CHANGES.
It was the twilight of a sultry September day, and, wearied by excessive
heat, Emily sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a
delicious and refreshing breeze. The western sky was still streaked with
brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset,
while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of
day and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams upon
Emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which,
escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic
arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. Ten years had passed since
Emily was introduced to the reader; and yet, so slight were the changes
wrought by time, that she looked little older than on her first meeting
Gertrude in Mr. Arnold's church.
She had even then experienced much of the sorrows of life, and learned
how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for every pain.
Even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge she had gained
from it, had both stamped themselves upon her countenance; therefore,
time had little power upon her; as she was then so was she now; lovely
in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life.
Still a close observer might perceive in her a greater degree of
buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her,
and evident enjoyment of life, and this was due, as Emily acknowledged,
to her recent close companionship with one to whom she was bound by the
warmest affection, and who, by her sympathy, her constant devotion, her
natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, and the
beautiful and true, and her unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved
friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called
into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and
become, what Uncle True bade her be, eyes to her benefactor.
On the present occasion, as Emily sat alone, her thoughts were sad. She
held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and, as
often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she
would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would cross her
features.
At length, some one approaches the gate. None but Emily's quick ear
could have distinguished the light step; but she hears it at once, and,
rising, goes to meet the new comer, whom we must pause to introduce,
for, though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it
would be hard to recognize in her our little quondam Gertrude, for she
has now become a young lady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and
her figure is slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear,
and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that
may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station.
Gertrude's eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now look too
large for her face; and, if her mouth be less classically formed than
the strict rule of beauty would commend, it is atoned for by two rows of
small pearly teeth, which are as regular as a string of beads. Her neat
dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her black mantle
does not hide the roundness of her taper waist.
Is Gertrude a beauty? By no means. Hers is a face and form about which
there would be a thousand different opinions, and few would pronounce
her beautiful. But there are faces whose ever-varying expression one
loves to watch--tell-tale faces, that speak the truth and proclaim the
sentiment within; faces that now light up with intelligence, now beam
with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy
indignation for that which the soul abhors, and faces sanctified by the
divine presence, when the heart turns from the world and itself, and
looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude's.
There are forms which, though neither dignified nor fairy-like, possess
a grace, an ease, a power of moving airily in their sphere--and such a
form was Gertrude's. Whatever charm these attractions might give
her--and many estimated it highly--it was greatly enhanced by an utter
unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing any attractions at all.
As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace,
and joining her near the door-step, where a path led into the garden,
passed her arm affectionately over Emily's shoulder, in a manner which
the latter's blindness, and Gertrude's superior height and ability to
act as guide, had rendered usual, and said, while she drew the shawl
closer around her blind friend, "Here I am again, Miss Emily! Have you
been alone since I went away?"
"Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been worried to think you were
travelling about in Boston this excessive warm day."
"It has not hurt me in the least; I only enjoy this cool breeze all the
more--it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city!"
"But, Gerty," said Emily, stopping short in their walk, "what are you
coming away from the house for? You have not been to tea, my child."
"I know it, Emily, but I don't want any supper."
They walked slowly and in perfect silence. At last Emily said, "Well,
Gertrude, have you nothing to tell me?"
"O yes, a great deal, but----"
"But you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don't like to speak
it; is it not so?"
"I ought not to have the vanity, dear Emily, to think it would trouble
you very much; but ever since last evening, when I told you what Mr. W.
said, and what I had in my mind, and you seemed to feel so badly at the
thought of our being separated, I have felt almost doubtful what it was
right for me to do."
"And I, on the other hand, Gertrude, have been reproaching myself for
allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the matter, lest I
should be influencing you against your duty. I feel that you are right,
Gertrude, and that, instead of opposing, I ought to do everything I can
to forward your plans."
"Dear Emily!" said Gertrude, "if you thought so from what I told you
yesterday, you would be convinced had you observed all that I have
to-day."
"Why! Are matters any worse than they were at Mrs. Sullivan's?"
"Much worse than I described to you. I did not then know all that she
had to contend with; but I have been at their house since I left home
this morning (for Mr. W. did not detain me five minutes), and it does
not seem safe for such a delicate woman as Mrs. Sullivan to be alone
with Mr. Cooper, now that his mind is in such a state."
"But do you think you can do any good?"
"I know I can, dear Emily; I can manage him much better than she can,
and do more for his comfort. He is like a child now, and full of whims.
When he can be indulged, Mrs. Sullivan will please him at any amount of
inconvenience, and even danger to herself, not only because he is her
father, and she feels it her duty, but she is afraid of him, he is so
irritable and violent. She tells me he often takes it into his head to
do the strangest things, such as going out late at night, when it is
unsafe, and sleeping with his window wide open."
"Poor woman!" exclaimed Emily; "what does she do in such cases?"
"I can tell you, Emily, for I saw an instance of it to-day. When I went
in this morning, he was preparing to make a coal-fire in the grate,
notwithstanding the heat, which was becoming intense in the city."
"And Mrs. Sullivan?" said Emily.
"Was sitting on the lower stair, in the front entry, crying."
"Poor thing!" murmured Emily.
"She could do nothing with him," continued Gertrude, "and had given up
in despair."
"She ought to have a strong woman or a man to take care of him."
"That is what she dreads worse than anything. She says it would kill her
to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to be by a stranger;
and, besides, she shrinks from the idea of having anyone in the house to
whom she is unaccustomed. She is very neat and particular in all her
arrangements, has always done her work herself; and declares she would
sooner admit a wild beast into her family than an Irish girl."
"Her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her yet, has
it?"
"Oh, no. She was saying to-day how strange it seemed when she had been
looking forward so long to the comfort of a new tenement, that, just as
she had moved in and got everything furnished to her mind, she should
have this great trial."
"It seems strange to me," said Emily, "that she did not sooner perceive
its approach. I noticed when I went with you the failure in the old
man's intellect."
"I had observed it for a long time," remarked Gertrude, "but never spoke
of it to her; and I do not think she was in the least aware of it, until
about their removal, when the breaking-up of old associations affected
his mind."
"Sad thing!" said Emily. "How old is he?"
"I believe he is very old; I remember Mrs. Sullivan's telling me some
time ago that he was near eighty."
"Is he so old as that? Then I am not surprised that these changes have
made him childish."
"Oh, no. Melancholy, as it is, we may come to the same if we live to his
age; and as he seems generally contented, I do not lament it so much on
his own account as Mrs. Sullivan's."
"Does it seem hard for her to bear up under it?"
"I think it would not be if she were well; but there is something the
matter with her, and I fear it is more serious than she allows, for she
looks very pale, and has had several alarming ill turns lately."
"Has she consulted a physician?"
"No; she doesn't wish for one, and says she shall soon be better; but I
do not feel sure that she will, especially as she takes no care of
herself; and that is one reason I wish to be in town as soon as
possible. I am anxious to have Dr. Jeremy see her, and I can bring it
about without her knowing that he comes on her account."
"You speak confidently of being in town, Gertrude; so I suppose it is
all arranged."
"Oh, I have not told you, have I, about my visit to Mr. W.? Dear, good
man, how grateful I ought to be to him! He has promised me the
situation."
"I had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to you at Mrs.
Bruce's."
"You hadn't, really! Why, Emily, I was almost afraid to mention it to
him. I couldn't believe he would have sufficient confidence in me; but
he was so kind! I hardly dare tell you what he said about my capacity to
teach, you will think me so vain."
"You need not tell me, my darling; I know from his own lips how highly
he appreciates your ability."
"Dear Uncle True always wanted me to be a teacher; it was the height of
his ambition. He would be pleased, wouldn't he, dear Emily?"
"Yes, proud to see you assistant in a school like Mr. W.'s. But he would
think as I do, that you are undertaking too much. You expect to be
occupied in the school the greater part of every morning, and yet you
propose to be nurse to Mrs. Sullivan, and guardian to her poor old
father. My dear child, you are not used to so much care, and I shall be
constantly troubled for you, lest your own health and strength give
way."
"Oh, dear Emily, there is no cause for any anxiety on my account. I am
well and strong, and capable of all that I have planned for myself. My
only trouble is in leaving you; and I fear you will miss me, and perhaps
feel as if----"
"I know what you would say, Gertrude. You need not fear that; I am sure
of your affection. I am sure you love me next to your duty, and I would
not that you should give me the preference. So dismiss that thought from
your mind, and do not believe that I would be selfish enough to desire
to retain you. I only wish, my dear, that for the present you had not
thought of entering the school. You might then have gone to Mrs.
Sullivan's, stayed as long as needed, and perhaps found, by the time we
are ready to start on our southern tour, that your services could be
dispensed with; in which case you could accompany us on a journey which
I am sure your health will by that time require."
"But, dear Emily, how could I do that? I could not propose myself as a
visitor to Mrs. Sullivan, however useful I might intend to be to her;
nor could I speak of nursing to a woman who will not confess that she is
ill. It seemed to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the
world, to bring it about; for I have been with you so long that Mrs.
Sullivan thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive way of life. It
was only when Mr. W. spoke of his wanting an assistant, and hinted that
he should like to employ me in that capacity, that the present plan
occurred to me. I knew if I told Mrs. Sullivan that I was engaged to
teach there, and that you were not coming to town, and represented to
her that I wanted a boarding-place for the winter, she would insist that
I should go nowhere else."
"And it proved as you expected?"
"Exactly; and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of my being
with her, that I realised still more how much she needed some one."
"She will have a treasure in you, Gertrude."
"No, indeed! The feeling I have is, that however little I may be able to
accomplish, it will be more than anyone else could do for Mrs. Sullivan.
She has lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the
city, and I do not know of anyone, except myself, whom she would
willingly admit under her roof. She is used to me, and loves me; I am no
restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist in whatever she is
doing, although she often says I live a lady's life now, and am not used
to work. She knows, too, that I have an influence over her father; and I
_have_--strange as it may seem to you--I _have_ more than I know how to
account for myself. I think it is partly because I am not afraid of him,
and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly because I
am more of a stranger than Mrs. Sullivan. But there is another cause; he
associates me in his mind with Willie; for we were for some years
constantly together, both left the house at the same time, and he knows
that it is through me that the correspondence with him is carried on.
Since his mind has been so weak, he thinks continually of Willie, and I
can at any moment, however irritable he may be, make him calm and
quiet, by proposing to tell him the latest news from his grandson. It
does not matter how often I repeat the contents of the last letter, it
is always new to him; and you have no idea, Emily, what power this gives
me. Mrs. Sullivan sees how easily I can guide his thoughts, and I
noticed what a load of care was taken from her mind by having me there
to-day. She looked so happy when I came away to-night, and spoke so
hopefully of the comfort it would be during the winter to have me with
her, that I felt repaid for any sacrifice it has been to me. But when I
came home, and saw you, and thought of your going so far away, and of
the length of time it might be before I should live with you again, I
felt as if----" Gerty could say no more. She laid her head on Emily's
shoulder, and wept.
Emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. "We have been very happy
together, Gerty," said she, "and I shall miss you sadly; half the
enjoyment of my life has of late years been borrowed from you. But I
never loved you half so well as I do now, at the time we must part; for
I see in the sacrifice you are making of yourself one of the noblest and
most important traits of character a woman can possess. I know how much
you love the Sullivans, and you have certainly every reason for being
attached to them; but your leaving us at this time, and renouncing
without a murmur the southern tour from which you expected so much
pleasure, proves that my Gerty is the brave, good girl I always hoped
and prayed she might become. You are in the path of duty, Gertrude, and
will be rewarded by the approbation of your own conscience, if in no
other way."
As Emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the garden, and
were met by a servant-girl, who announced that Mrs. Bruce and her son
were in the parlour, and had asked for them both.
"Did you get her buttons in town, Gertrude?" inquired Emily.
"Yes, I found some that were an excellent match for the dress; she
probably wants to know what success I had; but how can I go in?"
"I will return to the house with Kate, and you can go in at the
side-door, and reach your own room without being seen. I will excuse
you to Mrs. Bruce for the present; and when you have bathed your eyes,
and feel composed, you can come in and report concerning the errand she
entrusted to you."