So saying, he caught Miss Pace in his arms, and signing to Gertrude to follow, rushed across the street, and hurrying on to a cottage near by, did not stop until he had placed the old lady in safety beneath her own porch; and Gerty also gained its shelter. Miss Pace was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her consciousness; and it was arranged that Gertrude should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that George should call for her when he passed that way with the carriage on his return from the depot.
Miss Patty Pace was not a person of much hospitality. She owned the cottage which she occupied and lived alone, keeping no servants and entertaining no visitors. She was herself a famous visitor; and, as but a small part of her life had been passed in D——, and all her friends and connexions lived either in Boston or at a much greater distance, she was a constant frequenter of omnibuses. But though, through her travelling propensities and her regular attendance at church, she was well known, Gertrude was perhaps the first visitor who had ever entered her house.
Even when she was at her door, she had to take the old lady's key, unlock and open it herself, and finally lead her hostess into the parlour, and help her off with her innumerable capes, shawls, and veils. Once come to a distinct consciousness of her situation, however, and Miss Patty Pace conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she was remarkable. Suffering a thousand regrets at the trying experience her own clothes had sustained, she expressed nearly as many fears lest Gertrude had ruined every article of her dress. It was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the scarf she had thrown over it, that Miss Patty could be prevailed upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire, and change her lace flounces for something more suitable for home wear. As soon as she left the room, Gertrude, whose curiosity was excited, took a nearer view of many articles, both of ornament and use, which had attracted her attention, from their singular appearance. Miss Pace's room was remarkable as its owner. Its furniture, like her apparel, was made up of the gleanings of every age and fashion. Gertrude's quick eye was revelling amid the few relics of ancient eloquence, and the numerous specimens of folly and bad taste, when the old lady returned.
A neat though quaint black dress having taken the place of the much-valued flounces, she now looked more lady-like. She held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach and prevent her taking cold; and when Gertrude, who could scarcely keep from laughing in her face, declined the beverage, Miss Patty seated herself, and, while enjoying the refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment satisfied her visitor she was a women of sense, and the next that she was either foolish or insane. The impression which Gertrude made upon Miss Patty was more decided. Miss Patty was delighted with the young miss, and declared she had an intellect that would do honour to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and motions more graceful than those of a swan. When George came for Gertrude, Miss Pace was sorry to part with her, invited her to come again, and she promised to do so.
The satisfactory news from Willie, and the amusing adventures of the afternoon, had given to Gertrude such a feeling of buoyancy, that she bounded into the house, and up the stairs, with that fairy quickness Uncle True had so loved to see in her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had rarely permitted her to exercise.
At the door of her room she met Bridget, the housemaid. On inquiring what was going on there, she learned that during her absence her room had received a thorough cleaning. Alarmed at the idea of Mrs. Ellis having invaded her premises, she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation, which, as she continued her observations, swelled into angry excitement.
When Gertrude went from Mrs. Sullivan's to Mr. Graham's house in the city, she took with her a trunk containing her wardrobe, an old bandbox, which she put on the shelf of a closet in her chamber. There it remained during the winter, unpacked, and when the family went into the country, the box went also, carefully protected by its owner, who had put it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening before her expedition to the city had been engaged in inspecting its contents, endeared to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the little maiden shed over her stock of valuables. There was the figure of the Samuel, Uncle True's first gift, defaced by time and accident. There, too, were his pipes, dark with smoke and age; but as she thought what comfort they had been to him, she felt them a consolation to her. She had also his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleasant light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life; also his fur cap, beneath which she had often seen the kindly smile, and could hardly realise that there was not one for her still hidden beneath its crown.
All these things, excepting the lantern and cap, Gertrude had left upon the mantel-piece; and on entering the room, her eye sought her treasures. They were gone. The mantel-piece was empty. She ran towards the corner for the old box. It was gone. To rush after the housemaid and question her was but the work of an instant.
Bridget was a new-comer, a stupid specimen, but Gertrude obtained from her all the information she needed. The image, the pipes, and the lantern were thrown among a heap of broken glass and crockery, and smashed to atoms. The cap, said to be moth-eaten, and the other articles had been cast into the fire at Mrs. Ellis's orders. Gertrude allowed Bridget to depart, unaware of the greatness of her loss; then, shutting the door, she wept.
She rose from the bed suddenly, and started for the door; then, some new thought seeming to check her, she returned again to the bedside, and, with a loud sob, fell upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Once or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and going to face her enemy; but each time something came across her mind and detained her. It was not fear; oh, no! Gertrude was not afraid of anybody. It must have been some stronger motive than that. Whatever it might be, it was something that had a soothing influence, for, after every fresh struggle, she grew calmer, and rising, seated herself in a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked out. The shower was over, and the smiles of the refreshed earth were reflected in a glowing rainbow. A little bird came and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted forth a Te Deum. A Persian lilac-bush, in full bloom, sent up a delicious fragrance. A wonderful calm stole into Gertrude's heart, and she felt "the grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce trouble." She had conquered; she had achieved the greatest of earth's victories, a victory over herself. The brilliant rainbow, the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not half so beautiful as the light that overspread the face of the young girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to heaven and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise.