"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--n.o.body 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured 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 n.o.body 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d morning and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your loving GERTY."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE RULING Pa.s.sION CONTROLLED.

A few weeks after the date of this letter, Gerty learned through George, who went daily to the city to attend to the marketing, that Mrs.

Sullivan had left word at the shop of our old acquaintance, the butcher, that she had received a letter from Willie, and wanted Gerty to come into town and see it. Emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be impossible to arrange it, as Charlie, the only horse Mr. Graham kept, was in use, and she saw no other way of sending her. "Why don't you let her go in the omnibus?" asked Mrs. Ellis. Gerty looked gratefully at Mrs. Ellis; it was the first time that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views.

"I don't think it's safe for her to go alone in the coach," said Emily.

"Safe!--What, for that great girl!" said Mrs. Ellis, whose position in the family had no forms of restraint with Miss Graham.

"Do you think it is?" inquired Emily. "She seems a child to me, to be sure; but as you say, she is almost grown up, and I dare say is capable of taking care of herself. Gertrude, are you sure you know the way from the omnibus-office in Boston to Mrs. Sullivan's?"

"Perfectly well, Miss Emily."

A place was therefore secured, and Gertrude set forth on her expedition with beaming eyes and a full heart. She found Mrs. Sullivan and Mr.

Cooper well, and rejoicing over the tidings from Willie, who, after a long but agreeable voyage, had reached Calcutta in health and safety. A description of his new home, his new duties and employers, filled all the rest of the letter, except what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries, a large share of which were for Gerty. Gertrude dined with Mrs. Sullivan, and then hastened to the omnibus. She took her seat, and as she waited for the coach to start, amused herself with the pa.s.sers-by. It was nearly three o'clock, and she began to think she should be the only pa.s.senger, when she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose approach she had not perceived. She moved towards the door, and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singular-looking being she had ever beheld. It was an old lady, small, and considerably bent with years. She had been vainly endeavouring to mount the inconvenient vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling to the driver to help her. "Sir," said she, in measured tones, "is this travelling equipage under your honourable charge?"

"What say, marm?--Yes, I'm the driver;" saying which, he came up to the door, opened it, and without waiting for the polite request which was on the old lady's lips, placed his hand beneath her elbow, and lifted her into the coach and shut the door. "Bless me!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed she, as she seated herself opposite Gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies, "that individual is not versed in the art of a.s.sisting a lady, without detriment to her habiliments. O dear, O dear!" added she, "I've lost my parasol."

She rose as she spoke; but the sudden starting of the coach threw her off her balance, and she would have fallen, had it not been for Gertrude, who caught her by the arm, and reseated her, saying as she did so, "Do not be alarmed, madam; here is the parasol."

As she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which, though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old lady's waist by a green ribbon, and, having slipped out of place, was supposed lost. And not a parasol only did she bring to light; numerous other articles, connected with the same green string--a large reticule of various colours, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, and other articles.

They were partly hidden under a thin black silk shawl, and Gertrude began to think her companion had been on a pilfering expedition. If so, however, the culprit seemed remarkably at ease, for, before the coach had gone many steps, she deliberately placed her feet on the opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. In the first place, much to Gertrude's horror, she took out all her teeth, and put them in her work-bag; then drew off a pair of black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones; removed her lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. She next untied her bonnet, threw over it, as a protection from the dust, a large cotton handkerchief, and loosing her fan, applied herself diligently to the use of it, closing her eyes as she did so, evidently intending to go to sleep. She did fall into a doze, for she was very quiet, and Gertrude, occupied with observing some heavy clouds that were rising from the west, forgot to observe her fellow traveller, until she was startled by a hand suddenly laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of "My dear young damsel, do not those dark shadows betoken adverse weather?"

"I think it will rain very soon," replied Gertrude.

"This morn, when I ventured forth," soliloquised the old lady, "the sun was bright, the sky serene; even the winged songsters took part in the universal joy; and now before I get home, my delicate lace flounces (glancing at the skirt of her dress) will prove a sacrifice to the pitiless storm."

"Does the coach pa.s.s your door?" asked Gertrude.

"No; Oh, no! not within half-a-mile. Does it better accommodate you, my young miss?"

"No. I shall have a mile to walk."

The coach had reached its destination, and the two pa.s.sengers alighted.

Gertrude would have started at once on her walk, but was prevented by the old lady, who begged her to wait, as she was going the same way. The old lady refused to pay the fare demanded by the driver; and declared it was not the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the excess into his pocket. Gertrude was impatient, for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in torrents; but the matter being compromised, she was permitted to proceed. They had walked about a quarter-of-a-mile, and at a very slow rate, when the rain fell; and now Gertrude was asked to unloose the huge parasol, and carry it over her companion and herself. In this way they had walked nearly as much more of the distance, when the waters began to descend as if all the reservoirs of heaven were thrown open. Just then Gertrude heard a step behind them, and, turning, she saw George, Mr. Graham's man, running in the direction of the house. He recognised her at once, and exclaimed, "Miss Gertrude, you'll be wet through; and Miss Pace too. Sure, and ye'd better baith hasten to her house, where ye'll be secure."

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.surances 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.