THE VISION.
It was fortunate for Gertrude that the vacation at Mr. W.'s school was
approaching, when she would be more at leisure to attend to her
multiplied cares. She considered herself favoured in obtaining the
services of Jane, who consented to come and help Miss Gertrude. She did
not, she said, exactly like living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady
who had been so good to them in times past. Gertrude had feared that,
with Nan Grant sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give
up her eldest daughter; but Mary, a second girl, having returned home
unexpectedly, one of them could be spared. Under Gertrude's tuition,
Jane was able to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of her household duties, and to
leave Gertrude at liberty to visit Nan, whose fever rendered her claim
for aid the most imperative. In Gertrude's still vivid recollection of
her former sufferings under Nan there was no bitterness, no revenge. If
she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her
persecutor.
Therefore, night after night found her watching by the bedside of the
sick woman, who, still delirious, had entirely lost the dread she had at
first seemed to feel at her presence. Nan talked much of little
Gerty--sometimes in a way that led Gertrude to believe herself
recognised, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be
absent; and it was not until a long time after that Gertrude was led to
adopt the correct supposition, which was, that she had been mistaken for
her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last
sickness by Nan herself, the fevered and conscience-stricken sufferer
believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was only the
continued assurances of good-will on Gertrude's part, and her unwearied
efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led Nan to the belief
that the injured mother had found her child in safety, and was ignorant
of the wrongs and unkindness she had endured.
One night--it was the last of Nan's life--Gertrude, who had scarcely
left her during the day, and was still watching, heard her own name
mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. She listened
intently, for she was always in hopes, during these ravings, to gain
some information concerning her own early life. Her name was not
repeated, however, and for some time the muttering of Nan's voice was
indistinct. Then, suddenly starting up and addressing herself to some
imaginary person, she shouted aloud, "Stephie! Stephie! give me back the
watch, and tell me what you did with the rings?--They will ask--those
folks!--and what shall I tell them?" Then, after a pause, she said, in a
more feeble, but equally earnest voice, "No, no, Stephie, I never'll
tell--I _never, never_ will!" The moment the words had left her lips,
she started, turned, saw Gertrude standing by the bedside, and with a
frightful look, shrieked, rather than asked, "Did you hear? Did you
hear?--You did," continued she, "and you'll tell! Oh, if you _do_!" She
was here preparing to spring from the bed, but overcome with exhaustion,
sunk back on the pillow. Summoning Mr. and Mrs. Miller, the agitated
Gertrude, believing that her own presence was too exciting, left the
dying woman to their care, and sought another part of the house.
Learning, about an hour afterwards, from Mrs. Miller, that Nan had
become comparatively calm, but seemed near her end, Gertrude thought it
best not to enter the room again; and, sitting down by the kitchen fire,
pondered over the strange scene she had witnessed. Day was just dawning
when Mrs. Miller came to tell her that Nan had breathed her last.
Gerty's work of mercy, forgiveness, and Christian love being thus
finished, she hastened home to recruit her strength, and fortify herself
for the labour and suffering yet in store for her. In three weeks from
Nan Grant's death, Paul Cooper was smitten by the Destroyer's hand, and
he, too, was laid to his last rest; and though the deepest feelings of
Gertrude's heart were not in either case fully awakened, it was no
slight call upon the mental and physical endurance of a girl of eighteen
to bear up under the self-imposed duties caused by each event, and that,
too, at a time when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new and
more intense grief. Emily's absence was also a sore trial to her, for
she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and counsel, and in
seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and submission. Only one
letter had been received from the travellers, and that, written by Mrs.
Ellis, contained little that was satisfactory. It was written from
Havana, where they were boarding in a house kept by an American lady,
and crowded with visitors from Boston, New York, and other northern
cities.
"It an't so very pleasant, after all, Gertrude," wrote Mrs. Ellis, "and
I wish we were safe home again; and not on my own account either, so
much as Emily's. She feels kind of strange here; and no wonder, for it's
a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. The windows have no glass
about them, but are grated like a prison; and there is not a carpet in
the house, nor a fire-place, though sometimes the mornings are cold.
There's a widow here, with a brother and some nieces. The widow is a
flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think is either setting her
cap for Mr. Graham, or means to make an old fool of him. She is one of
your loud-talking women, that dress up a good deal, and like to take the
lead; and Mr. Graham is silly enough to follow after her party, and go
to all sorts of rides and excursions;--it's so _ridiculous_--and he over
sixty-five years old! Emily and I have pretty much done going into the
parlour, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. Emily
doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but I know she is not happy here,
and would be glad to be back in Boston; and so should I, if it wasn't
for that horrid steamboat. I liked to have died with sea-sickness,
Gertrude, coming out; and I dread going home so, that I don't know what
to do."
* * * * *
Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily, but, as Miss Graham was dependent
upon Mrs. Ellis's eyesight, and the letters must, therefore, be subject
to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and
feelings as she was wont to do in conversation with her sympathising and
indulgent friend. Every Indian mail brought news from William Sullivan,
who, prosperous in business, and rendered happy even in his exile by the
belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the
fruits of his exertions, wrote always in a strain of cheerfulness.
One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper's death, found
Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous post-marks upon
the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. It had that day
been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she lay stretched upon the couch,
had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents.
The bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he
wrote, all unconscious of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for
him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay
with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of sadness;
while Gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which Willie dilated
upon the "joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear mother whom he
so longed to see again," and then turned her gaze upon the wasted form
and cheek of that mother, felt a chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy's first
fears were confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated by the
anxiety which attended her father's sickness and death, Mrs. Sullivan
was rapidly passing away.
Whether she was herself aware of this Gertrude had not yet been able to
determine. She had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated a
conviction of her approaching end; and Gertrude was almost inclined to
believe that she was deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery.
All doubt of this was soon removed; for after remaining a short time
engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs. Sullivan opened her
eyes, fixed them upon the young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct
voice--"Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again." Gertrude made no
reply.
"I wish to write and tell him so myself, or, rather, if you will write
for me, I should like to tell you what to say; and I feel that no time
is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long have strength
enough to do it. It will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know
when all is over; but you have had too many sad duties already, and it
will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. Will
you commence a letter to-day?"
"Certainly, auntie, if you think it best."
"I do, Gerty. What you wrote by the last mail was my father's sickness
and death; and there was nothing mentioned likely to alarm him on my
account, was there?"
"Nothing at all."
"Then it is time he should be forewarned, poor boy! I do not need Dr.
Jeremy to tell me that I am dying."
"Did he tell you so?" asked Gertrude, as she went to her desk, and began
to arrange her writing materials.
"No, Gerty! he was too prudent for that; but I told _him_ and he did not
contradict me. You have known it some time, have you not?" inquired she,
gazing earnestly in the face of Gertrude.
"Some weeks," replied Gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a kiss upon the
pale brow of the sufferer.
"Why did you not tell me?"
"Why should I, dear auntie?" said Gertrude. "I knew the Lord could never
call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning."
"Feebly, it burns feebly!" said she.
"Whose, then, is bright," said Gertrude, "if yours be dim! Have you not,
for years past, been a living lesson of piety? Unless it be Emily,
auntie, I know of no one who seems so fit for heaven."
"Oh, no, Gerty! I am a sinful creature, full of weakness; much as I long
to meet my Saviour, my earthly heart pines with the vain desire for one
more sight of my boy, and all my dreams of heaven are mingled with the
aching regret that the one blessing I most craved on earth has been
denied me."
"Oh, auntie!" exclaimed Gertrude, "we are all human! Until the mortal
puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of Willie, and long for
his presence in this trying hour! It cannot be a sin--that which is so
natural!"
"I do not know, Gerty; perhaps it is not; and, if it be, I trust before
I go hence, I shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect submission, to
atone for the occasional murmuring of a mother's heart? Read to me, my
dear, some holy words of comfort; you always seem to open the good book
at the passage I most need. It is sinful, indeed, to me, Gertrude, to
indulge the least repining, blessed as I am in the love and care of one
who is dear to me as a daughter!"
Gertrude took her Bible, and opening it at the Gospel of St. Mark, her
eye fell upon the account of Our Saviour's agony in the garden of
Gethsemane. She rightly believed that nothing could be more appropriate
to Mrs. Sullivan's state of mind than the touching description of the
struggle of our Lord's humanity; nothing more likely to sooth her
spirit, and reconcile her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal
nature, then the evident contest of the human with the divine so
thrillingly narrated by the disciple; and that nothing could be more
inspiring than the example of that holy Son of God, who ever to His
thrice-repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him,
added the pious ejaculation, "Thy will, not mine, be done." The words
were not without effect; for, when she had finished, she observed that
as Mrs. Sullivan lay still upon her couch, her lips seemed to be
repeating the Saviour's prayer. Not wishing to disturb her meditations,
Gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to Willie, but sat
silently, and Mrs. Sullivan fell asleep. It was a gentle slumber, and
Gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful happy expression of
her features. Darkness had come on before she awoke, and so shrouded the
room that Gertrude, who still sat there, was invisible in the gloom. She
started on hearing her name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached
the couch.
"O, Gertrude!" said Mrs. Sullivan, "I have had such a beautiful dream!
Sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to you; it could not have
been more vivid, if it had all been reality:--"
* * * * *
THE DREAM:--"I thought I was sailing rapidly through the air, and for
some time I seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright
stars. The motion was so gentle that I did not grow weary, though in my
journey I travelled over land and sea. At last I saw beneath me a
beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments, and throngs of gay
people moving in every direction. As I drew nearer, I could distinguish
the faces of these numerous men and women, and among them, in the
crowded street, there was one who looked like Willie. I followed him,
and soon felt sure it was he. He looked older than when we saw him last,
and much as I have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has
given in his letters of the change that has taken place in his
appearance. I followed him through several streets, and at last he
turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of the
city. I went in also. We passed through large halls and beautifully
furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-saloon, in the middle of
which was a table covered with bottles, glasses, and the remains of a
rich desert, such as I never saw before. There was a group of young men
round the table, all well-dressed, and some of them fine-looking, so
that at first I was quite charmed with their appearance. I seemed,
however, to have a strange power of looking into their hearts, and
detecting all the evil there was there. One had a very bright,
intelligent face, and might have been thought a man of talent--and so he
was; but I could see better than people usually can, and I perceived, by
a sort of instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a
means of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant
as to be ensnared.
"Another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm of the company;
but I could detect marks of intoxication.
"A third was vainly attempting to look happy; but his soul was bared to
my searching gaze, and I saw that he had the day before lost at the
gaming-table his own and a part of his employer's money, and was
tortured with anxiety lest he might not this evening win it back.
"There were many others present, and all, more or less, sunk in
dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. Their
faces, however, looked gay, and, as Willie glanced from one to another,
he seemed pleased and attracted.
"One of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged him to take
it. He did so, and the young man at his right filled a glass with bright
wine, and handed it to him. He hesitated, then took it and raised it to
his lips. Just then I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, saw me,
and instantly the glass fell from his hand, and was broken. I beckoned,
and he rose and followed me. The gay circle he had left called loudly
upon him to return; one of them even laid a hand upon his arm, and tried
to detain him; but he would not listen or stay--he shook off the hand,
and we went on. Before we had got outside the building, the man whom I
had first noticed, and whom I knew to be the most artful of the company,
came out from a room near the door, which he had reached by some other
direction, and, approaching Willie, whispered in his ear. Willie
faltered, turned, and would perhaps have gone back; but I stood in front
of him, held up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. He hesitated no
longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, and was
instantly down the long flight of steps. I seemed to move with great
rapidity, and was soon guiding my son through the intricate, crowded
streets of the city. Many were the snares we found laid for the unwary.
More than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless boy by my side from
some pitfall or danger, into which, without me, he would have fallen.
Occasionally I lost sight of him, and had to turn back; once he was
separated from me by the crowd, and missed his way, and once he lingered
to witness or join in some sinful amusements. Each time, however, he
listened to my warning voice, and we went on in safety.
"At last, however, in passing through a brilliantly-lighted street--for
it was now evening--I suddenly observed that he was absent from my side.
I hunted the streets, and called him by name; but there was no answer. I
then unfolded my wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town,
surveyed the whole, hoping that in that one glance I might, as I had at
first done, detect my boy.
"I was not disappointed. In a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, and filled
with a fashionable crowd, I beheld Willie. A brilliant young creature
was leaning on his arm, and I saw into her heart, and knew that she was
not blind to his beauty or insensible to his attractions. But, oh! I
trembled for him now! She was lovely and rich, and also fashionable and
admired. But I saw into her soul, and she was proud, cold-hearted, and
worldly; and if she loved Willie, it was his beauty, his winning
manners, and his smile that pleased her--not his noble nature, which she
knew not how to prize. As they promenaded through the hall, and she,
whom crowds were praising, gave all her time and thoughts to him, I,
descending in an invisible shape, and standing by his side, touched his
shoulder. He looked around, but, before he could see his mother's face,
the siren's voice attracted all his attention. Again and again I
endeavoured to win him away; but he heard me not. At length she spoke
some word that betrayed to my high-minded boy the folly and selfishness
of her worldly soul. I seized the moment when she had thus weakened her
hold upon him, and, clasping him in my arms, spread my wings, and soared
far, far away, bearing with me the prize I had toiled after and won. As
we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms a child
again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, with its soft,
silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. Back we flew, over sea
and land, and paused not until, on a soft, grassy slope, under the shade
of green trees, I thought I saw my darling Gerty, and was flying to lay
my precious boy at her feet, when I awoke pronouncing your name."
* * * * *
"And now, Gertrude, the bitterness of the cup I am called upon to drink
is passed away. A blessed angel has ministered unto me. I no longer wish
to see my son again on earth, for I am persuaded that my departure is in
accordance with the schemes of a merciful Providence. I now believe that
Willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from temptation
and evil; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty still, and in the
thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is ever watching around
his path, and striving to lead him in the narrow way, he may find a
truer shield from danger, a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she
could have been while on earth. Now, oh, my Father, I can say, from the
depths of my heart, 'Thy will, not mine, be done!'"
From this time until her death, which took place about a month
afterward, Mrs. Sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect
resignation. The last pang had lost its bitterness. In the letter which
she dictated to Willie, she expressed her trust in the goodness and
wisdom of Providence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive
love for the All-wise. She reminded him of the early lessons she had
taught him, the piety and self-command, which she had inculcated, and
made it her dying prayer that her influence might be increased, rather
than diminished, and her presence felt to be a continual reality.
After Gertrude had folded the letter, and left for her duties in school,
Mrs. Sullivan re-opened the sheet, and, with her feeble hand, recounted
the disinterested and loving devotion of Gertrude, thus: "So long, my
son, as you cherish in your heart the memory of your grandfather and
mother, cease not to bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is
capable upon one whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray."
So slow and gradual was the decline of Mrs. Sullivan, that her death at
last came as an unexpected blow to Gertrude, who, though she saw the
ravages of disease, could not realise that a termination must come to
their work. In the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and
encourage her but the frightened Jane, did she watch the departing
spirit of her much-loved friend. "Are you afraid to see me die,
Gertrude?" asked Mrs. Sullivan, an hour before her death. On Gertrude's
answering that she was not--"Then turn me a little towards you," said
she, "that your face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth."
It was done, and, with her hand locked fast in Gertrude's, and a look
that spoke the deepest affection, she expired.