SELFISHNESS.
Left at three years of age dependent upon the charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, Gertrude had, during her residence at Nan Grant's, found little 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 conclusions upon the hardness and cruelty of humanity; and, had she done so, such impressions would have been effaced in the home of her kind foster-father.
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.
From Mr. Graham she had until now experienced only kindness. On her first coming to live with them, he had taken little notice of her, so long as she was quiet, well-mannered, and no trouble to anybody, had been indifferent about her. He observed that Emily was fond of the girl, and, though he wondered at her taste, was glad that she should be indulged. But he soon noticed in his daughter's favourite a quickness of mind and propriety of deportment which created an interest in her that soon increased to positive partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gardening and her love of flowers. Emily formed no plan as to Gertrude's education to which she did not obtain a ready assent from her father; and Gertrude, grateful for so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obligation and regard, by treating Mr. Graham with the greatest respect.
But, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations, Mr. Graham had neither the disinterested forbearing spirit of Uncle True, nor the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of Emily. Mr. Graham was a liberal and highly respectable man; he had the reputation of being a high-minded and honourable man; and his conduct justified this report of him. But he was a selfish man, and often took 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—and he either could not or would not see that her duty lay in any other direction.
During a wakeful and restless night, Gertrude reviewed and considered her own circumstances. At first her only emotion was one of grief, but that gradually subsided, as other bitter thoughts rose up in her mind.
"What right," thought she, "has Mr. Graham to treat me this way—to tell me I shall go with him on his southern journey, and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation, and ought to be in my own? Does he consider my freedom is to be the price of my education, and am I no longer 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 she assured me 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, it would be tyranny in Mr. Graham to insist on 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 while my studies are fresh in my mind." So much said pride; and Gertrude's heart listened awhile 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 took the place of these excited feelings.
"Perhaps," said she to herself, "it is, after all, pure kindness that prompted Mr. Graham's interference. He may think as Emily does, that I am undertaking too much. It is 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 I was to be one of the party to the south; for though Emily talked as if she took it for granted, Mr. Graham never asked me to go, and I could not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to refuse; but, after planning the journey to please us both, I do not wonder at his being 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! Shall I then decide to give up my teaching, to go to the south, and leave 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 his anger to turn me from my duty."
Having thus resolved to brave the tempest, and committed her cause to Him who judgeth righteously, Gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep. Dreams of a painful nature started her back to consciousness. In some of these visions she beheld Mr. Graham angry, and threatening her with his displeasure if she dared to thwart his plans; and then she seemed to see Willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted 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 seen her. Exhausted by such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain any rest, and rising, seated herself at the window, where, watching the approach of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the courage which she felt would be requisite to carry her calmly and firmly through the next day—a day destined to witness her sad separation from Emily, and her farewell to Mr. Graham, which would probably be more distressing. 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 kind, none ever braved a temper which, when excited, was so violent. It cannot, then, be surprising that Gertrude's heart should have 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 opposer of her plans. She paused but a moment, and then went in. Mr. Graham was sitting in his arm-chair, and on the breakfast-table lay the morning paper. It had been Gertrude's habit to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this same hour, and it was for that purpose she had now come. She advanced toward him with her usual "Good morning."
The salutation was returned in a constrained voice. She seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper. But he placed his hand upon it to prevent 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."
"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, "do you mean to tell me that you have an 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 is right 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 influence me, and she——"
"Don't quote Emily to me!" interrupted Mr. Graham; "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, 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 troubled, had acquired additional firmness, instead of quailing before 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, if you go, I 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 dare say he is married to an Indian by this time, and, if not, has 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 nor anyone 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 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, all seated themselves at the table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and constraint, for Emily had heard the loud tones of her father's voice, while Mrs. Ellis plainly saw that something unpleasant had occurred.
When Mr. Graham had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to Mrs. Ellis, and 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 accepted the invitation with pleasure, and asked 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 felt in the place, pondered in her mind whether it could be possible that he could be guilty of the mean desire to vex and mortify her.
Breakfast over, Emily hastily sought her room, where she was joined by Gertrude. In answering Emily's inquiries as to the scene which had taken place, Gertrude forbore to repeat Mr. Graham's most bitter and wounding remarks; for she saw from her kind friend's countenance how deeply she participated in her own sense of wrong. 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 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 was spent by Gertrude in packing and other preparations, while Emily sat by, counselling the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiterated assurances of undiminished affection.
"Oh, if you could only write to me, dear Emily, during your long absence, what a comfort it would be," exclaimed Gertrude.
"With Mrs. Ellis's 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 child to the protection and care of One who will be to her a better friend than I can be."
In the course of the day Gertrude sought Mrs. Ellis, and astonished that lady by stating that she had come to have a few farewell words with her. Surprise, however, was soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to expatiate upon the 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 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 great earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to the suppliant for epistolary favours, begged to know how many pairs of undersleeves she would probably require. Having responded to her questions, and at last gained her 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-bye," 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 a sadness in her heart.
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, 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 Gairthrue," said Irish Katy, "and it's right gude in you to be afther comin' to bid us good-bye. I don't see how you gets memory to think of us all, and I'm shure ye'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, 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-bye;" and the good-bye that now fell upon Gertrude's ear was a hearty and a true one; it followed her through the hall, and as the carriage drove away she heard it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle.