ANCHORS FOR WORLD-TRIED SOULS.
The sunset hour was near when Gertrude and Willie rose to depart. They left the cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to that by which Gertrude had entered. Here Willie found the chaise in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to loosen the bridle by which he was fastened, had strayed to the side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the road, and, despairing of his master's return, seemed on the point of taking his departure. He was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and, as if glad after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half-an-hour to Mr. Graham's door.
As soon as they came in sight of the house, Gertrude, familiar with the customary ways of the family, perceived that something unusual was going forward. Lamps were moving about in every direction; the front door stood wide open; there was, what she had never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through the windows of the best chamber; and as they drew still nearer she observed that the piazza was half covered with trunks.
All these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the arrival of Mrs. Graham, and possibly of other company. She might perhaps have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling lady at the moment when she was eager for a quiet opportunity to present Willie to Emily and her father, and communicate to them her own happiness; but if such a thought presented itself it vanished in a moment. Her joy was too complete to be marred by so trifling a disappointment. "Let us drive up the avenue, Willie," said she, "to the side-door, so that George may see us and take your horse to the stable."
"No," said Willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate; "I can't come in now—there seems to be a house full of company, and besides I have an appointment in town at eight o'clock, and promised to be punctual;"—he glanced at his watch and added, "it is near that already. I did not think of its being so late; but I shall see you to-morrow morning, may I not?" She looked her assent, and, with a warm grasp of the hand as he helped her from the chaise, and a mutual smile of confidence and love, they separated.
He drove rapidly towards Boston, and she, opening the gate, found herself in the arms of Fanny Bruce, who had been impatiently waiting the departure of Willie to seize her dear Miss Gertrude and, between tears and kisses, pour out her congratulations and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steamboat—for this was the first time they had met since the accident.
"Has Mrs. Graham come, Fanny?" asked Gertrude, as they walked up to the house together.
"Yes, indeed; Mrs. Graham, and Kitty, and Isabel, and a little girl, and a sick gentleman—Mr. Clinton, I believe; and another gentleman—but he's gone."
"Who has gone?"
"Oh, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes, and a beautiful face, and hair as white as if he were old—and he isn't old either."
"And do you say he has gone?"
"Yes; he didn't come with the rest. He was here when I came, and he went away about an hour ago. I heard him tell Miss Emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in Boston, but perhaps he'd come back this evening. I hope he will, Miss Gertrude; you ought to see him."
They had now reached the house, and through the open door Gertrude could plainly distinguish the loud tones of Mrs. Graham's voice proceeding from the parlour on the right. She was talking to her husband and Emily, and was just saying as Gertrude entered, "Oh, it was the most awful thing I ever heard of in my life! and to think, Emily, of your being on board, and our Isabel! Poor child! she hasn't got her colour back yet after the fright. And Gertrude Flint, too! By the way, they say Gertrude behaved very well. Where is the child?"
Turning round, she now saw Gertrude, who was just entering the room, and, going towards her, she kissed her with considerable heartiness and sincerity; for Mrs. Graham, though somewhat coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occasion was such as to awaken them.
Gertrude's entrance having served to interrupt the stream of exclamatory remarks in which the excitable lady had been indulging for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging after her about the floor.
"Well!" exclaimed she, "I suppose I had better follow the girls' example and get some of the dust off from me! I'm half buried, I believe! But there, that's better than coming on in the horrid steamboat last night, as my brother Clinton was so crazy as to propose. Where's Bridget? I want her to take up some of my things."
"I will assist you," said Gertrude, taking up a little carpet-bag, throwing a scarf, which had been stretching across the room, over her arm, and then following Mrs. Graham closely, in order to support the heavy travelling-shawl which was hanging half off that lady's shoulders. At the first landing-place, however, she found herself suddenly encircled in Kitty's warm embrace, and, laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to the hugging and kissing that succeeded.
At the head of the staircase she met Isabel, wrapped in a dressing gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most discontented expression of countenance. She set the pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted Gertrude with a good grace. "I'm glad to see you alive," said she, "though I cannot look at you without shuddering; it reminds me so of that dreadful day when we were in such frightful danger. How lucky we were to be saved, when there were so many drowned! I've wondered ever since, Gertrude, how you could be so calm; I'm sure I shouldn't have known what to do if you hadn't been there to suggest. But, oh dear! don't let us speak of it; it's a thing I cant' bear to think of!" and with a shudder and shrug of the shoulders, Isabel dismissed the subject and called somewhat pettishly to Kitty—"Kitty, I thought you went to get our pitcher filled!"
Kitty, who, in obedience to a loud call and demand from her aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling-bag which Gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back quite out of breath, saying, "I did ring the bell twice. Hasn't anybody come?"
"No!" replied Belle! "and I should like to wash my face and curl my hair before tea, if I could."
"Let me take the pitcher," said Gertrude; "I am going downstairs, and will send Jane up with the water."
"Thank you," said Belle, rather feebly; while Kitty exclaimed, "No, no, Gertrude; I'll go myself."
But it was too late; Gertrude had gone.
Gertrude found Mrs. Ellis full of troubles and perplexities. "Only think," said the astonished housekeeper, "of their coming, five of them, without the least warning in the world; and here I've nothing in the house fit for tea; not a bit of rich cake, not a scrap of cold ham. And of course they're hungry after their long journey, and will want something nice."
"Oh, if they are very hungry, Mrs. Ellis, they can eat dried beef and fresh biscuit and plain cake; and if you will give me the keys I will get out the preserves and the best silver, and see that the table is set properly."
Nothing was a trouble to Gertrude that night. Everything that she touched went right. Jane caught her spirit and became astonishingly active; and when the really bountiful table was spread, and Mrs. Ellis, after glancing around and seeing that all was as it should be, looked into the beaming eyes and observed the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl, she exclaimed, in her ignorance, "Good gracious, Gertrude, anybody would think you were over-joyed to see all these folks back again!"
It wanted but a few moments to tea-time, and Gertrude was selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when Kitty Ray peeped in at the door and finally entered, leading by the hand a little girl neatly dressed in black. Her face was at first full of smiles; but the moment she attempted to speak she burst into tears, and throwing her arms round Gertrude's neck, whispered in her ear, "Oh, Gertrude, I'm so happy! I came to tell you!"
"Happy?" replied Gertrude; "then you mustn't cry."
Upon this Kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then laughed once more, and in the interval explained to Gertrude that she was engaged—had been engaged a week to the best man in the world—and that the child she held by the hand was his orphan niece, and just like a daughter to him. "And only think," continued she, "it's all owing to you."
"To me?" said the astonished Gertrude.
"Yes; because I was so vain and silly, you know, and liked folks that were not worth liking, and didn't care much for anybody's comfort but my own; and, if you hadn't taught me to be something better than that, and set me a good example, which I've tried to follow ever since, he never would have thought of looking at me, much less loving me, and believing I should be a fit mother for little Gracie here," and she looked down affectionately at the child, who was clinging fondly to her. "He is a minister, Gertrude, and very good. Only think of such a childish creature as I am being a minister's wife!" The sympathy which Kitty came to claim was not denied her, and Gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured her of her participation in her joy.
In the meantime little Gracie, who still clung to Kitty with one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of Gertrude, who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room at Saratoga.
Kitty was charmed with the coincidence, and Gertrude, as she remarked the happy transformation which had already been effected in the countenance and dress of the little girl, who had been so sadly in want of female superintendence, felt an added conviction of the wisdom of the young clergyman's choice.
Mr. Graham's cheerful parlour had never looked so cheerful as on that evening. The weather was mild, but a light fire, which had been kindled on Mr. Clinton's account, did not render the room too warm. It had, however, driven the young people into a remote corner, leaving the neighbourhood of the fire-place to Mrs. Graham and Emily, who occupied the sofa, and Mr. Clinton and Mr. Graham, whose arm-chairs were placed on the opposite side.
This arrangement enabled Mr. Graham to converse freely and uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest, while his talkative wife entertained herself and Emily by a recapitulation of her travels and adventures. On a table, at the further extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful engravings, recently purchased and brought home by Mr. Graham, and representing a series of European views. Gertrude and Kitty were turning them carefully over; and little Gracie, who was sitting in Kitty's lap, and Fanny, who was leaning over Gertrude's shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young ladies' explanations and comments.
Occasionally Isabel, the only restless or unoccupied person present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of some familiar spot, and exclaim, "Kitty, there's the shop where I bought my blue silk!" or, "Kitty, there's the waterfall that we visited in company with the Russian officers." And now the door opened, and, without any announcement, Mr. Amory and William Sullivan entered.
Had either made his appearance singly, he would have been looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company; but coming together, and with an apparently good understanding existing between them, there was no countenance present which expressed any emotion but that of surprise.
Mr. and Mrs. Graham, however, were too much accustomed to society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was contained in a momentary glance, and, rising, received their visitors with due politeness and propriety. The former nodded carelessly to Mr. Amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him to Mr. Clinton (without, however, mentioning the existing connection with himself), and was preparing to go through the same ceremony to Mrs. Graham, but was saved the trouble as she had not forgotten the acquaintance formed at Baden-Baden.
Willie's knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of introduction to all but Emily; and that being accidentally omitted, he gave an arch glance at Gertrude, and, taking an offered seat near Isabel, entered into conversation with her, Mr. Amory being in like manner engrossed by Mrs. Graham.
"Miss Gertrude," whispered Fanny, as soon as the interrupted composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at Willie as she spoke, "that's the gentleman you were out driving with this afternoon. I know it is," continued she, as she observed Gertrude change colour and endeavour to hush her, while she looked anxiously round as if the remark had been overheard; "is it Willie, Gertrude? is it Mr. Sullivan?"
Gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mischievous Fanny continued to ply her with such questions; and Isabel, who had jealously noticed that Willie's eyes wandered more than once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as rendered her confusion distressing.
Accident came to her relief, however. The housemaid, with the evening paper, endeavoured to open the door, against which her chair was placed, thus giving her an opportunity to rise, receive the paper, and at the same time an unimportant message. While she was thus engaged, Mr. Clinton left his chair with the feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question in a low voice to Willie, and receiving an affirmatory reply, took Isabel by the hand, and approaching Mr. Amory, exclaimed, with deep emotion, "Sir, Mr. Sullivan tells me you are the person who saved the life of my daughter; and here she is to thank you."
Mr. Amory rose and flung his arm over the shoulder and around the waist of Gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the newspaper to Mr. Graham, and who, not having heard the remark of Mr. Clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an upturned face. "Here," said he, "Mr. Clinton, is the person who saved the life of your daughter. It is true that I swam with her to the shore; but it was under the mistaken impression that I was bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom I little suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to another her only apparent chance of rescue."
"Just like you, Gertrude! Just like you!" shouted Kitty and Fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place in the little circle that had gathered round her.
"My own noble Gertrude!" whispered Emily, as, leaning on Mr. Amory's arm, she pressed Gertrude's hand to her lips.
"Oh, Gertrude!" exclaimed Isabel, with tears in her eyes, "I didn't know. I never thought——"
"Your child?" cried Mrs. Graham's loud voice, interrupting Isabel's unfinished exclamation.
"Yes, my child, thank God!" said Mr. Amory, reverently; "restored at last to her unworthy father, and—you have no secrets here, my darling?"—Gertrude shook her head, and glanced at Willie, who now stood at her side "and gladly bestowed by him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover." And he placed her hand in Willie's.
There was a moment's pause. All were impressed with the solemnity of the action. Then Mr. Graham came forward, shook each of the young couple heartily by the hand, and, passing his sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the library.
"Gertrude," said Fanny, pulling Gertrude's dress to attract her attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, "are you engaged?—are you engaged to him?"
"Yes," whispered Gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify Fanny's curiosity and silence her questioning.
"Oh, I'm so glad! I'm so glad!" shouted Fanny, dancing round the room and flinging up her arms.
"And I'm glad, too!" said Gracie, catching the tone of congratulation, and putting her mouth up to Gertrude for a kiss.
"And I am glad," said Mr. Clinton, placing his hands upon those of Willie and Gertrude, which were still clasped together, "that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom I have no words to thank, and no power to repay, has reaped a worthy reward in the love of one of the few men with whom a fond father may venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child."
Exhausted by so much excitement, Mr. Clinton now complained of sudden faintness, and was assisted to his room by Willie, who, after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the blessing of Emily upon his new hopes, and hear with wonder and delight the circumstances which attended the discovery of Gertrude's parentage.
For although it was an appointment to meet Mr. Amory which had summoned him back to Boston, and he had in the course of their interview acquainted him with the happy termination of a lover's doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took place in Mr. Graham's parlour, received in return the slightest hint of the great surprise which awaited him. He had felt a little astonishment at his friend's express desire to join him at once in a visit to Mr. Graham's; but on being informed that he had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Graham in Germany, he concluded that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possibly a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the only motives that had influenced him.
And now, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening passed rapidly away.
"Come here, Gerty!" said Willie, "come to the window, and see what a beautiful night it is."
It was indeed a glorious night. Snow lay on the ground. The air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick movements of the pedestrians and the brilliant icicles with which everything that had an edge was fringed. The stars were glittering too as they never glitter, except on the most intense of winter nights. The moon was just peeping above an old brown building—the same old corner building which had been visible from the door-step where Willie and Gerty were wont to sit in their childhood, and from behind which they had often watched the coming of the same round moon.
Leaning on Willie's shoulder, Gertrude stood gazing until the full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless ether. Neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same emotion as they thought of the days that were past.
Just then the gasman came quickly up the street, lit, as by an electric touch, the bright burners that in close ranks lined either side-walk, and in a moment more was out of sight.
Gertrude sighed. "It was no such easy task for poor old Uncle True," said she; "there have been great improvements since his time."
"There have, indeed!" said Willie, glancing round the well-lit, warm, and pleasantly-furnished rooms of his own and Gertrude's home, and resting his eyes at last upon the beloved one by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness—"such improvements, Gerty, as we only dreamt of once! I wish the dear old man could be here and share them!"
A tear started to Gertrude's eye; but, pressing Willie's arm, she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star just breaking forth from a silvery film which had hitherto half overshadowed it; the star through which Gertrude had ever fancied she could discern the smile of the kind old man.
"Dear Uncle True!" said she; "his lamp still burns brightly in heaven, Willie; and its light is not yet gone out on earth!"
In a beautiful town about thirty miles from Boston, and on the shore of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be immortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such sheets of blue transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of solid though ancient architecture. It had been the property of Philip Amory's paternal grandparents, and the early home and sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it was only with great reluctance, and when driven to the act by the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much-valued estate.
To reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a favourite scheme with Philip. His ample means now rendered it practicable; he lost no time in putting it into execution, and the spring after he returned from his wanderings saw the work in a fair way to be speedily completed.
In the meantime Gertrude's marriage had taken place; the Grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of compliment to Isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country-seat.
And Emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither dreamed of nor asked for outward change until Philip came to her one day and, taking her by the hand, said gently—
"This is no home for you, Emily. You are as much alone as I in my solitary farm-house. We loved each other in childhood, our hearts became one youth, and have continued so until now. Why should we be longer parted? Your father will not now oppose our wishes; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and gladden the lonely life of your grey-haired lover?"
But Emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smile of ineffable sweetness—
"Oh no, Philip! do not speak of it! Think of my frail health and my helplessness."
"Your health, dear Emily, is improving. The roses are already coming back to your cheeks; and for your helplessness, what task can be so sweet to me as teaching you, through my devotion, to forget it! Oh, do not send me away disappointed, Emily! A cruel fate divided us for years; do not by your own act prolong that separation! Believe me, a union with my early love is my brightest, my only hope of happiness!"
And she did not withdraw the hand which he held, but yielded the other also to his fervent clasp.
"My only thought had been, dear Philip," said she, "that ere this I should have been called to my Father's home; and even now I feel many a warning that I cannot be very long for earth; but while I stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish. No word of mine shall part hearts so truly one, your home shall be mine."
And when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring gales blew soft and made a gentle ripple on the water, Emily came to live on the hillside with Philip; and Mrs. Ellis came too to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which became henceforth her pride. She had long since tearfully implored, and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged Philip; and proved, by the humility of her voluntary confession, that she was not without a woman's heart.
Mrs. Prime pleaded hard for the cook's situation at the farm, but Emily kindly expostulated with her, saying—
"We cannot all leave my father, Mrs. Prime. Who would see to his hot toast, and the fire in the library?" and the good old woman saw the matter in the right light and submitted.
And is the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply-sorrowing exile happy now? He is; but his peace springs not from his beautiful home, his wide possessions, an honourable repute among his fellow-men, or even the love of the gentle Emily.
All these are blessings that he well knows how to prize; but his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet—a surer refuge from the tempest and the storm; for, through the power of a living faith, he has laid hold on eternal life. The blind girl's prayers are answered; her last, best work is done; she has cast a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul; and should her call to depart soon come, she will leave behind one to follow in her footsteps, fulfil her charities, and do good on earth until such time when he shall be summoned to join her again in heaven.
As they go forth in the summer evening to breathe the balmy air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the refreshing influences of a summer sunset, all things speak of a holy peace to the new-born heart of him who has so long been a man of sorrow.
As the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western light grows dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul; and the voice of nature around, and the still, small voice within whisper in gentlest, holiest accents—
"The sun shall be no more thy light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."
"Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."