THE ROCK OF AGES.
Before they had gained the road leading to the Mountain House, they became 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 realised the extreme heat of the weather. For the first few miles Gertrude's care was required to shield Emily and herself from the rays of the burning sun; and it was a great relief when they reached the beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the mountain. The atmosphere being clear, the gradually widening prospect was beautiful, and Gertrude's delight was such that the restraint imposed by stage-coach decorum was almost insupportable. When, therefore, the ascent became so laborious that the gentlemen alighted to relieve the weary horses, 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 active doctor soon left the coaches far behind. At a sudden turn in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the spot, when they were startled by hearing a voice, saying, "A fine landscape, certainly!"
It came from Mr. Phillips, seated upon a moss-grown rock, against which Gertrude was leaning. His attitude was easy and careless, his broad-brimmed straw hat lay on the ground, and his snow-besprinkled hair was tossed back from his high and expanded forehead. He immediately 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. 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 rub his hands together—his mode of expressing satisfaction.
Gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to that science. Again, she was sure that geology must have been with him an absorbed 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-house like a merchant, of Paris like a man of fashion and the world. In the meantime she walked beside him, silent but not unnoticed; for, as they approached a rough and steep ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should become fatigued. Dr. Jeremy declared his belief that Gerty could outwalk them both; and, thus satisfied, Mr. Phillips resumed the broken thread of their discourse, into which Gertrude was drawn almost unawares.
Mr. Phillips no longer seemed in Gertrude's eyes a stranger—he was a mystery, but not a forbidding one. She longed 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 shared her curiosity, asked a few questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's history; but in vain. Mr. Phillips' lips were sealed on the subject.
The doctor now felt very weary, and seating themselves by the roadside, 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 Gerty, gazing about her with a look of reverence; "how can you say so?"
Mr. Phillips smiled, and said in a peculiar tone, "There is no Sunday here, Miss Flint; it doesn't come up so high."
He spoke lightly—too lightly, Gertrude thought—and she replied with some seriousness and much sweetness, "I have often rejoiced that the Sabbath has 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 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 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 kind 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 honour to the man.
An hour brought them to the Mountain House, and to their joy they were 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. 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 went 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."
But she was not up in time, nor was the doctor; neither of them had calculated upon the sun being such an early riser; and though Gertrude sprang up almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which banished regret at having overslept herself, since nothing, she thought, could be more glorious than that which now lay outspread before her.
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. The foliage of the oaks, the pines, and the maples, which had found root in this lofty region, was rich in varied hues, 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.
She was soon joined by Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy, the former full of life, and dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance proclaimed how unwillingly she had forgone 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.
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 phrases, expressive of his approbation.
"Why, this looks queer, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Jeremy, rubbing her eyes, and gazing about her; "but I daresay 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 she darted forward, exclaiming, "Dr. Jeremy, 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 neck!"
Finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, Mrs. Jeremy grew so disturbed by his dangerous position that, looking most imploringly at Gertrude, she begged her to get the doctor away, 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, 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 come if she had known what a hard hill she would have to climb. Encouraged and assisted by her husband and Gertrude, she was induced to make a further attempt; and they had gone on some distance, when Gertrude, who was some steps in advance, heard Mrs. Jeremy give a slight scream. She looked back; the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the picture of consternation, was trying to pass him and retrace her steps down the hill.
"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 a minute longer! I thought it was a bad enough place before, and now I am going down faster than I came up."
Finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her, calling to Gertrude and assuring her there was no danger, and begging her wait for him at the top of the hill, where he would join her after he left his wife in safety at the hotel. Gertrude, therefore, went on alone. For the first few yards she looked 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 engrossed all her attention. After active climbing, she reached the highest point of ground, and found herself once more on the elevated platform, from which she could look forth upon the unbroken sea of clouds.
She seated herself at the foot of an immense pine-tree, removed her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise; and she inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze. 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, turned her eyes in the direction from which 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 suddenly 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 emphasis; then wildly throwing one arm above his head he let it fall heavily upon the ground, and, the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simply words, "Oh, 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 only saw a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair, open forehead; she leaned over him, brushed it away, and, as she did so, one of her tears fell upon his cheek. He awoke, 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 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 my age."
"If I had not had sorrows," 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."
"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!" soliloquised 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. "Oh, 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.
"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."
"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 fervour 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 colouring 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 straightforward simplicity.
"Almost," was Mr. Phillips' answer.
"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. "Oh, 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, and he looked 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. She smiled at Mr. Phillips' question; and after looking into the deep valley beneath her, gave him a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent 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 fear lest the time was fast approaching when Emily would be taken from her, she had of late been grieved by the thought that Willie Sullivan, towards whom her heart yearned with more than a sister's love, was forgetting the friend of his childhood, or ceasing to regard her with the love 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 apologised for on the score of business 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; and still, in the depths of her heart, she sometimes mused with wonder upon his long silence, and his 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?
Dr. Jeremy's approach was the signal for hearty congratulations between himself and Mr. Phillips; the doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright Sabbath morning in the mountains; and Mr. Phillips, compelled to exert himself and conceal the gloom which weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease, and even playfulness, which astonished Gertrude, who walked back to the house wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. She did not see him at breakfast, and at dinner he sat at some distance from Dr. Jeremy's party, and merely gave a graceful salutation to Gertrude as she left the dining-hall.
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; 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 reverie, of which Emily reaped a part of the enjoyment. They saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had disappeared. 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 disappointed, for he liked Mr. Phillips much, 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, Gertie," said he, "I daresay we shall come across him yet some time when we least expect it."