CHAPTER XXXVII.
Led by simplicity divine,
She pleased, and never tried to shine.
Hannah More.
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From Catskill Dr. Jeremy proceeded directly to Saratoga.
The place was crowded with visitors, for the season was at its
height, and the improvident traveller having neglected to secure
rooms, they had no right to expect any accommodation.
“Where do you propose stopping?” inquired an acquaintance
of the doctor's, whom they accidentally encountered in the cars.
“At Congress Hall,” was the reply. “It will be a quiet
place for us old folks, and more agreeable than any other house
to Miss Graham, who is an invalid.”
“You are expected, I conclude?”
“Expected?—No; who should be expecting us?”
“Your landlord. If you have not engaged rooms you will
fare badly, for every hotel is crowded to overflowing.”
“We must take our chance, then,” said the doctor, with an
indifference of manner which wholly forsook him upon his
fairly arriving at his destination, and learning that his friend's
words were true.
“I don't know what we are going to do,” said he, as he joined
the ladies, whom he had left for a few moments while he made
inquiries; “they say every house is full; and, if so, we 'd better
take the next train of cars and be off, for we can't sleep in the
street.”
“Carriage, sir?” shouted a hackman, leaning over a railing a
few steps distant, and beckoning to the doctor with all his might,
while another and still bolder aspirant for employment tapped his
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shoulder, and made a similar suggestion, in a most insinuating
tone of voice.
“Carriage!” repeated the doctor, angrily. “What for? where
would you carry us, for mercy's sake? There is n't a garret to
be had in your town, for love or money.”
“Well sir,” said the last-mentioned petitioner (a sort of omnibus
attaché, taking off his cap as he spoke, and wiping his forehead
with a torn and soiled pocket-handkerchief), “the houses is
pretty considerable full just now, to be sure, but may-be you can
get colonized out.”
“Colonized out?” said the doctor, still in a tone of extreme
vexation. “That's what I think we are already; what I want is
to get in somewhere. Where do you usually drive your coach?”
“To Congress Hall.”
“Drive up, then, and let us get in; and, mind, if they don't
take us at Congress Hall, we shall expect you to keep us until
we find better accommodations.”
Mrs. Jeremy, Emily and Gertrude, were consequently assisted
into a small omnibus, and closely packed away among half a
dozen ladies and children, who, tired, dusty and anxious, were
schooling themselves to patience, or encouraging themselves with
hope. The doctor took a seat upon the outside, and the moment
the vehicle stopped hastened to present himself to the landlord.
As he had anticipated, there was not a vacant corner in the
house. Wishing to accommodate him, however, the office-keeper
announced the possibility that he might be able before night to
furnish him with one room in a house in the next street.
“One room! in the next street!” cried the doctor. “Ah,
that's being colonized out, is it? Well, sir, it won't do for me;
I must have a place to put my ladies in at once. Why in conscience
don't you have hotels enough for your visitors?”
“It is the height of the season, sir, and—”
“Why, Dr. Jeremy!” exclaimed the youthful voice of Netta
Gryseworth, who was passing through the hall with her grandmother,
“how do you do, sir? Are Miss Graham and Miss Flint
with you? Have you come to stay?”
Before the doctor could answer her questions, and pay his
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respects to Madam Gryseworth, a venerable old lady, whom he
had known thirty years before, the landlord of the hotel accosted
him.
“Dr. Jeremy?” said he. “Excuse me, I did not know you.
Dr. Jeremy, of Boston?”
“The same,” said the doctor, bowing.
“Ah! we are all right, then. Your rooms are reserved, and
will be made ready in a few minutes; they were vacated two
days ago, and have not been occupied since.”
“What is all this?” exclaimed the honest doctor. “I engaged
no rooms.”
“A friend did it for you, then, sir; a fortunate circumstance,
especially as you have ladies with you. Saratoga is very crowded
at this season; there were seven thousand strangers in the town
yesterday.”
The doctor thanked his stars and his unknown friend, and
summoned the ladies to enjoy their good fortune.
“Why, now, an't we lucky?” said Mrs. Jeremy, as she
glanced round the comfortable room allotted to herself, and then,
crossing the narrow entry, took a similar survey of Emily's and
Gertrude's apartment. “After all the talk everybody made, too,
about the crowd of folks there were here scrambling for places!”
The doctor, who had just come up stairs, having waited to
give directions concerning his baggage, approached the door in
time to hear his wife's last remark, and entering with his finger
upon his lip, and a mock air of mystery, exclaimed, in a low
voice, “Hush! hush! don't say too much about it! We are
profiting by a glorious mistake on the part of our good landlord.
These rooms were engaged for somebody, that's certain, but not
for us. However, they can't do more than turn us out when the
right folks come, and until then we have a prospect, I see, of
very good lodgings.”
But, if the Jeremys were not the right folks, the right folks
never came, and, in the course of a week, our party not only
ceased to be conscious of their precarious footing in the house,
but even had the presumption to propose, and the good fortune
to obtain, a favorable exchange for Emily to a bed-room upon
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the first floor, which opened directly into the drawing-room, and
saved her the necessity of passing up and down the often crowded
staircases.
It was nearly tea-time on the day of their arrival, and Emily
and Gertrude had just completed their toilet, when there was a
light rap upon their door. Gertrude hastened to open it, and to
admit Ellen Gryseworth, who, while she saluted her with southern
warmth of manner, hesitated at the threshold, saying, “I am
afraid you will think me an intruder, but Netta told me you had
arrived, and hearing accidentally from the chambermaid that you
had the next room to mine, I could not forbear stopping a moment
as I passed to tell you how very glad I am to see you
again.”
Gertrude and Emily expressed their pleasure at the meeting,
thanked her for her want of ceremony, and urged her to come in
and remain with them until the gong sounded for tea. She
availed herself of the invitation, and taking a seat upon the
nearest trunk, proceeded to inquire concerning their travels and
Emily's health since they parted at West Point.
Among other adventures, Gertrude mentioned their having
again encountered Mr. Phillips. “Indeed!” said Miss Gryseworth,
“he seems to be a ubiquitous individual. He was in
Saratoga a day or two ago, and sat opposite to me at our dinner-table,
but I have not seen him since. Did you become acquainted
with him, Miss Graham?”
“I am sorry to say, I did not,” replied Emily; then, looking
smilingly at Gertrude, she added, “Gerty was so anxious for an
opportunity to introduce me, that I was quite grieved for her disappointment.”
“Then you liked him!” said Miss Gryseworth, addressing
herself to Gertrude, and speaking with great earnestness. “I
knew you would.”
“He interested me much,” replied Gertrude. “He is very
agreeable, very peculiar, and to me rather incomprehensible.”
“Non-committal, I see,” said Miss Gryseworth, archly. “I
hope you will have a chance to make up your mind; it is more
than I can do, I confess; for, every time I am in his company, I
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recognize some new and unexpected trait of character. He
got so angry with one of the waiters, the day he dined with us in
New York, that I was actually frightened. However, I believe
my fears were groundless, for he is too much of a gentleman to
bandy words with an inferior, and though his eyes flashed like
coals of fire, he kept his temper from blazing forth. I will do
him the justice to say that this great indignation did not spring
from any neglect he had himself received, but from the man's
gross inattention to two dowdy-looking women from the country,
who had never thought of such a thing as feeing him, and therefore
got nothing to eat until everybody else had finished, and
looked all the time as disappointed and ashamed as if they were
just out of the State Prison.”
“Too bad!” exclaimed Gertrude, energetically. “I don't
wonder Mr. Phillips felt provoked with the mercenary fellow. I
like him for that.”
“It was too bad,” said Miss Gryseworth. “I couldn't help
pitying them, myself. One of them—a young girl, fresh from the
churn, who had worn her best white gown on purpose to make
a figure in the city — looked just ready to burst out crying.”
“I hope such instances of neglect are not very common,” said
Gertrude. “I am afraid, if they are, Emily and I shall be on
the crying list, for Dr. Jeremy never will fee the waiters beforehand;
he says it is a mean thing, and he should scorn to command
attention in that way.”
“O, you need have no such fear,” said Miss Gryseworth.
“Persons in the least accustomed to hotel life can always command
a moderate share of attention, especially in so well-regulated
an establishment as this. Grandmamma shares the doctor's
views with regard to bargaining for it beforehand, but no one
ever sees her neglected here. The case which occurred in New
York was a gross instance of that partiality for which the public
are partly to blame. The waiters can tell easily enough who
will endure to be imposed upon, and the embarrassed faces
of the two country ladies, who found so fierce an advocate in
Mr. Phillips, were alone sufficient to lay them open to any degree
of neglect.”
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Another light tap at the door, and this time it was Netta
Gryseworth, who entered, exclaiming, “I hear Ellen's voice, so I
suppose I may come in. I am provoked,” added she, as she
kissed Emily's hand, and shook Gertrude's with a freedom and
vivacity which seemed to spring partly from girlish hoydenism
and partly from high-bred independence of manner, “to think
that while I have been watching about the drawing-room doors
for this half-hour, so as to see you the first minute you came in,
Ellen has been sitting here on a trunk, as sociable as all the
world, enjoying your society, and telling you every bit of the
news.”
“Not every bit, Netta,” said Ellen; “I have left several
choice little morsels for you.”
“Have you told Miss Flint about the Foxes and the Coxes
that were here yesterday?—Has she, Miss Flint?”
“Not a word about them,” said Gertrude.
“Nor about the fright we had on board the steamboat?”
“No.”
“Nor about Mr. Phillips' being here?”
“O, yes! she told us that.”
“Ah, she did!” exclaimed Netta, with an arch look, which
called up her sister's blushes. “And did she tell you how he
occapied this room, and how we heard him through the thin partition
pacing up and down all night, and how it kept me from
sleeping, and gave me a terrible headache all the next day?”
“No, she did not tell me that,” said Gertrude.
“You don't either of you walk all night, do you?” asked
Netta.
“Not often.”
“O, how thankful we ought to be to have you for neighbors!”
replied Netta. “If that horrible man had staid here and kept
up that measured tread, there would have been a suicide either
in his room or ours before many nights.”
“Do you think he was ill?” inquired Gertrude.
“No, indeed,” said Ellen; “it was nothing very remarkable,—
not for him, at least,—all his habits are peculiar; but it kept
Netta awake an hour or two, and made her fidgetty.”
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“An hour or two, Ellen?” cried Netta. “It was the whole
night!”
“My dear sis,” said Ellen, “you don't know what a whole
night is. You never saw one.”
A little sisterly discussion might have ensued about the length
of Mr. Phillips' walk and Netta's consequent wakefulness, but,
fortunately, the gong sounded, and Netta flew off to her own
room to brush out her puffs before tea.
Saratoga is a queer place. One sees congregated there, at
the height of the season, delegates from every part of our own
and from many foreign countries. Fashion's ladder is transplanted
thither, and all its rounds are filled. Beauty, wealth,
pride and folly, are well represented; and so too are wit, genius
and learning. Idleness reigns supreme, and no one, not even
the most active, busy and industrious citizen of our working land,
dares, in this her legitimate province, to dispute her temporary
sway. Every rank of society, every profession, and almost every
trade, meet each other on an easy and friendly footing. The
acknowledged belle, the bearer of an aristocratic name, the owner
of a well-filled purse, the renowned scholar, artist or poet, have
all a conspicuous sphere to shine in. There are many counterfeits,
too. The nobodies at home stand a chance to be considered
somebodies here; and the first people of a distant city, accustomed
to consider themselves somebodies, sit in corners and pout
at suddenly finding themselves nobodies. All come, however,
from a common motive; all are in pursuit of amusement, recreation
and rest from labor; and, in this search after pleasure, a
friendly and benevolent sentiment for the most part prevails.
All are in motion, and the throngs of well-dressed people moving
to and fro, on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, together with
the gay assemblages crowded upon the piazzas of the hotels, constitute
a lively and festive scene; and he who loves to observe
human nature may study it here in its most animated form.
It was a wholly new experience to Gertrude; and although,
in the comparative retirement and privacy of Congress Hall, she
saw only the reflection of Saratoga gayety, and heard only the
echo of its distant hum, there was enough of novelty and
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excitement to entertan, amuse and surprise one who was a complete
novice in the ways of fashionable life. In the circle of high-bred,
polished, literary and talented persons whom Madam Gryseworth
drew about her, and into which Dr. Jeremy's party were at once
admitted as honored members, Gertrude found much that was
congenial to her cultivated and superior taste, and she herself
soon came to be appreciated and admired as she deserved.
Madam Gryseworth was a lady of the old school,—one who had
all her life been accustomed to the best society, and who continued,
in spite of her advanced years, to enjoy and to adorn it.
She was still an elegant-looking woman, tall and stately; and,
though a little proud, and to strangers a little reserved, she soon
proved herself an agreeable companion to people of all ages.
For the first day or two of their acquaintance, poor Mrs. Jeremy
stood much in awe of her, and could not feel quite at ease in her
presence; but this feeling wore off wonderfully quick, and the
stout little doctor's lady soon became exceedingly confiding and
chatty towards the august dame.
One evening, when the Jeremys had now been a week at Saratoga,
as Emily and Gertrude were leaving the tea-table, they
were joined by Netta Gryseworth, who, linking her arm in Gertrude's,
exclaimed, in her usual gay manner, “Gertrude, I shall
quarrel with you soor.!”
“Indeed!” said Gertrude, “on what ground?”
“Jealousy.”
Gertrude blushed slightly.
“O! you needn't turn so red; it is not on account of any
gray-headed gentleman's staring at you all dinner-time, from the
other end of the table. No; I'm indifferent on that score.
Ellen and you may disagree about Mr. Phillips' attentions, but
I'm jealous of those of another person.”
“I hope Gertrude isn't interfering with your happiness in any
way,” said Emily, smiling.
“She is, though,” replied Netta, “my happiness, my pride, my
comfort. She is undermining them all; she would not dare to
conduct so, Miss Graham, if you could see her behavior.”
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“Tell me all about it,” said Emily, coaxingly, “and I will proreise
to interest myself for you.”
“I doubt that,” answered Netta; “I am not sure but you are
a coädjutor with her. However, I will state my grievance. Do
you not see how entirely she engrosses the attention of an important
personage? Are you not aware that Peter has ceased to have
eyes for any one else? For my own part, I can get nothing to eat
or drink until Miss Flint is served, and I'm determined to ask
papa to change our seats at the table. It is n't that I care about
my food but I feel insulted,—my pride is essentially wounded.
A few days ago, I was a great favorite with Peter, and all my pet
dishes were sure to be placed directly in front of me; but now the
tune is changed, and, this very evening, I saw him pass Gertrude
the blackberries, which the creature knows I delight in, while he
pushed a dish of blues towards me in a contemptuous manner,
which seemed to imply, `Blueberries are good enough for you,
miss!' ”
“I have noticed that the waiters are very attentive to us,”
said Emily; “do you suppose Gertrude has been secretly bribing
them?”
“She says not,” replied Netta. “Did n't you tell me so yesterday,
Gertrude, when I was drawing a similar comparison between
their devotion to you and to our party? Did n't you tell me that
neither the doctor nor any of you ever gave Peter a cent?”
“Certainly,” answered Gertrude; “his attentions are all voluntary;
but I attribute them entirely to Emily's influence, and
his desire to serve her.”
“It's no such thing!” said Netta, emphasizing her remark by
a mysterious little shake of the head;—“it's sorcery, I'm
sure of it; you've been practising the black art, Gertrude, and
I'll warn Peter this very day.”
As she spoke, they reached a corner of the drawing-room
where the old ladies Gryseworth and Jeremy were sitting upon a
sofa, engaged in earnest conversation, while Ellen, who had just
returned from a drive with her father, stood talking with him and
a Mr. Petrancourt, who had that evening arrived from New
York.
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The ladies on the sofa made room for Emily, and Netta and
Gertrude seated themselves near by. Occasionally Madam
Gryseworth cast glances of annoyance at a group of children on
the other side of the room, who by their noisy shouts continually
interrupted her remarks, and prevented her understanding those
of her neighbor. Gertrude's attention soon became attracted by
them also to such a degree that she did not hear more than half
of the lively and gay sallies of wit and nonsense which Netta continued
to pour forth.
“Do go and play with those children, Gertrude,” said Netta,
at last; “I know you're longing to.”
“I'm longing to stop their play!” exclaimed Gertrude; an
apparently ill-natured remark, which we are bound to explain.
Some half-dozen gayly and fancifully-dressed children, whose
mothers were scattered about on the piazzas, and whose nurses
were at supper, had collected around a strange little new-comer,
whom they were subjecting to every species of persecution. Her
clothes, though of rich material, were most untidily arranged, and
appeared somewhat soiled by travelling. Her little black silk
frock (for the child was clad in mourning) seemed to be quite
outgrown, being much shorter than some of her other garments,
and her whole appearance denoted great negligence on the part
of her parents or guardians. When Madam Gryseworth's evident
disturbance first led Gertrude to notice the youthful group,
this little girl was standing in their midst, looking wildly about
her, as if for a chance to escape; but this the children prevented,
and continued to ply her with questions, each of which called
forth a derisive shout from all but the poor little object of attack,
who, on her part, looked ready to burst into tears. Whether the
scene reminded Gertrude of some of her own experiences, or
merely touched the chord of a universal spirit of sympathy for
the injured, she could not keep her eyes from the little party; and,
just as Netta was fairly launched upon one of her favorite topics,—
namely, Mr. Phillips and his unaccountable conduct,—she
sprung from her seat, exclaiming, “They shan't torment that child
so!” and hastily crossed the room to the rescue.
Netta burst into a hearty laugh at Gertrude's excited and
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enthusiastic manner of starting on her benevolent errand; and this,
together with the unusual circumstance of her crossing the large
and crowded room hastily and alone, drew the inquiries of all the
circle whom she had left, and during her absence she unconsciously
became the subject of discussion and remark.
“What is the matter, Netta?” asked Madam Gryseworth.
“Where has Gertrude gone?”
“To offer herself as a champion, grandmamma, for that little
rowdy-dowdy looking child.”
“Is she the one who has been making all this noise?”
“No, indeed, but I believe she is the cause of it.”
“It is n't every girl,” remarked Ellen, “who could cross a
great room like this so gracefully as Gertrude can.”
“She has a remarkably good figure,” said Madam Gryseworth,
“and knows how to walk; a very rare accomplishment, now-a-days.”
“She is a very well-formed girl,” remarked Dr. Gryseworth,
who had observed Gertrude attentively as she crossed the room.
and now, hearing her commented upon, turned to take his part in
the criticism; “but the true secret of her looking so completely
the lady lies in her having uncommon dignity of character, being
wholly unconscious of observation and independent of the wish to
attract it, and therefore simply acting herself. She dresses well,
too;—Ellen, I wish you would imitate Miss Flint's style of dress;
nothing could be in better taste.”
“Or a greater saving to your purse, papa,” whispered Netta,
“Gertrude dresses very simply.”
“Miss Flint's style of dress would not become Miss Gryseworth,”
said the fashionable Mrs. Petrancourt, who approached in
time to hear the doctor's remark. “Your daughter, sir, is a noble,
showy-looking girl, and can carry off a great deal of dress.”
“So can a milliner's doll, Mrs. Petrancourt. However, I suppose,
in a certain sense, you are right. The two girls are not
sufficiently alike to resemble each other, if their dresses were
matched with Chinese exactness.”
“Resemble each other!—You surely would not wish to see
your beautiful daughter the counterpart of one who has not half
her attractions.”
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“Are you much acquainted with Miss Flint?”
“Not at all; but Netta pointed her out to me at the tea-table
as being a particular friend.”
“Then you must excuse me, ma'am, if I remark that it is
impossible you should have any idea of her attractions, as they
certainly do not lie on the surface.”
“You confess, then, that you do not think her handsome, sir?”
“To tell the truth, I never thought anything about it. Ask
Petrancourt; he is an acknowledged judge;” and the doctor bowed
in a flattering manner to the lady, who had been the belle of the
season at the time her husband paid his addresses to her.
“I will, when I can get a chance; but he is standing too near
the blind lady,—Miss Flint's aunt, is she not?”
“Particular friend; not her aunt.”
This conversation had been carried on in a low voice, that
Emily might not hear it. Others, however, were either more
careless or more indifferent to her presence; for Madam Gryseworth
began to speak of Gertrude without restraint, and she was
at this moment saying, “One must see her under peculiar circumstances
to be struck with her beauty at once;—for instance, as I
did yesterday, when she had just returned from horseback-riding,
and her face was in a glow from exercise and excitement; or as
she looks when animated by her intense interest in some glowing
and eloquent speaker, or when her feelings are suddenly touched,
and the tears start into her eyes, and her whole soul shines out
through them!”
“Why, grandmamma!” cried Netta, “you are really eloquent!”
“So is Gertrude, at such times as those I speak of. O! she
is a girl after my own heart.”
“She must be a very agreeable young lady, from your account,”
said Mr. Petrancourt. “We must know her.”
“You will not find her at all the same stamp as most of the agreeable
young ladies whom you meet in the gay circles. I must tell
you what Horace Willard said of her. He is an accomplished
man and a scholar,—his opinion is worth something. He had
been staying a fortnight at the United States Hotel, and used to
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call here occasionally, to see us. The day he left, he came to me
and said, `Where is Miss Flint? I must have one more refreshing
conversation with her before I go. It is a perfect rest to be
in that young lady's society, for she never seems to be making the
least effort to talk with me, or to expect any attempt on my part;
she is one of the few girls who never speak unless they have something
to say.'—How she has contrived to quiet those children!”
Mr. Petrancourt followed the direction of Madam Gryseworth's
eyes. “Is that the young lady you are speaking of?” asked he.
“The one with great, dark eyes, and such a splendid head of hair?
I have been noticing her for some time.”
“Yes, that is she, talking to the little girl in black.”
“Madam Gryseworth,” said Dr. Jeremy, through the long,
open window, and stepping inside as he spoke, “I see you appreciate
our Gerty; I did not say too much in praise of her good
sense, did I?”
“Not half enough, doctor; she is a very bright girl, and a
very good one, I believe.”
“Good!” exclaimed the doctor; “I did n't know that goodness
counted in these places; but, if goodness is worth speaking of, I
should like to tell you a little of what I know of that girl;”—
and, without going closely into particulars, he commenced dilating
enthusiastically upon Gertrude's noble and disinterested conduct
under trying circumstances, and, warming with his subject, had
recounted, in a touching manner, her devotion to one old paralytic,—
to another infirm, imbecile and ill-tempered old man and his
slowly-declining daughter,—and would have proceeded, perhaps, to
speak of her recent self-sacrificing labors in Emily's service; but
Miss Graham touched his arm, spoke in a low voice, and interrupted
him.
He stopped abruptly. “Emily, my dear,” said he, “I beg
your pardon; I did n't know you were here; but what you say is
very true. Gertrude is a private character, and I have no right
to bring her before the public. I am an old fool, certainly; but
there, we are all friends.” And he looked around the circle a
little anxiously, cast a slightly suspicious glance at the Petrancourts,
and finally rested his guze upon a figure directly behind Ellen
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Gryseworth. The latter turned, not having been previously aware
that any stranger was in the neighborhood, and, to her surprise,
found herself face to face with Mr. Phillips!
“Good-evening, sir,” said she, on recognizing him; but he did
not seem to hear her. Madam Gryseworth, who had never seen
him before, looked up inquiringly.
“Mr. Phillips,” said Ellen, “shall I make you acquainted with
Mrs. Gryseworth, my—” But, before she could complete the
introduction, he had darted quickly through the window, and was
walking across the piazza with hasty strides. He drew forth his
handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow, and, unseen and
unsuspected, brushed away a tear.
-- --
Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
