WHO ARE HAPPY?
Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a meeting of bank-directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room. Willie detained Gertrude in the little library, and Emily was indulging in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on her hand; her face, usually so placid, was sad; and her whole appearance denoted despondency. As thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sank upon the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. Suddenly a hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual pre-occupation of mind had made Gertrude's approaching step unheard. "Is anything the matter, Miss Emily?" said Gertrude. "Do you like best to be alone, or may I stay?"
The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question, touched Emily. She drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, "O, yes, stay with me;" then observing, as she passed an arm round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added, "But what is the matter with you, Gerty? What makes you tremble and sob so?"
At this, Gertrude broke forth with, "O, Miss Emily, I thought you were crying when I came in, and I hoped you would let me come and cry with you; for I'm so miserable I can't do anything else."
Calmed herself by the agitation of the child, Emily tried to discover the cause of this new affliction. Willie had been to tell her that he was going away, going out of the country; as Gertrude expressed it, to the other end of the world—to India. Mr. Clinton was interested in a mercantile house in Calcutta, and had offered William the most favourable terms to go abroad as clerk to the establishment. The prospect was far better than he could hope for by remaining at home; the salary was sufficient to defray all his own expenses, and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming more dependent upon him. The chance, too, of future advancement was great; though the young man's affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest prompted. He agreed to the proposal, and whatever his own struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years' banishment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully about it to his mother and grandfather.
"Miss Emily," said Gertrude, when she had acquainted her with the news, "how can I bear to have Willie go away? How can I live without Willie? He is so kind, and loves me so much! He was always better than any brother, and, since Uncle True died, he has done everything in the world for me. I believe I could not have borne Uncle True's death if it had not been for Willie; and now how can I let him go away?"
"It is hard, Gertrude," said Emily, kindly, "but it is no doubt for his advantage; you must try and think of that."
"I know it," replied Gertrude—"I suppose it is; but, Miss Emily, you do not know how I love Willie. We were so much together; and there were only us two, and we thought everything of each other; he was so much older than I, and always took such good care of me. O, I don't think you have any idea what friends we are!"
Gertrude had unconsciously touched a chord that vibrated through Emily's whole frame. Her voice trembled as she answered, "I, Gertrude! not know, my child! I know better than you imagine, how dear he must be to you. I, too, had——" then she paused abruptly, and there were a few moments' silence, during which Emily got up, walked hastily to the window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and then returning, said, in a low voice which had recovered its usual calmness, "O Gertrude! in the grief that oppresses you now, you little realise how much you have to be thankful for. Think, my dear, what a blessing it is that Willie will be where you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant news of his friends."
"Yes," replied Gerty; "he says he shall write to me and his mother very often."
"Then, too," said Emily, "you ought to rejoice at the good opinion Mr. Clinton must have of Willie: the confidence he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. I think that is very flattering."
"So it is," said Gerty; "I did not think of that."
"And you have lived so happily together," continued Emily, "and will part in such perfect peace. O Gertrude! Gertrude! such a parting as that should not make you sad; there are so much worse things in the world. Be patient, my dear child; do your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting, that will repay you for all you suffer in the separation."
Emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. Gertrude's eyes were fixed upon her friend with a puzzled expression. "Miss Emily," said she, "I begin to think that everything has trouble."
"Certainly, Gertrude; can you doubt it?"
"I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought other folks were more fortunate. I fancied that rich people were all very happy; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, I supposed you were used to it; and you always looked so pleasant and quiet, I took it for granted nothing ever vexed you now. And then, Willie!—I believed once that nothing could make him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he hadn't any place, I saw him really cry; and then, when Uncle True died, and now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he could hardly speak, he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since I see that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you try to keep them back, I think the world is full of trials, and that every one gets a share."
"It is the lot of humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it to be otherwise."
"Then, who can be happy, Miss Emily?"
"Those, only, my child, who have learned submission; those who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving Father, and obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod."
"It is very hard, Miss Emily."
"It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be called happy; but if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to God in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven."
Willie's departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a week in which to make those arrangements which a mother's thoughtfulness deems necessary. Her hands were therefore full of work, and Gerty, whom Emily at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel's sailing, was of great assistance to her. Willie was very busy during the day, but was always with them in the evening.
On one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and his mother and grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put aside her sewing, he said to her, "Come, Gerty, if you are not afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as we used to do in old times; there will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner."
"O Willie!" said Gertrude, "do not speak of our never being together in the old place again! I cannot bear the thought; there is not a house in Boston I could ever love as I do this."
"Nor I," replied Willie; "but there is one chance in a hundred if I should be gone five years that there would not be a block of brick stores in this spot when I come to look for it. I wish I did not think so, for I shall have many a longing after the old home."
"But what will become of your mother and grandfather if this house is torn down?"
"It is not easy to tell, Gerty, what will become of any of us by that time; but, if there is any necessity for their moving, I hope I shall be able to provide a better house than this for them."
"You won't be here, Willie."
"I know it, but I shall be always hearing from you, and we can talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. The idea of any such changes, after all," added he, "is what troubles me most in going away; I think they would miss me and need me so much. Gertrude, you will take care of them, won't you?"
"I!" said Gertrude, in amazement; "such a child as I!—what can I do?"
"If I am gone five or ten years, Gerty, you will not be a child all that time, and a woman is often a better dependence than a man, especially such a good brave woman as you will be. I have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of Uncle True; and, whenever I imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, I always think of you, and hope you will be near them; for I know if you are, you will be a greater help than I could be. So I leave them in your care, Gerty, though you are only a child yet."
"Thank you, Willie," said Gertrude, "for believing I shall do everything I can for them. I certainly will, as long as I live. But, Willie, they may be strong and well all the time you are gone; and I, although I am so young, may be sick and die—nobody knows."
"That is true enough," said Willie, sadly; "and I may die myself; but it will not do to think of that. It seems to me I never should have courage to go, if I didn't hope to find you all well and happy when I come home. You must write to me every month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and I am sure she will want you to do nearly all the writing; and, whether my letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you know. And, Gerty, you must not forget me, darling; you must love me just as much when I am gone—won't you?"
"Forget you, Willie! I shall be always thinking of you, and loving you the same as ever. What else shall I have to do? But you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be different, and you will not think half as much of me, I know."
"If you believe that, Gertrude, it is because you do not know. You will have friends all around you and I shall be alone in a foreign land; but every day of my life my heart will be with you and my mother."
They were now interrupted by Mr. Cooper's return, nor did they afterwards renew the conversation; but the morning Willie left them, when Mrs. Sullivan was leaning over a neatly-packed trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and Mr. Cooper's head was bowed lower than usual, Willie whispered to Gerty, "Gerty, dear, for my sake take good care of our mother and grandfather—they are yours almost as much as mine."
On Willie's thus leaving home, for the first time, to struggle and strive among men, Mr. Cooper, who could not yet believe that the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him many a caution against indulgent hopes which never would be realised. And Mrs. Sullivan, with tears, said, "Love and fear God, Willie, and do not disappoint your mother." We pause not to dwell upon the last night the youth spent at his home, his mother's last evening prayer, her last morning benediction, the last breakfast they all took together (Gertrude among the rest), or the final farewell embrace. And Willie went to sea. And the pious, loving, hopeful woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tenderness and pride, maintained now her wonted spirit of self-sacrifice, and gave him up without a murmur. None knew how she struggled with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sustained her.
And now began Gertrude's residence at Mr. Graham's, hitherto in various ways interrupted. She attended school, and laboured diligently at her studies. Her life was varied by few incidents, for Emily never entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any, and Gertrude formed no intimate acquaintance among her companions. With Emily she passed many happy hours; they took walks, read books, and talked much with each other, and Miss Graham found that in Gertrude's observing eyes, and her feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the outer world. In errands of charity and mercy Gertude was either her attendant or her messenger; and all the dependants of the family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising the child, who, though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement, and a dignity of bearing which impressed them all with the conviction that she was no beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune. Mrs. Ellis's prejudices against her was still strong; but, as Gertrude was always civil, and Emily prudently kept them much apart, no unhappy result ensued.
She went often to see Mrs. Sullivan, and, as the spring advanced, they began to look for news of Willie. No tidings had come, however, when the season arrived for the Grahams to remove into the country for the summer. A letter written by Gertrude to Willie, soon after they were established there, will give some idea of her situation and mode of life.
After dwelling upon the disappointment of having not yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last visit she had made to his mother before leaving the city, she wrote: "But you made me promise, Willie, to write about myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred at Mr. Graham's which concerned me in anyway; so if my letter is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for I have much to tell of our removal to D——, and of the way in which we live here, so different from our life in Boston. I think I hear you say, when you have read so far, 'O dear! now Gerty is going to give me a description of Mr. Graham's country-house!'—but you need not be afraid; I have not forgotten how, the last time I undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had lived there all your life, for I oft described it to you. Everything looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then; and, though I will not describe it to you again, I must just tell you that the entry and piazzas are much narrower than I expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer-houses not nearly so large. Miss Emily asked me, a day or two ago, how I liked the place, and if it looked as it used formerly. I told her the truth; and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was always so with things we had seen when we were little children.
"I need not tell you that Miss Emily is kind to me as ever; for nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world. I can never do half enough, Willie, to repay her for all her goodness to me; and yet, she is so pleased with little gifts, and so grateful for trifling attentions, that it seems as if everybody might do something to make her happy. I found a few violets in the grass yesterday, and when I brought them to her she kissed and thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds; and little Ben Gately, who picked a hatful of dandelion-blossoms, without a single stem, and then rang at the front-door bell, and asked for Miss Ga'am, so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for his trouble, and a 'thank you, Bennie,' that he will not soon forget. Wasn't it pleasant in Miss Emily, Willie?
"Mr. Graham has given me a garden, and I mean to have plenty of flowers for her by-and-by—that is, if Mrs. Ellis doesn't interfere; but I expect she will, for she does in almost everything. Willie, Mrs. Ellis is my great trial. She is just the kind of person I cannot endure. I believe there are some people that other people can't like—and she is just the sort I can't. I would not tell anybody else so, because it would not be right, and I do not know that it is right to mention it at all; but I always tell you everything. Miss Emily talks to me about her, and says I must learn to love her, and when I do I shall be an angel.
"There, I know you will think that is some of Gerty's old temper; and perhaps it is, but you don't know how she tries me; it is in little things that I cannot tell very easily, and I would not plague you with them if I could, so I won't write about her any more—I will try to love her dearly.
"You will think that now, while I am not going to school, I shall hardly know what to do with my time; but I have plenty to do. The first week after we came here I found the mornings very dull. You know I am always an early riser; but, as it does not agree with Miss Emily to keep early hours, I never see her until eight o'clock, full two hours after I am up and dressed. When we were in Boston, I always spent that time studying; but this spring, Miss Emily, who noticed that I was growing fast, and heard Mr. Arnold notice how pale I looked, fancied it would not do for me to spend so much time at my books; and so, when we came to D——, she planned my study-hours, which are very few, and arranged that they should take place after breakfast, and in her own room. She always advised me, if I could, to sleep later in the morning; but I could not, and was up at my usual time, wandering around the garden. One day I was quite surprised to find Mr. Graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits; but he is a queer man. He asked me to come and help him plant onion-seeds, and I rather think I did it pretty well; for after that he let me plant a number of things, and label little sticks to put down by the side of them. At last, to my joy, he offered to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where I might raise flowers. And so I am to have a garden. But I am making a very long story, Willie, and have not time to say a thousand other things that I want to. O! if I could see you, I could tell you in an hour more than I could write in a week. In five minutes I expect to hear Miss Emily's bell, and then she will send for me to come and read to her.
"I long to hear from you, dear Willie, and pray to God morning and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your loving Gerty."