SELFISHNESS.
Left at three years of age dependent upon the charity of a world in
which she was friendless and alone, Gertrude had, during her residence
at Nan Grant's, found little of that charity. But, although her
turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she received, she was then
too young to reason upon the subject, or come to any conclusions upon
the hardness and cruelty of humanity; and, had she done so, such
impressions would have been effaced in the home of her kind
foster-father.
And having, through a similar providence, found in Emily additional
proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not always needed to
bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of sympathy and affection, she
had hitherto, in her unusually happy experience, felt none of the evils
that spring from dependence upon the bounty of strangers.
From Mr. Graham she had until now experienced only kindness. On her
first coming to live with them, he had taken little notice of her, so
long as she was quiet, well-mannered, and no trouble to anybody, had
been indifferent about her. He observed that Emily was fond of the girl,
and, though he wondered at her taste, was glad that she should be
indulged. But he soon noticed in his daughter's favourite a quickness of
mind and propriety of deportment which created an interest in her that
soon increased to positive partiality, especially when he discovered her
taste for gardening and her love of flowers. Emily formed no plan as to
Gertrude's education to which she did not obtain a ready assent from her
father; and Gertrude, grateful for so much bounty, spared no pains to
evidence her sense of obligation and regard, by treating Mr. Graham with
the greatest respect.
But, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable relations, Mr.
Graham had neither the disinterested forbearing spirit of Uncle True,
nor the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of Emily. Mr. Graham was a
liberal and highly respectable man; he had the reputation of being a
high-minded and honourable man; and his conduct justified this report of
him. But he was a _selfish_ man, and often took one-sided views. He had
supported and educated Gertrude--he liked her--she was the person whom
he preferred for a travelling companion for himself and Emily--and he
either _could_ not or _would_ not see that her duty lay in any other
direction.
During a wakeful and restless night, Gertrude reviewed and considered
her own circumstances. At first her only emotion was one of grief, but
that gradually subsided, as other bitter thoughts rose up in her mind.
"What right," thought she, "has Mr. Graham to treat me this way--to tell
me I _shall_ go with him on his southern journey, and speak as if my
other friends were ciphers in his estimation, and ought to be in my own?
Does he consider my freedom is to be the price of my education, and am I
no longer able to say yes or no? Emily does not think so; Emily, who
loves and needs me a thousand times more than Mr. Graham, thinks I have
acted rightly, and she assured me that it was my duty to carry out the
plans I had formed. And my solemn promise to Willie! is that to be held
for nothing? No, it would be tyranny in Mr. Graham to insist on my
remaining with them, and I am glad I have resolved to break away from
such thraldom. Besides, I was educated to teach, and Mr. W. says it is
important to commence while my studies are fresh in my mind." So much
said pride; and Gertrude's heart listened awhile to such suggestions.
But not long. She had accustomed herself to view the conduct of others
in that spirit of charity which she desired should be exercised towards
her own, and milder thoughts took the place of these excited feelings.
"Perhaps," said she to herself, "it is, after all, pure kindness that
prompted Mr. Graham's interference. He may think as Emily does, that I
am undertaking too much. It is impossible for him to know how strong my
motives are, how deep I consider my obligations to the Sullivans, and
how much I am needed by them at this time. I had no idea, either, that I
was to be one of the party to the south; for though Emily talked as if
she took it for granted, Mr. Graham never asked me to go, and I could
not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to refuse; but,
after planning the journey to please us both, I do not wonder at his
being annoyed. He probably feels, too, as if I had been under his
guardianship so long that he has almost a right to decide upon my
conduct. And he _has_ been very indulgent to me--and I a stranger with
no claims! Shall I then decide to give up my teaching, to go to the
south, and leave Mrs. Sullivan to suffer, perhaps die, while I am away?
No, that is impossible. I will never be such a traitor to my own heart,
and my sense of right; sorry as I shall be to offend Mr. Graham, I must
not allow his anger to turn me from my duty."
Having thus resolved to brave the tempest, and committed her cause to
Him who judgeth righteously, Gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep.
Dreams of a painful nature started her back to consciousness. In some of
these visions she beheld Mr. Graham angry, and threatening her with his
displeasure if she dared to thwart his plans; and then she seemed to see
Willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted five years
before, beckoning her with a sad countenance to the room where his pale
mother lay in a swoon, as Gertrude had a few weeks before seen her.
Exhausted by such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to
obtain any rest, and rising, seated herself at the window, where,
watching the approach of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the
courage which she felt would be requisite to carry her calmly and firmly
through the next day--a day destined to witness her sad separation from
Emily, and her farewell to Mr. Graham, which would probably be more
distressing. The tyrannical disposition of Mr. Graham was well
understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed to respect
all his wishes and whims; and though he was always indulgent and kind,
none ever braved a temper which, when excited, was so violent. It
cannot, then, be surprising that Gertrude's heart should have failed her
when she stood, half-an-hour before breakfast-time, with the handle of
the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her energies for another
meeting with the opposer of her plans. She paused but a moment, and then
went in. Mr. Graham was sitting in his arm-chair, and on the
breakfast-table lay the morning paper. It had been Gertrude's habit to
read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at this same hour, and it was
for that purpose she had now come. She advanced toward him with her
usual "Good morning."
The salutation was returned in a constrained voice. She seated herself,
and leaned forward to take the newspaper. But he placed his hand upon it
to prevent her.
"I was going to read the news to you, sir."
"And I do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for me, until I
know whether you have concluded to treat me with the respect I have a
right to demand from you."
"I certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with respect,
Mr. Graham."
"When girls or boys set themselves up in opposition to those older and
wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest disrespect they are
capable of; but I am willing to forgive the past, if you assure me, as I
think you will, after a night's reflection, that you have returned to a
right sense of your duty."
"I cannot say, sir, that I have changed my views with regard to what
that duty is."
"Do you mean to tell me," asked Mr. Graham, rising from his chair, and
speaking in a tone which made Gerty's heart quake, "do you mean to tell
me that you have an idea of persisting in your folly?"
"Is it folly, sir, to do right?"
"Right! There is a great difference of opinion between you and me as to
what is right in this case."
"But, Mr. Graham, I think if you knew all the circumstances, you would
not blame my conduct. I have told Emily the reasons that influence me,
and she----"
"Don't quote Emily to me!" interrupted Mr. Graham; "I don't doubt she'd
give her head to anybody that asked for it; but I hope I know a little
better what is due to myself; and I tell you plainly, Miss Gertrude
Flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave my house,
as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure; and _that_, you
may find one of these days, it is no light thing to have
incurred--unnecessarily too, as you are doing."
"I am very sorry to displease you, Mr. Graham, but----"
"No, you're not _sorry_; if you were, you would not walk straight in the
face of my wishes," said Mr. Graham, who began to observe the expression
of Gertrude's face, which, though troubled, had acquired additional
firmness, instead of quailing before his severe and cutting words. "But
I have said enough about a matter which is not worthy of so much notice.
You can go or stay, as you please. I wish you to understand, if you go,
I utterly withdraw my protection and assistance from you. You must take
care of yourself, or trust to strangers. I suppose you expect your
Calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come home and take you under
his especial care; but if you think so, you know little of the world. I
dare say he is married to an Indian by this time, and, if not, has
forgotten you."
"Mr. Graham," said Gertrude, proudly, "Mr. Sullivan will not probably
return to this country for many years, and I assure you I neither look
to him nor anyone else for support; I intend to earn a maintenance for
myself."
"A heroic resolve!" said Mr. Graham, contemptuously, "and pronounced
with a dignity I hope you will be able to maintain. Am I to consider,
then, that your mind is made up?"
"It is, sir," said Gertrude, not a little strengthened for the dreaded
necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by Mr. Graham's sarcastic
speeches.
"And you go?"
"I must. I believe it to be my duty, and am, therefore, willing to
sacrifice my own comfort, and, what I assure you I value far more, your
friendship."
Mr. Graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter part of
her remark, and so far forgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice
in the violent ringing of the table-bell.
It was answered by Katy with the breakfast; and Emily and Mrs. Ellis
coming, all seated themselves at the table, and the meal was commenced
in unusual silence and constraint, for Emily had heard the loud tones of
her father's voice, while Mrs. Ellis plainly saw that something
unpleasant had occurred.
When Mr. Graham had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to
Mrs. Ellis, and invited her to accompany himself and Emily on their
journey to the south, mentioning the probability that they should pass
some weeks in Havana.
Mrs. Ellis accepted the invitation with pleasure, and asked a number of
questions concerning the proposed route and length of absence; while
Emily hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup; and Gertrude, who had
lately been reading _Letters from Cuba_, and was aware that Mr. Graham
knew the strong interest she felt in the place, pondered in her mind
whether it could be possible that he could be guilty of the mean desire
to vex and mortify her.
Breakfast over, Emily hastily sought her room, where she was joined by
Gertrude. In answering Emily's inquiries as to the scene which had taken
place, Gertrude forbore to repeat Mr. Graham's most bitter and wounding
remarks; for she saw from her kind friend's countenance how deeply she
participated in her own sense of wrong. She told her, however, that it
was now well understood by Mr. Graham that she was to leave, and, as his
sentiments towards her were far from kindly, she thought it best to go
at once, especially as she could never be more needed by Mrs. Sullivan
than at present. Emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented
to it, and agreed to accompany her to town that afternoon; for, deeply
sensitive at any unkindness manifested towards Gertrude, she preferred
to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encounter her father's
contemptuous neglect. The remainder of the day was spent by Gertrude in
packing and other preparations, while Emily sat by, counselling the
future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting the necessity of their
separation, and exchanging with her reiterated assurances of
undiminished affection.
"Oh, if you could only write to me, dear Emily, during your long
absence, what a comfort it would be," exclaimed Gertrude.
"With Mrs. Ellis's assistance, my dear," replied Emily, "I will send you
such news as I can of our movements; but, though you may not be able to
hear much from me, you will be ever in my thoughts, and I shall never
forget to commend my beloved child to the protection and care of One who
will be to her a better friend than I can be."
In the course of the day Gertrude sought Mrs. Ellis, and astonished that
lady by stating that she had come to have a few farewell words with her.
Surprise, however, was soon superseded by the housekeeper's eagerness to
expatiate upon the generosity of Mr. Graham, and the delights of the
excursion in prospect. After wishing her a great deal of pleasure,
Gertrude begged to hear from her by letter during her absence; to which
request Mrs. Ellis only replied by asking if Gertrude thought a Thibet
dress would be uncomfortable on the journey; and, when it was repeated
with great earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to the
suppliant for epistolary favours, begged to know how many pairs of
undersleeves she would probably require. Having responded to her
questions, and at last gained her attention, Gertrude obtained from her
a promise to write _one_ letter, which would, she declared, be more than
she had done for years.
Before leaving the house, Gertrude sought Mr. Graham's study, in hopes
that he would take a friendly leave of her; but on her telling him that
she had come to bid him "Good-bye," he indistinctly muttered the simple
words of that universal formula--so deep in its meaning when coming from
the heart; so chilling when uttered, as on the present occasion, by
stern and nearly closed lips--and turning his back upon her, took up the
tongs to mend his fire. So she went away, with a tear in her eye and a
sadness in her heart.
A far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where she went
to seek Mrs. Prime and Katy. "Bless yer soul, dear Miss Gertrude!" said
the former, stumbling up the staircase which led from the lower room,
and wiping her hands on her apron--"how we shall miss yer! Why, the
house won't be worth livin' in when you're out of it. My gracious! if
you don't come back, we shall all die out in a fortnight. Why, you're
the life and soul of the place! But there, I guess you know what's
right; so, if you must go, we must bear it--though Katy and I'll cry our
eyes out, for aught I know."
"Sure, Miss Gairthrue," said Irish Katy, "and it's right gude in you to
be afther comin' to bid us good-bye. I don't see how you gets memory to
think of us all, and I'm shure ye'll never be betther off than what I
wish yer. I can't but think, miss, it'll go to help yer along, that
everybody's gude wishes and blessin' goes with yer."
"Thank you, Katy, thank you," said Gertrude, touched by the simple
earnestness of these good friends. "You must come and see me some time
in Boston; and you too, Mrs. Prime, I shall depend upon it. Good-bye;"
and the good-bye that _now_ fell upon Gertrude's ear was a hearty and a
true one; it followed her through the hall, and as the carriage drove
away she heard it mingling with the rattling of the vehicle.