"You have been a kind mistress to the little things. They are very tender."
"I am very fond of them."
"You take such care of those you love, dear Gerty, that you are sure to preserve their lives as long as may be." His tone still more than his words betrayed the deep meaning with which he spoke. Gertrude was silent.
"Is Miss Graham well?" asked Willie.
Gertrude related, in reply, that her nerves had been recently much disturbed by the terrible experiences through which she had passed; and this led to the subject of the recent disaster, at which Gertrude forebore to mention her having been herself present. Willie spoke with feeling of the sad catastrophe, and with severity of the reckless carelessness which had been the cause of it; and said that he had valued friends on board the boat, but was unaware that Miss Graham, whom he loved for Gertrude's sake, was among them.
Conversation between Gertrude and Willie had by this time assumed something of their former familiarity. He had taken a seat near her on the sofa, that they might talk unrestrainedly; for although Mr. Graham might have dropped asleep again, yet it was not easy to forget his presence. There were many subjects on which it would have seemed natural for them to speak, had not Gertrude avoided them. The causes of Willie's sudden return, his probable stay, his future plans in life, and his reasons for having postponed his visit until he had been in the country more than a week—all these were inquiries which curiosity would have suggested; but to Gertrude they all lay under embargo. She neither felt prepared to receive nor willing to force the confidence on matters which must be influenced by his engagement with Miss Clinton, and therefore preserved silence on these topics. And Willie, deeply grieved at this strange want of sympathy on her part, forebore to thrust upon her notice these seemingly neglected circumstances.
They talked of Calcutta life, of Parisian novelties, of Gertrude's school-keeping, and many other things, but not a word of matters nearest to the hearts of both. At length a servant announced tea. Mr. Graham rose and stood with his back to the fire. Willie rose also and prepared to take leave. Mr. Graham, with frigid civility, invited him to remain, and Gertrude urged him to do so; but he declined with such decision that the latter understood that he felt the neglect with which Mr. Graham had treated him and his visit. In addition to the fact that the old gentleman disliked young men as a class, and that Willie had intruded upon the privacy in which he was indulging, there was the bitter recollection that Gertrude had once forsaken himself and Emily (for so he in his own mind styled her conscientious choice between conflicting duties) for the very family of which their visitor was the only remaining member—a recollection which did not tend to conciliate the prejudiced man.
Gertrude accompanied Willie to the door. The rain had ceased, but the wind whistled across the piazza. It was growing cold. Willie buttoned his coat, and promised to see Gertrude on the following day.
"You have no overcoat," said she; "the night is chilly, and you are accustomed to a hot climate. You had better take this shawl;" and she took from the hat-tree a heavy Scotch plaid. He thanked her and threw it over his arm; then, taking both her hands in his, looked her steadily in the face for a moment, as if he would fain have spoken. But, seeing that she shrank from his affectionate gaze, he dropped her hands and, with a troubled expression, bade her good-night.
Gertrude stood with the handle of the door in her hand until she heard the sounds of the horse's hoofs as he drove down the road; then retired to her own room. Well as she had borne up during the longed-for yet much-dreaded meeting, calmly as she had sustained her part, her courage all forsook her now, and in looking forward to days, weeks, and months of frequent intercourse, she felt that the most trying part of the struggle was yet to come.