THE STRICKEN DEER.
When Gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did as soon as she had seen Emily comfortably established in the drawing-room in conversation with Madam Gryseworth, she found there a beautiful bouquet of the choicest flowers, which the chamber-maid said she had been commissioned to deliver to herself. She rightly imagined the source from whence they came, divined the motives of kindness which had prompted the donor of so acceptable a gift, and felt that, if she must accept pity from any quarter, Mr. Phillips was one from whom she could more easily bear to receive it than from any other.
Notwithstanding Netta's intimations, she did not suspect that any other motives than those of kindness had prompted the offering of the beautiful flowers. Nor had she reason to do so; Mr. Phillips' manner towards her was rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began to regard him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which she had ever thought of him or believed that he ever regarded her. She placed the flowers in water, returned to the parlour, and constrained herself to talk on indifferent subjects until the breaking up of the circle—part to ride, part to take a drive, and the rest a nap. Among these last was Gertrude, who made her headache as an excuse to Emily for this unwonted indulgence.
In the evening she had an urgent invitation to accompany Dr. Gryseworth, his daughters, and the Petrancourts to a concert at the United States Hotel. This she declined. She felt that she could not undergo another such encounter as that of the morning—she should be sure to betray herself; and now that the whole day had passed and Willie had made no attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world, put herself in his way and run the risk of being recognised by him in a crowded concert-room.
Thus the parlour, being half deserted, was very quiet—a great relief to Gertrude's aching head and troubled mind. Later in the evening an elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to Emily, and was talking with her; Madam Gryseworth and Dr. Jeremy were entertaining each other, Mrs. Jeremy was nodding, and Gertrude, believing that she should not be missed, was gliding out of the room to sit in the moonlight when she met Mr. Phillips in the hall.
"What are you here all alone for?" asked he. "Why didn't you go to the concert?"
"I have a headache."
"I saw you had at dinner. Is it no better?"
"No. I believe not."
"Come and walk with me on the piazza a little while. It will do you good."
She went; and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her a great many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile, and even laugh, and seemed pleased at having done so. He related many amusing things he had seen and heard since he had been staying at Saratoga in the character of a spectator, and ended by asking her if she didn't think it was a heartless show.
Gertrude asked his meaning.
"Don't you think it is ridiculous in so many thousand people coming here to enjoy themselves?"
"I don't know," answered Gertrude; "but it has not seemed so to me. I think it's an excellent thing for those who do enjoy themselves."
"And how many do?"
"The greater part, I suppose."
"Pshaw! no they don't. More than half go away miserable, and nearly all the rest dissatisfied."
"Do you think so? Now, I thought the charm of the place was seeing so many happy faces; they have nearly all looked happy to me."
"Oh, that's all on the surface; and, if you'll notice, those who look happy one day are wretched enough the next. Yours was one of the happy faces yesterday, but it isn't to-day, my poor child."
Then, perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested on his arm to tremble, while the eyes which had been raised to his suddenly fell and hid themselves under their long lashes, he said, "However, we will trust soon to see it as bright as ever. But they should not have brought you here. Catskill Mountain was a fitter place for your lively imagination and reflecting mind."
"Oh!" exclaimed Gertrude, imagining that Mr. Phillips suspected her to be smarting under some neglect, feeling of wounded pride, or, perhaps, serious injury, "you speak harshly; all are not selfish, all are not unkind."
"Ah! you are young, and full of faith. Trust whom you can, and as long as you can. I trust no one."
"No one! Are there none, then, in the whole world whom you love and confide in?"
"Scarcely; certainly not more than one. Whom should I trust?"
"The good, the pure, the truly great."
"And who are they? How shall we distinguish them? I tell you, my young friend, that in my experience—and it has been rich, ay, very rich"—and he set his teeth and spoke with bitterness—"the so-called good, the honourable, the upright man, has proved but the varnished hypocrite, the highly finished and polished sinner. Yes," continued he, his voice growing deeper, his manner more excited, "I can think of one, a respectable man, a church-member, whose injustice and cruelty made my life what it has been—a desert, a blank, or worse than that; and I can think of another, an old, rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a day never passed that he did not take the name of his God in vain, yet had at the bottom of his heart a drop of such pure, unsullied essence of virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten thousand of your polished rogues. Which, then, shall I trust—the good religious men, or the low, profane, and abject ones?"
"Trust in goodness, wherever it be found," answered Gertrude; "but oh, trust all rather than none."
"Your world, your religion, draws a closer line. You are a good child, and full of hope and charity," said Mr. Phillips, pressing her arm closely to his side. "I will try and have faith in you. But see! our friends have returned from the concert."
Alboni had excelled herself; and they were so sorry Gertrude did not go. "But, perhaps," whispered Netta, "you have enjoyed yourself more at home." But Gertrude, as she stood leaning unconcernedly upon Mr. Phillips' arm, looked so innocent of confusion or embarrassment, that her manner refuted Netta's suspicions.
"Miss Clinton was there," continued Netta, "and looked beautiful. She had a crowd of gentlemen about her; but didn't you notice (and she turned to Mrs. Petrancourt) that one met with such marked favour that I wonder the rest were not discouraged. I mean that tall, handsome young man who waited upon her into the hall and went out soon after. She devoted herself to him while he stayed."
"The same one, was it not," asked Ellen, "who towards the close of the concert came in and stood leaning against the wall for some minutes?"
"Yes," answered Netta; "but he only waited for Alboni to finish singing, and then approaching Miss Clinton, whispered in her ear. After that she got up, left her seat, and they both went off, rather to the mortification of the other gentlemen."
"Oh, it is not strange, under the circumstances," said Mr. Petrancourt, "that Miss Clinton should prefer a walk with Mr. Sullivan to the best music in the world."
"Why?" asked Netta. "Is he very agreeable? Is he supposed to be the favoured one?"
"I should think there was no doubt of it," answered Mr. Petrancourt. "I believe it is generally thought to be an engagement. He was in Paris with them during the spring, and they all came home in the same steamer. Everybody knows it is the wish of Mr. Clinton's heart, and Miss Isabel makes no secret of her preference."
"Oh, certainly," interposed Mrs. Pentracourt; "it is an understood thing."
What became of Gertrude all this time? Could she, who for six years had nursed the fond idea that to Willie she was, and should still continue to be, all in all—could she stand patiently by and hear him thus disposed of and given to another? She did do it; not consciously, however, for her head swam round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of Mr. Phillips, who held her arm so tightly that, though he felt, the rest could not see how she trembled. Fortunately, too, none but he saw her blanched face; and, as she stood in the shadow, he alone was watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, the death-like pallor of her countenance.
Standing there with her heart beating, and almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened, heard, and comprehended every word. She could not, however, have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more accident might have betrayed her excited condition. But Mr. Phillips acted, spoke, and moved for her, and she was spared an exposure from which her sensitive spirit would have shrunk.
"Mr. Sullivan!" said he. "Ah! a fine fellow; I know him. Miss Gertrude, I must tell you an anecdote about that young man;" and moving forward in the direction in which they had been walking when they met the party from the concert, he related that he and Mr. Sullivan were, a few years previous, travelling across an Arabian desert, when the latter proved of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering tribe of Bedouins. He stopped in his narration and perceived that all danger of observation was passed, and without ceremony placed her in an arm-chair just by. "Sit here," said he, "while I bring you a glass of water." He wrapped her mantle tightly about her and walked quickly away. Oh, how Gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerately leaving her and giving her time to recover herself! It was the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindest. He saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she would soon rally her powers.
When here returned she was perfectly calm. She tasted the water, but he did not urge her to drink it; he knew she did not require it. "I have kept you out too long," said he; "come, you had better go in now."
She rose; he put her arm once more through his, guided her feeble steps to a window which opened into her and Emily's room; and then, pausing a moment, said in a meaning tone, at the same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing eye, "You exhort me, Miss Gertrude, to have faith in everybody; but I bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest you believe too much. Where you have good foundation for confidence, abide by it, if you can, firmly, but trust nothing which you have not fairly tested, and rest assured that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy of credit. Good night." What an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned Gertrude! They came to her with all the force of a prophecy, and struck deep into her heart.
During their long and regular correspondence no letter had come from Willie that did not breathe a devoted affection for Gertrude—an exclusive affection, in which there could be no rivalship. All his thoughts of home and future happy days were inseparably associated with her; and although Mrs. Sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was one of her characteristics, never broached the subject to Gertrude, her whole treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. The bold declaration on Willie's part, conveyed in the letter received by Gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his prayers, his labours were now all for her, was not a more convincing proof of the tender light in which he regarded her than all their previous intercourse had been. Should Gertrude, then, distrust him? Should she at once set aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence to his prompt desertion of his early friend? No! she resolved to banish the unworthy thought; to cherish still the firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself which would yet satisfy her aching heart.
Gertrude continued during the remainder of the evening in an elevated frame of mind, and she was able to go back to the drawing-room for Emily, say good night to her friends with a cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and went quietly to sleep. But this calmness of mind, however, was the result of strong excitement, and therefore could not last. The next morning she yielded to depressed spirits, and the effort which she made to rise, dress, and go to breakfast was almost mechanical. She excused herself from her customary walk with the doctor, for to that she felt unequal. Her first wish was to leave Saratoga; she longed to go home, to be in a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her; and when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it, and said, smilingly, "None for you, Gerty; but one for Emily, which is the next best thing, I suppose."
To Gertrude this was the very best thing, for it was a long-expected letter from Mr. Graham, who had arrived at New York, and desired them to join him there the following day. Gertrude could hardly conceal her satisfaction, and Emily, delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, was eager to prepare for leaving.
They retired to their own room, and Gertrude's time until dinner was occupied in packing. During the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously hoping that Willie would make his appearance at their hotel; now she dreaded such an event. To meet him in so public a manner, too, as must here be inevitable, would be insupportable; she would prefer to be in Boston when he should first recognize her; and, if she tormented herself yesterday with the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day.
She was therefore relieved when, after dinner, Mr. Phillips proposed to drive to the lake. Dr. Gryseworth and one of his daughters had agreed to take seats in a carriage he had provided, and he hoped she would not refuse to occupy the fourth.
At the lake Dr. Gryseworth and his daughter Ellen had been persuaded by a party whom they had met there to engage in bowling. Mr. Phillips and Gertrude declined taking part, and stood looking on. As they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of water, a couple approached and took up a position near them. Mr. Phillips was screened from their observation by the trunk of a tree, and Gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, yet the paleness of her face as they drew near indicated that she saw and recognized William Sullivan and Isabel Clinton. The words which they spoke fell distinctly upon her ear. "Shall I then be so much missed?" asked Isabel, looking earnestly into the face of her companion, who, with a serious air, was gazing out upon the water.
"Missed!" replied he, turning towards her and speaking in a slightly reproachful voice; "how can it be otherwise? Who can supply your place?"
"But it will be only two days."
"A short time under ordinary circumstances," said Willie, "but an eternity——" He here checked himself and made a sudden motion to proceed on their walk. Isabel followed him, saying, "But you will wait here until my return?"
He turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look of his features was visible to Gertrude as he said, with earnestness, "Certainly; can you doubt it?" The strange, fixed, unnatural expression of Gertrude's countenance as she listened to this conversation, to her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness.
"Gertrude!" exclaimed Mr. Phillips, after watching her for a moment; "Gertrude, for Heaven's sake do not look so! Speak, Gertrude! What is the matter?"
But she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that stony face; she evidently did not hear him. He took her hand. It was cold as marble. His face now wore an appearance of distress almost equal to her own; great tears rolled down his cheeks. Once he stretched forth his arms as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a little child, but he repressed the emotion. "Gertrude," said he, leaning forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers, "what have these people done to you? Why do you care for them? If that young man has injured you—the rascal!—he shall answer for it;" and he sprung to his feet. The words and the action brought Gertrude to herself. "No, no!" said she, "he is not that. I am better now. Do not speak of it; don't tell," and she looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling-alley. "I am a great deal better;" and to his astonishment—for the fearful, rigid look upon her face had frightened him—she rose with composure and proposed going home.
He accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way up the hill, where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of their party, driving toward Saratoga. During the whole drive and the evening which followed Gertrude preserved this same unnatural composure. Once or twice before they reached the hotel Dr. Gryseworth asked her if she felt ill. The very tones of her voice were constrained—so much so that Emily asked, "What is the matter, my dear child?"
But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties of the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and arranged with the Gryseworths to see them in the morning.
Emily was the more troubled of the two, for she could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole demeanour, the better concealed sufferings of Gertrude. Gertrude neither knew at the time, nor could afterwards recall, one-half the occurrences of that evening. She never could understand what it was that sustained her and enabled her, half unconsciously, to perform her part in them. How she so successfully concealed her misery she never could comprehend or explain.
That Willie was faithless to his first love she could not doubt; and with this conviction she realised that the stay of her life had fallen. Uncle True and Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was still a dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or less dependent upon Gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the assurance of their love, two had, long before they passed away, come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm; and the other trusted to her to guide her uncertain steps, but those steps were tending downwards to the grave. Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lean? To whom could she with confidence turn for counsel, protection, support, and love? To whom but Willie? And Willie had given his heart to another—and Gertrude would soon be left alone! No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself sick, faint, and exhausted. And then she thought she heard voices, as in her childhood, whispering, "Gerty!—Gerty!—poor little Gerty!" She sank upon her knees, her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet resignation of her countenance gave evidence that in her prayer to God her soul held deep communion with its Maker, and once more her spirit was uttering the simple words, "Here am I, Lord!"
Oh, blessed religion, which can sustain the heart in such an hour as this! Oh, blessed faith and trust which, when earthly support fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its God!
And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and sees Emily, whom she believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety and the sobs of Gertrude banished slumber, is standing by her side.
"Gertrude," said she, "are you in trouble, and did you seek to hide it from me? Do not turn from me, Gertrude!" and, throwing her arms around her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, "Tell me all, my darling! What is the matter with my poor child?"
And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to her the only secret she had ever kept from her; and Emily wept as she listened, and when Gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart, exclaiming with an excitement which Gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually placid blind girl, "Strange, strange, that you, too, should be thus doomed! Oh, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is less bitter than mine!"
And then in the darkness of that midnight hour was Gertrude's confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty years before had blighted Emily's youth, and which was still vivid to her recollection casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her blindness was but a single feature.