Mr. Phillips—or rather Mr. Amory, for we shall call him by his true name—had neglected to mention his address. Gertrude did not observe this circumstance until she was preparing to direct her letter. She for a moment experienced a severe pang in the thought that her communication would never reach him. But she was reassured on examining the post-mark, which was evidently New York, to which she addressed her missive; and then, unwilling to trust it to other hands, tied on her bonnet, caught up a veil with which to conceal her agitated face, deposited the letter herself in the village post-office.
Gertrude's case was a peculiarly trying one. She had been already, for a week past, struggling in suspense which agitated her almost beyond endurance; and now a new cause of mystery had arisen, involving an almost equal amount of self-questioning and torture. It seemed almost beyond the power of so sensitive, and so inexperienced a girl to rally such self-command as would enable her to control her emotions, disguise them from observation, and compel herself to endure alone and in silence this cruel destiny. But she did do it, and bravely too.
CHAPTER XLII.
TIES—NOT OF EARTH.
In a private room of one of those first-class hotels in which New York city abounds, Phillip Amory sat alone. It was evening, the curtains were drawn, the gas-lamps burning brightly and giving a cheerful glow to the room, the comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly with the pale countenance and desponding attitude of its solitary inmate, who leaned upon a table in the centre of the apartment. He had thus sat for nearly an hour without once moving or looking up. Suddenly he started up, straightened his commanding figure to its full height, and slowly paced the room. A slight knock at the door arrested his steps; a look of annoyance overspread his countenance; he again flung himself into his chair, and, in reply to the servant's announcing, "A gentleman, sir," was preparing to say, "I cannot be interrupted"—but it was too late; the visitor had advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly closed and repeated.
The new-comer—a young man—stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but checked himself, abashed at the coldness of the reception by his host.
"Excuse me, Mr. Phillips," said William Sullivan, for it was he; "I fear my visit is an intrusion."
"Do not speak of it," replied Mr. Amory. "I beg you to be seated;" politely handing a chair.
Willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing. "You have changed, sir," continued he, "since I last saw you."