CHAPTER XXXVI.
Believe in God as in the sun,—and, lo!
Along thy soul morn's youth restored shall glow;
As rests the earth, so rest, O, troubled heart,
Rest, till the burden of the cloud depart!
New Timon.
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Before they had passed through the dusty village, and gained
the road leading in the direction of the Mountain House, they
became painfully conscious of the vast difference between the
temperature of the river and that of the inland country, and, in
being suddenly deprived of the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed
on board the boat, they fully realized the extreme heat of the
weather. For the first few miles Gertrude's whole attention was
required to shield Emily and herself from the rays of a burning
sun which shone into the coach full upon their faces, and it was
a great relief when they at last reached the steep but smooth
and beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the mountain.
The atmosphere being perfectly clear, the gradually widening
prospect was most beautiful, and Gertrude's delight and rapture
were such that the restraint imposed by stage-coach decorum was
almost insupportable. When, therefore, the ascent became so laborious
that the gentlemen were invited to alight, and relieve the
weary horses of a part of their burden, Gertrude gladly accepted
Dr. Jeremy's proposal that she should accompany him on a walk
of a mile or two.
Gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the still active
doctor soon left the coaches far behind them. At a sudden turn
in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and, lost in
silent admiration, stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the
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spot, when they were startled by a voice close beside them saying,
“A fine landscape, certainly!”
They looked around, and saw Mr. Phillips seated upon a moss-grown
rock, against which Gertrude was at the moment leaning.
His attitude was easy and careless, his broad-brimmed straw hat
lay on the ground, where it had fallen, and his snow-besprinkled
but wavy and still beautiful hair was tossed back from his high
and expanded forehead. One would have thought, to look at him,
leaning so idly and even boyishly upon his hand, that he had been
sitting there for hours at least, and felt quite at home in the place.
He rose to his feet, however, immediately upon being perceived,
and joined Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude.
“You have got the start of us, sir,” said the former.
“Yes; I have walked from the village,—my practice always
when the roads are such that no time can be gained by riding.”
As he spoke, he placed in Gertrude's hand, without looking at
her, or seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich
laurel-blossoms, which he had probably gathered during his walk.
She would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that
it afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking
with the doctor, as if she had not been present.
All three resumed their walk. Mr. Phillips and Dr. Jeremy
conversed in an animated manner, and Gertrude, content to be a
listener, soon perceived that she was not the only person to whom
the stranger had power to render himself agreeable. Dr. Jeremy
engaged him upon a variety of subjects, upon all of which he appeared
equally well-informed; and Gertrude smiled to see her old
friend more than once rub his hands together, according to his
well-known manner of expressing boundless satisfaction.
Now, Gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist
by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to
that department of science. Then, again, she was equally sure
that geology must have been with him an absorbing study, so intimate
seemed his acquaintance with mother earth; and both of
these impressions were in turn dispelled, when he talked of the
ocean like a sailor, of the counting-room like a merchant, of
Paris like a man of fashion and the world.
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In the mean time, she walked beside him, silent but not forgotten
or unnoticed; for, as they approached a rough and steep
ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should
become fatigued. She assured him there was no danger of that.
Dr. Jeremy declared it his belief that Gerty could out-walk them
both; and, thus satisfied, Mr. Phillips resumed the broken thread
of their discourse, into which, before long, Gertrude was drawn,
almost unawares.
Mr. Phillips was a man who knew how to inspire awe, and
even fear, when such was his pleasure. The reverse being the
case, however, he had equal ability to dispel such sentiments,
awaken confidence, and bid character unfold itself at his bidding.
He no longer seemed in Gertrude's eyes a stranger;—he was a
mystery, certainly, but not a forbidding one. She longed to
know more of him; to learn the history of a life which many an
incident of his own narrating proved to have been made up of
strange and mingled experience; especially did her sympathetic
nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated melancholy
which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made
his very smile a sorrowful thing.
Dr. Jeremy, who, in a degree, shared her curiosity, asked a few
leading questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's
personal history; but in vain. Mr. Phillips' lips were either
sealed on the subject, or opened only to baffle the curiosity of his
interrogator.
At length the doctor was compelled to give way to a weariness
which he could no longer disguise from himself or his companions,
much as he disliked to acknowledge the fact; and, seating themselves
by the road-side, they awaited the arrival of the coach.
There had been a short silence, when the doctor, looking at
Gertrude, remarked, “There will be no church for us to-morrow,
Gerty.”
“No church!” exclaimed Gertrude, gazing about her with a
look of reverence; “how can you say so?”
Mr. Phillips bestowed upon her a smile of interest and inquiry,
and said, in a peculiar tone, “There is no Sunday here, Miss
Flint; it doesn't come up so high.”
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He spoke lightly,—too lightly, Gertrude thought,—and she
replied with some seriousness, and much sweetness, “I have often
rejoiced that the Sabbath had been sent down into the lower earth;
the higher we go, the nearer we come, I trust, to the eternal Sabbath.”
Mr. Phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying.
There was an expression about his mouth which Gertrude did not
exactly like; but she could not find it in her heart to reproach him
for the slight sneer which his manner, rather than his look, implied,
for, as he gazed a moment or two into vacancy, there was
in his wild and absent countenance such a look of sorrow, that
she could only pity and wonder. The coaches now came up, and,
as he placed her in her former seat, he resumed his wonted serene
and kindly expression, and she felt convinced that it was only
doing justice to his frank and open face to believe that nothing
was hid behind it that would not do honor to the man.
An hour more brought them to the Mountain House, and,
greatly to their joy, they were at once shown to some of the most
excellent rooms the hotel afforded. As Gertrude stood at the
window of the chamber allotted to herself and Emily, and heard the
loud murmurs of some of her fellow-travellers who were denied
any tolerable accommodation, she could not but be astonished at
Dr. Jeremy's unusual good fortune in being treated with such
marked partiality.
Emily, being greatly fatigued with the toilsome journey, had
supper brought to her own room, and Gertrude partaking of it
with her, neither of them sought other society that night, but at
an early hour betook themselves to rest.
The last thing that Gertrude heard, before falling asleep, was
the voice of Dr. Jeremy, saying, as he passed their door, “Take
care, Gerty, and be up in time to see the sun rise.”
She was not up in time, however, nor was the doctor himself;
neither of them had calculated upon the sun's being such an early
riser; and though Gertrude, mindful of the caution, sprung up
almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring
in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which at once put to
flight every regret at having overslept herself, since nothing, she
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thought, could be more solemnly glorious than that which now
lay outspread before her.
From the surface of the rocky platform upon which the house
was built, far out to the distant horizon, nothing was to be seen
but a sea of snowy clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower
earth, and hid it from view. Vast, solid, and of the most perfect
whiteness, they stretched on every side, forming, as they lay in
thick masses, between which not a crevice was discernible, an
unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the earth.
While most of the world, however, was thus shut out from the
clear light of morning, the mountain-top was rejoicing in an unusually
brilliant and glorious dawn, the beauty of which was
greatly enhanced by those very clouds which were obscuring and
shadowing the dwellings of men below. A fairy bark might have
floated upon the undulating waves which glistened in the sunshine
like new-fallen snow, and which, contrasted with the clear
blue sky above, formed a picture of singular grandeur. The
foliage of the oaks, the pines and the maples, which had found
root in this lofty region, was rich, clear and polished, and tame
and fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches.
Gertrude gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and
go out upon the platform. The house was perfectly still; no one
seemed yet to be stirring, and she stood for some time entranced,
almost breathless, with awe and admiration.
At length she heard footsteps, and, looking up, saw Dr. and
Mrs. Jeremy approaching; the former, as usual, full of life, and
dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance
proclaimed how unwillingly she had foregone her morning nap.
The doctor rubbed his hands as they joined Gertrude. “Very fine
this, Gerty! A touch beyond anything I had calculated upon.”
Gertrude turned upon him her beaming eyes, but did not
speak. Satisfied, however, with the expression of her face, which
was sufficient, without words, to indicate her appreciation of the
scene, the doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which
they stood, placed his hands beneath his coat-tails, and indulged
in a soliloquy, made up of short exclamations and interjectional
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phrases, expressive of his approbation, still further confirmed and
emphasized by a quick, regular nodding of his head.
“Why, this looks queer, doesn't it?” said Mrs. Jeremy, rubbing
her eyes, and gazing about her; “but I dare say it would
be just so an hour or two hence. I don't see what the doctor
would make me get up so early for.” Then, catching sight of
her husband's position, she darted forward, exclaiming, “Dr.
Jerry, for mercy's sake, don't stand so near the edge of that
precipice! Why, are you crazy, man? You frighten me to
death! you'll fall over and break your neek, as sure as the world!”
Finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, she caught hold of
his coat, and tried to drag him backwards; upon which he turned
about, inquired what was the matter, and, perceiving her anxiety,
considerately retreated a few paces; the next moment, however,
he was once more in the same precarious spot. The same scene
was reënacted, and finally, after the poor woman's fears had been
excited and relieved half a dozen times in succession, she grew
so disturbed, that, looking most imploringly at Gertrude, she
begged her to get the doctor away from that dangerous place, for
the poor man was so venturesome he would surely be killed.
“Suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house,”
suggested Gertrude; “it looks attractive.”
“So it does,” said Mrs. Jeremy; “beautiful little shady path!
Come, doctor, Gerty and I are going to walk up here,—come.”
The doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed.
“Ah!” said he, “that is the path the man at the office spoke
about; it leads up to the pine gardens. We'll climb up, by all
means, and see what sort of a place it is.”
Gertrude led the way, Mrs. Jeremy followed, and the doctor
brought up the rear,—all walking in single file, for the path was a
mere foot-track. The ascent was very steep, and they had not
proceeded far before Mrs. Jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue,
stopped short, and declared her inability to reach the top; she
would not have thought of coming, if she had known what a horrid
hard hill she had got to climb. Encouraged and assisted,
however, by her husband and Gertrude, she was induced to make
a further attempt; and they had gone on some distance, when
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Gertrude, who happened for a moment to be some steps in advance,
heard Mrs. Jeremy give a slight seream. She looked back;
the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the picture
of consternation, was endeavoring to pass him, and retrace
her steps down the hill, at the same time calling upon her to
follow.
“What is the matter?” asked Gertrude.
“Matter!” cried Mrs. Jeremy; “why, this hill is covered with
rattlesnakes, and here we are all going up to be bitten to death!”
“No such thing, Gerty!” said the doctor, still laughing. “I
only told her there had been one killed here this summer, and
now she's making it an excuse for turning back.”
“I don't care!” said the good-natured lady, half-laughing herself,
in spite of her fears; “if there's been one, there may be
another, and I won't stay here a minute longer! I thought it was
a bad enough place before, and now I'm going down faster than
I came up.”
Finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her,
calling to Gertrude as he went, however, assuring her there was
no danger, and begging her to keep on and wait for him at the
top of the hill, where he would join her after he had left his wife
in safety at the hotel. Gertrude, therefore, went on alone. For
the first few rods she looked carefully about her, and thought of
rattlesnakes; but the path was so well worn that she felt sure it
must be often trod and was probably safe, and the beauty of the
place soon engrossed all her attention. After a few moments spent
in active climbing, she reached the highest point of ground, and
found herself once more on an elevated woody platform, from which
she could look forth as before upon the unbroken sea of clouds.
She seated herself at the root of an immense pine-tree, removed
her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise, and, as she
inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze, gave herself up to the
train of reflection which she had been indulging when disturbed
by Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy.
She had sat thus but a moment when a slight rustling noise
startled her; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was springing
to her feet, but, hearing a low sound, as of some one breathing,
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turned her eyes in the direction from wich it came, and saw,
only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the
ground, apparently asleep. She went towards it with a careful
step, and before she could see the face the large straw hat, and
the long, blanched, wavy hair, betrayed the identity of the individual.
Mr. Phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his
head was pillowed upon his arm, his eyes were closed, and his
attitude denoted perfect repose. Gertrude stood still and looked
at him. As she did so, his countenance suddently changed; the
peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy look which
had at first excited her sympathy. His lips moved, and in his
dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, “No! no! no!” each time
that he repeated the word pronouncing it with more vehemence
and emphasis; then, wildly throwing one arm above his head, he
let it fall gradually and heavily upon the ground, and, the excitement
subsiding from his face, he uttered the simple words, “O,
dear!” much as a grieved and tired child might do, as he leans
his head upon his mother's knee.
Gertrude was deeply touched. She forgot that he was a
stranger; she saw only a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair,
open forehead; she leaned over him, brushed away the greedy
creature, and, as she did so, one of the many tears that filled her
eyes fell upon his cheek.
Quietly, then, without motion or warning, he a woke, and looked
full in the face of the embarrassed girl, who started, and would
have hastened away, but, leaning on his elbow, he caught her
hand and detained her. He gazed at her for a moment without
speaking; then said, in a grave voice, “My child, did you shed
that tear for me?”
She did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening
with the dew of sympathy.
“I believe you did,” said he, “and from my heart I bless you!
But never again weep for a stranger; you will have woes enough
of your own, if you live to be of my age.”
“If I had not had sorrows already,” said Gertrude, “I should
not know how to feel for others; if I had not often wept for myself,
I should not weep now for you.”
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“But you are happy?”
“Yes.”
“Some find it easy to forget the past.”
“I have not forgotten it.”
“Children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more
than a child.”
“I never was a child,” said Gertrude.
“Strange girl!” soliloquized her companion. “Will you sit
down and talk with me a few minutes?”
Gertrude hesitated.
“Do not refuse; I am an old man, and very harmless. Take
a seat here under this tree, and tell me what you think of the
prospect.”
Gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old
man, and calling her a child; but, old or young, she had it not in
her heart to fear him, or refuse his request. She sat down, and he
seated himself beside her, but did not speak of the prospect, or
of anything, for a moment or two; then turning to her abruptly,
he said, “So you never were unhappy in your life?”
“Never!” exclaimed Gertrude. “O, yes; often.”
“But never long?”
“Yes, I can remember whole years when happiness was a
thing I had never even dreamed of.”
“But comfort came at last. What do you think of those to
whom it never comes?”
“I know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them.”
“What can you do for them?”
“Hope for them, pray for them!” said Gertrude, with a voice
full of feeling.
“What if they be past hope?—beyond the influence of
prayer?”
“There are no such,” said Gertrude, with decision.
“Do you see,” said Mr. Phillips, “this curtain of thick clouds,
now overshadowing the world? Even so many a heart is weighed
down and overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness.”
“But the light shines brightly above the clouds,” said Gertrude.
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“Above! well, that may be; but what avails it to those who
see it not?”
“It is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the
mountain-top; but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which
brings him above the clouds,” replied Gertrude, with enthusiasm.
“Few ever find the road that leads so high,” responded her
melancholy companion; “and those who do cannot live long in
so elevated an atmosphere. They must come down from their
height, and again dwell among the common herd; again mingle
in the warfare with the mean, the base and the cruel; thicker
clouds will gather over their heads, and they will be buried in
redoubled darkness.”
“But they have seen the glory; they know that the light is
ever burning on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce
the gloom at last. See, see!” said she, her eyes glowing with
the fervor with which she spoke,—“even now the heaviest clouds
are parting; the sun will soon light up the valley!”
She pointed, as she spoke, to a wide fissure which was gradually
disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on
either side, and then turned to the stranger to see if he observed
the change; but, with the same smile upon his unmoved countenance,
he was watching, not the display of nature in the distance,
but that close at his side. He was gazing with intense interest
upon the young and ardent worshipper of the beautiful and the
true; and, in studying her features and observing the play of
her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed, that Gertrude—
believing he was not listening to her words, but had fallen into
one of his absent moods—ceased speaking, rather abruptly, and
was turning away, when he said,
“Go on, happy child! Teach me, if you can, to see the world
tinged with the rosy coloring it wears for you; teach me to love
and pity, as you do, that miserable thing called man. I warn
you that you have a difficult task, but you seem to be very hopeful.”
“Do you hate the world?” asked Gertrude, with straight-forward
simplicity.
“Almost,” was Mr. Phillips' answer.
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“I did once,” said Gertrude, musingly.
“And will again, perhaps.”
“No, that would be impossible; it has been a good foster-mother
to its orphan child, and now I love it dearly.”
“Have they been kind to you?” asked he, with eagerness.
“Have heartless strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for
them?”
“Heartless strangers!” exclaimed Gertrude, the tears rushing
to her eyes. “O, sir, I wish you could have known my Uncle
True, and Emily, dear, blind Emily! You would think better of
the world, for their sakes.”
“Tell me about them,” said he, in a low, unsteady voice, and
looking fixedly down into the precipice which yawned at his feet.
“There is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor,
and the other wholly blind; and yet they made everything rich,
and bright, and beautiful, to me, a poor, desolate, injured child.”
“Injured! Then you acknowledge that you had previously met
with wrong and injustice?”
“I!” exclaimed Gertrude; “my earliest recollections are only
of want, suffering, and much unkindness.”
“And these friends took pity on you?”
“Yes. One became an earthly father to me, and the other
taught me where to find a heavenly one.”
“And ever since then you have been free and light as air,
without a wish or care in the world?”
“No, indeed, I did not say so,—I do not mean so,” said Gertrude.
“I have had to part from Uncle True, and to give up
other dear friends, some for years and some forever; I have had
many trials, many lonely, solitary hours, and even now am
oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and dread.”
“How, then, so cheerful and happy?” asked Mr. Phillips.
Gertrude had risen, for she saw Dr. Jeremy approaching, and
stood with one hand resting upon a solid mass of stone, under
whose proteeting shadow she had been seated. She smiled a
thoughtful smile at Mr. Phillips' question; and after casting her
eyes a moment into the deep valley beneath her, turned them
upon him with a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent
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tone, “I see the gulf yawning beneath me, but I lean upon the
Rock of ages.”
Gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one
anxiety and dread oppressed her; for, mingled with a daily
increasing fear lest the time was fast approaching when Emily
would be taken from her, she had of late been harassed and
grieved by the thought that Willie Sullivan, towards whom her
heart yearned with more than a sister's love, was fast forgetting
the friend of his childhood, or, at least, ceasing to regard her
with the love and tenderness of former years. It was now some
months since she had received a letter from India; the last was
short, and written in a haste which Willie apologized for on the
score of business cares and duties, and Gertrude was compelled
unwillingly to admit the chilling presentiment that now that his
mother and grandfather were no more the ties which bound the
exile to his native home were sensibly weakened.
Nothing would have induced her to hint, even to Emily, a suspicion
of neglect on Willie's part; nothing would have shocked
her more than hearing such neglect imputed to him by another;
but still, in the depths of her own heart, she sometimes mused
with wonder upon his long silence, and the strange diminution of
intercourse between herself and him. During several weeks in
which she had received no tidings she had still continued to
write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have
reached him by every mail. What, then, but illness or indifference
could excuse his never replying to her faithfully despatched
missives? She often tried to banish from her mind any self-questioning
upon a subject so involved in uncertainty; but at
times a sadness came over her which could only be dispersed by
turning her thoughts upward with that trusting faith and hope
which had so often sustained her drooping spirits, and it was from
one of these soaring reveries that she had turned with pitying
looks and words to the fellow-sufferer whose moans had escaped
him even in his dreams.
Dr. Jeremy's approach was the signal for hearty congratulations
and good-mornings between himself and Mr. Phillips; the
doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with
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hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright Sabbath
morning in the mountains; and Mr. Phillips, compelled to
exert himself, and conceal, if he could not dispel, the gloom which
weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease, and even playfulness,
which astonished Gertrude, who walked back to the house silently
wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. She did not see
him at breakfast, and at dinner he took a seat at some distance
from Dr. Jeremy's party, and merely acknowledged their acquaintance
by a graceful salutation to Gertrude as she left the dininghall.
Still later in the day, he suddenly made his appearance upon
the broad piazza where Emily and Gertrude were seated, one
pair of eyes serving, as usual, to paint pictures for the minds of
both. There had been a thunder-shower, but, as the sun went
down, and the storm passed away, a brilliant bow, and its almost
equally brilliant reflection, spanned the horizon, seemingly far
beneath the height of the mountain-top, and the lights and
shadows which were playing upon the valley and its shining river
were brilliant and beautiful in the extreme. Gertrude hoped Mr.
Phillips would join them; she knew that Emily would be charmed
with his rich and varied conversation, and felt an instinctive hope
that the sweet tones of the comfort-carrying voice which so many
loved and blessed would speak to his heart a lesson of peace.
But she hoped in vain; he started on seeing them, walked hastily
away, and Gertrude soon after espied him toiling up the same
steep path which had attracted them both in the morning,—nor
did he make his appearance at the hotel again that night.
The Jeremys stayed two days longer at the Mountain House;
the invigorating air benefited Emily, who appeared stronger than
she had done for weeks past, and was able to take many a little
stroll in the neighborhood of the house.
Gertrude was never weary of the glorious prospect, upon which
she gazed with ever increasing delight; and an excursion which
she and the doctor made on foot to the cleft in the heart of the
mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a distance of two hundred
feet into the valley below, furnished the theme for many a
descriptive revery, of which Emily reaped a part of the
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enjoyment. They saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had
disappeared without their knowledge. Dr. Jeremy inquired of
their host concerning him, and learned that he left at an early
hour on Monday, and took up a pedestrian course down the
mountain.
The doctor was surprised and disappointed, for he liked Mr.
Phillips exceedingly, and had flattered himself, from some particular
inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route,
that he had an idea of attaching himself to their party.
“Never mind. Gerty,” said he, in a tone of mock condolence.
“I daresay we shall come across him yet, some time when we
least expect it.”
-- --
Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
