that it
was my duty to carry out the plans I had formed. And my
solemn promise to Willie! is that to be held for nothing? No,”
thought she, “it would be tyranny in Mr. Graham to insist upon
my remaining with them, and I am glad I have resolved to break
away from such thraldom. Besides, I was educated to teach,
and Mr. W. says it is important to commence at once, while my
studies are fresh in my mind. Perhaps, if I yielded now, and
staid here living in luxury, I should continue to do so until I
lost the power of regaining my independence. It is cruel in Mr.
Graham to try to deprive me of my free-will.”
So much said pride; and Gertrude's heart, naturally proud,
and only kept in check by strict and conscientious self-control,
listened a while to such suggestions. But not long. She had
accustomed herself to view the conduct of others in that spirit
of charity which she desired should be exercised towards her
own, and milder thoughts soon took the place of these excited
and angry feelings.
“Perhaps,” said she to herself, as she reviewed in her mind
the conversation of the evening, “it is, after all, pure kindness to
me that prompted Mr. Graham's interference. He may think,
as Emily does, that I am undertaking too much. It is
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impossible for him to know how strong my motives are, how deep I consider
my obligations to the Sullivans, and how much I am
needed by them at this time. I had no idea, either, that it was
such an understood thing that I was to be of the party to the
south; for, though Emily talked as if she took it for granted,
Mr. Graham never spoke of it, or asked me to go, and I could
not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to have
me refuse; but, after his planning the journey, as he says he has
done, with reference to the enjoyment of us both, I do not wonder
at his being somewhat annoyed. He probably feels, too, as if I
had been under his guardianship so long that he has almost a
right to decide upon my conduct. And he has been very indulgent
to me,—and I a stranger, with no claims! O! I hate to
have him think me so ungrateful!
“Shall I then decide to give up my teaching, go to the south,
and leave dear Mrs. Sullivan to suffer, perhaps die, while I am
away? No, that is impossible. I will never be such a traitor to
my own heart, and my sense of right; sorry as I shall be to
offend Mr. Graham, I must not allow fear of his anger to turn
me from my duty.”
Having thus resolved to brave the tempest that she well knew
she must encounter, and committed her cause to Him who judgeth
righteously, Gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep; but
found it impossible to obtain any untroubled rest. Scarcely had
slumber eased her mind of the weight that pressed upon it, before
dreams of an equally painful nature seized upon her, and startled
her back to consciousness. In some of these visions she beheld
Mr. Graham, angry and excited as on the previous evening, and
threatening her with the severest marks of his displeasure if she
dared to thwart his plans and then, again, she seemed to see
Willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted nearly
five years before, beckoning her with a sad countenance to the
room where his pale mother lay in a swoon, as Gertrude had a
few weeks before discovered her. Exhausted by a succession of
such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain
any rest through sleep, and, rising, seated herself at the window,
where, watching the now descending moon, and the first approach
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of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the strength and
courage which, she felt, would be requisite to carry her calmly
and firmly through the following day; a day destined to witness
her sad separation from Emily, and her farewell to Mr. Graham,
which would probably be of a still more distressing character.
It may seem strange that anything more than ordinary mental
courage and decision should be needful to sustain Gertrude under
the present emergency. But, in truth, it required no small
amount of both these qualities for a young girl of eighteen years,
long dependent upon the liberality of an elderly man, well known
as a stern dictator in his household, to suddenly break the bonds
of custom and habit, and mark out a course for herself in opposition
to his wishes and intentions; and nothing but an urgent
motive could have led the grateful and peace-loving Gertrude to
such a step. The tyrannical disposition of Mr. Graham was well
understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed
to respect all his wishes and whims; and though he was always
indulgent, and usually kind, none ever ventured to brave a temper,
which, when excited, was violent in the extreme. It cannot
then be surprising that Gertrude's heart should have almost failed
her, when she stood, half an hour before breakfast-time, with the
handle of the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her
energies for another meeting with the formidable opposer of her
plans. She paused but a moment, however, then opened the door
and went in. Mr. Graham was where she expected to see him,
sitting in his arm-chair, and on the breakfast-table by his side
lay the morning paper. It had been Gertrude's habit, for a year
or two, to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this
same hour, and it was for that very purpose she had now come.
She advanced towards him with her usual “good-morning.”
The salutation was returned in a purposely constrained voice.
She seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper;
but he placed his hand upon it and prevented her.
“I was going to read the news to you, sir.”
“And I do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for
me, until I know whether you have concluded to treat me with
the respect I have a right to demand from you.”
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“I certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with
respect, Mr. Graham.”
“When girls or boys set themselves up in opposition to those
older and wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest disrespect
they are capable of; but I am willing to forgive the past,
if you assure me, as I think you will after a night's reflection,
that you have returned to a right sense of your duty.”
“I cannot say, sir, that I have changed my views with regard
to what that duty is.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” asked Mr. Graham, rising from his
chair and speaking in a tone which made Gerty's heart quake,
in spite of her brave resolutions, “do you mean to tell me that
you have any idea of persisting in your folly?”
“Is it folly, sir, to do right?”
“Right!—There is a great difference of opinion between you
and me as to what right is in this case.”
“But, Mr. Graham, I think, if you knew all the circumstances,
you would not blame my conduct. I have told Emily the reasons
that influenced me, and she—”
“Don't quote Emily to me!” interrupted Mr. Graham, as he
walked the floor rapidly. “I don't doubt she'd give her head
to anybody that asked for it; but I hope I know a little better
what is due to myself; and I tell you plainly, Miss Gertrude
Flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave
my house, as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure;
and that, you may find one of these days, it is no light thing to
have incurred,—unnecessarily, too,” he muttered,—“as you are
doing.”
“I am very sorry to displease you, Mr. Graham, but—”
“No, you're not sorry; if you were, you would not walk
straight in the face of my wishes,” said Mr. Graham, who began
to observe the expression of Gertrude's face, which, though
grieved and troubled, had in the last few minutes acquired additional
firmness, instead of quailing beneath his severe and cutting
words;—“but, I have said enough about a matter which is not
worthy of so much notice. You can go or stay, as you please.
I wish you to understand, however, that, in the former case, I
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utterly withdraw my protection and assistance from you. You
must take care of yourself, or trust to strangers. I suppose you
expect your Calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come home
and take you under his especial care; but, if you think so, you
know little of the world. I daresay he is married to an Indian
by this time, and, if not, has pretty much forgotten you.”
“Mr. Graham,” said Gertrude, proudly, “Mr. Sullivan will
not probably return to this country for many years, and I assure
you I neither look to him or any one else for support; I intend
to earn a maintenance for myself.”
“A heroic resolve!” said Mr. Graham, contemptuously, “and
pronounced with a dignity I hope you will be able to maintain.
Am I to consider, then, that your mind is made up?”
“It is, sir,” said Gertrude, not a little strengthened for the
dreaded necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by Mr.
Graham's sarcastic speeches.
“And you go?”
“I must. I believe it to be my duty, and am therefore willing
to sacrifice my own comfort, and, what I assure you I value
far more, your friendship.”
Mr. Graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter
part of her remark, and before she had finished speaking so far
forgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice in the violent
ringing of the table-bell.
It was answered by Katy with the breakfast; and Emily and
Mrs. Ellis coming in at the same moment, all seated themselves
at table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and
constraint,—for Emily had heard the loud tones of her father's
voice, and was filled with anxiety and alarm, while Mrs. Ellis
plainly saw, from the countenances of all present, that something
unpleasant had occurred.
When Mr. Graham, whose appetite appeared undiminished,
had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to Mrs. Ellis,
and deliberately and formally invited her to accompany himself
and Emily on their journey to the south, mentioning the probability
that they should pass some weeks in Havana.
Mrs. Ellis, who had never before heard any intimation that
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such a tour was contemplated, accepted the invitation with pleasure
and alacrity, and proceeded to ask a number of questions
concerning the proposed route and length of absence; while Emily
hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup; and Gertrude, who
had lately been reading “Letters from Cuba,” and was aware
that Mr. Graham knew the strong interest she consequently felt
in the place, pondered in her mind whether it were possible that
he could be guilty of the small and mean desire to vex and
mortify her.
Breakfast over, Emily hastily sought her room, where she was
immediately joined by Gertrude.
In answering Emily's earnest inquiries as to the scene which
had taken place, Gertrude forebore to repeat Mr. Graham's most
bitter and wounding remarks; for she saw, from her kind friend's
pained and anxious countenance, how deeply she participated in
her own sense of wrong and misapprehension. She told her,
however, that it was now well understood by Mr. Graham that
she was to leave, and, as his sentiments towards her were far
from kindly, she thought it best to go at once, especially as she
could never be more needed by Mrs. Sullivan than at present.
Emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented to it, and
agreed to accompany her to town that very afternoon; for, deeply
sensitive at any unkindness manifested towards Gertrude, she
preferred to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encounter
her father's contemptuous neglect.
The remainder of the day, therefore, was spent by Gertrude in
packing, and other preparations; while Emily sat by, counselling
and advising the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting
the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiterated
assurances of continued and undiminished affection.
“O! if you could only write to me, dear Emily, during your
long absence, what a comfort it would be!” exclaimed Gertrude.
“With Mrs. Ellis' assistance, my dear,” replied Emily, “I
will send you such news as I can of our movements; but, though
you may not be able to hear much from me, you will be ever in
my thoughts, and I shall never forget to commend my beloved
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child to the protection and care of One who will be to her a
better counsellor and friend than I can be.”
In the course of the day Gertrude sought Mrs. Ellis, and
astonished that lady by announcing that she had come to have
a few farewell words with her. Surprise and curiosity, however,
were soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to expatiate
upon the kindness and generosity of Mr. Graham, and the
delights of the excursion in prospect. After wishing her a great
deal of pleasure, Gertrude begged to hear from her by letter
during her absence; to which apparently unheard request Mrs.
Ellis only replied by asking if Gertrude thought a thibet dress
would be uncomfortable on the journey; and, when it was repeated
with still greater earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to
the suppliant for epistolary favors, begged to know how many pairs
of under-sleeves she should probably require. Having responded
to her questions, and at last gained her ear and attention, Gertrude
obtained from her a promise to write one letter, which would, she
declared, be more than she had done for years.
Before leaving the house, Gertrude sought Mr. Graham's study,
in hopes that he would take a friendly leave of her; but, on her
telling him that she had come to bid him “good-by,” he indistinctly
muttered the simple words of that universal formula, so
deep in its meaning when coming from the heart; so chilling
when uttered, as on the present occasion, by stern and nearly
closed lips; and, turning his back upon her, took up the tongs to
mend his fire.
So she went away, with a tear in her eye and sadness in her
heart, for until now Mr. Graham had been a good friend to her.
A far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where
she went to seek Mrs. Prime and Katy.
“Bless yer soul, dear Miss Gertrude!” said the former, stumbling
up the staircase which led from the lower room, and wiping
her hands on her apron,—“how we shall miss yer! Why, the
house won't be worth livin' in when you're out of it. My gracious!
if you don't come back, we shall all die out in a fortnight.
Why, you're the life and soul of the place! But there,
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I guess you know what's right; so, if you must go, we must bear
it,—though Katy and I'll cry our eyes out, for aught I know.”
“Sure, Miss Gairthrude,” said Irish Katy, “and it's right
gude in you to be afther comin' to bid us good-by. I don't see
how you gets memory to think of us all, and I'm shure yer'll
never be betther off than what I wish yer. I can't but think,
miss, it'll go to help yer along, that everybody's gude wishes
and blessin' goes with yer.”
“Thank you, Katy, thank you,” said Gertrude, much touched
by the simple earnestness of these good friends. “You must
come and see me some time in Boston; and you too, Mrs. Prime,
I shall depend upon it. Good-by;” and the good-by that now
fell upon Gertrude's ear was a hearty and a true one; it followed
her through the hall, and as the carryall drove away she heard
it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle.
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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
