WHO ARE HAPPY?
Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a meeting of
bank-directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room.
Willie detained Gertrude in the little library, and Emily was indulging
in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on her hand; her face,
usually so placid, was sad; and her whole appearance denoted
despondency. As thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in
quick succession, her head gradually sank upon the cushions of the couch
where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. Suddenly a
hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick start, as she always
did when surprised, for her unusual pre-occupation of mind had made
Gertrude's approaching step unheard. "Is anything the matter, Miss
Emily?" said Gertrude. "Do you like best to be alone, or may I stay?"
The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child's question, touched
Emily. She drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, "O, yes, stay
with me;" then observing, as she passed an arm round the little girl,
that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added, "But what
is the matter with you, Gerty? What makes you tremble and sob so?"
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."
Emily's voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. Gertrude's
eyes were fixed upon her friend with a puzzled expression. "Miss Emily,"
said she, "I begin to think that everything has trouble."
"Certainly, Gertrude; can you doubt it?"
"I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought other folks were
more fortunate. I fancied that rich people were all very happy; and,
though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, I supposed you were
used to it; and you always looked so pleasant and quiet, I took it for
granted nothing ever vexed you now. And then, Willie!--I believed once
that nothing could make him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he
hadn't any place, I saw him really cry; and then, when Uncle True died,
and now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he
could hardly speak, he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since I see
that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you
try to keep them back, I think the world is full of trials, and that
every one gets a share."
"It is the lot of humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it to be
otherwise."
"Then, who can be happy, Miss Emily?"
"Those, only, my child, who have learned submission; those who, in the
severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving Father, and obedient to
his will, kiss the chastening rod."
"It is very hard, Miss Emily."
"It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be
called happy; but if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to
God in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience
a peace that is a foretaste of heaven."
Willie's departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a week in
which to make those arrangements which a mother's thoughtfulness deems
necessary. Her hands were therefore full of work, and Gerty, whom Emily
at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel's
sailing, was of great assistance to her. Willie was very busy during the
day, but was always with them in the evening.
On one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and his mother and
grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put aside her
sewing, he said to her, "Come, Gerty, if you are not afraid of taking
cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as we used to do in old
times; there will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never
have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old
house at the corner."
"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--nobody 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 God, 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
passed 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 assured 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 nobody
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 grass 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 God morning and
evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings of you to your
loving GERTY."