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."