THE REJECTED.
Emily was not well this evening. It was often the case, lately, that
headache, weariness, or a nervous shrinking from noise and excitement
sent her to her own room or to her couch at an early hour. After Mrs.
Graham and her nieces had gone downstairs to await Mr. Graham's
pleasure, and Mrs. Bruce's arrival, Gertrude returned to Emily, and
found her suffering more than usual from her head. She was easily
induced to seek the only infallible cure--sleep; and Gertrude, seating
herself on the bedside, as she was frequently in the habit of doing,
bathed her temples until she fell into a quiet slumber. The noise of
Mrs. Bruce's carriage disturbed her a little; but she was soon in so
sound a sleep that, when Mr. and Mrs. Graham departed, the loud voice of
the latter did not startle her in the least. Gertrude sat some time
longer without changing her position, then, quietly rising, and
arranging everything for the night, according to Emily's wishes, she
closed the door, sought a book in her own room, and, entering the
parlour, seated herself at a table to enjoy the rare opportunity for
stillness and repose. But she soon left her seat, and going towards the
glass doors and leaning her head upon her hands, was absorbed in
meditation.
She had not long sat thus when she heard a footstep in the room, and,
turning, saw Mr. Bruce beside her. She started, and exclaimed, "Mr.
Bruce! is it possible? I thought you had gone to the wedding."
"No, there were greater attractions for me at home. Could you believe,
Miss Gertrude, I should find any pleasure in a party which did not
include yourself?"
"I certainly should not have the vanity to suppose the reverse?" replied
Gertrude.
"I wish you had a little more vanity, Miss Gertrude. Perhaps then you
would believe what I say."
"I am glad you have the candour to acknowledge, Mr. Bruce, that, without
that requisite, one would find it impossible to put faith in your fair
speeches."
"I acknowledge no such thing. I only say to you what any other girl but
yourself would be willing enough to believe; but how shall I convince
you that I am serious, and wish to be so understood?"
"By addressing me with simple truthfulness, and sparing me those words
and attentions which I wish to convince you are unacceptable to me and
unworthy of yourself."
"But I have a meaning, Gertrude, a _deep_ meaning. I have been trying
long to find an opportunity to tell you of my resolve, and you _must_
listen to me now;" for he saw her change colour and look anxious and
uneasy. "You must give me an answer at once, and one that will, I trust,
be favourable to my wishes. You like plain speaking; and I will be plain
enough, now that my mind is made up. My relatives and friends may talk
and wonder as much as they please at my choosing a wife who has neither
money nor family to boast of; but I will defy them all, and offer
without hesitation to share my prospects with you. What is money good
for, if it does not make a man independent to do as he pleases? And, as
to the world, I don't see but that you can hold your head as high as
anybody, Gertrude; so, if you've no objection to make, we'll play at
cross purposes no longer;" and he endeavoured to take her hand.
But Gertrude drew back; the colour flushed her cheeks, and her eyes
glistened as she fixed them upon his face, with an expression of
astonishment and pride. The penetrating look of those dark eyes spoke
volumes, and Mr. Bruce replied to their inquiring gaze in these words:
"I hope you are not displeased at my frankness."
"With your frankness," said Gertrude, calmly; "no, that is a thing that
never displeases me. But what I have unconsciously done to inspire you
with so much confidence, that, while you defend yourself for defying the
wishes of your friends, you hardly give me a voice in the matter?"
"Nothing," said Bruce; "but I thought you had laboured under the
impression that I was disposed to trifle with your affections, and had
therefore kept aloof and maintained a distance towards me which you
would not have done had you known I was in earnest; but, believe me, I
only admired you the more for behaving with so much dignity, and if I
have presumed upon your favour, you must forgive me."
The expression of wounded pride vanished from Gertrude's face. "He knows
no better," thought she; "I should pity his vanity and ignorance, and
sympathize in his disappointment; and, in disclaiming with a
positiveness which left no room for self-deception, any interest in Mr.
Bruce beyond that of an old acquaintance and well-wisher, she
nevertheless softened her refusal by the choice of the mildest language.
She felt gratitude and consideration were due to the man who, however
little she might esteem _him_, had paid _her_ the highest honour;" and,
though her regret in the matter was tempered by the thought of Kitty,
and the strangeness of Mr. Bruce's conduct towards her, now rendered
doubly inexplicable, she did not permit that reflection to prevent her
from maintaining the demeanour of a perfect lady, who, in giving pain to
another, laments the necessity of so doing. But she almost felt as if
her thoughtfulness for his feelings had been thrown away, when she
perceived the spirit in which he received her refusal.
"Gertrude," said he, "you are either trifling with me or yourself. If
you are still disposed to coquet with me, I shall not humble myself to
urge you further; but if, on the other hand, you are so far forgetful of
your own interests as deliberately to refuse such a fortune as mine, I
think it's a pity you haven't got some friend to advise you. Such a
chance doesn't occur every day, especially to poor school-mistresses;
and if you are so foolish as to overlook it, you'll never have another."
Gertrude's _old temper_ rose at this insulting language; but her
feelings had been too long under strict regulation to yield, and she
replied in a tone which, though slightly agitated, was far from being
angry, "Allowing I could so far forget _myself_, Mr. Bruce, I would not
do _you_ such an injustice as to marry you for your fortune. I do not
despise wealth, for I know the blessing it may often be; but my
affections cannot be bought with gold;" and as she spoke she moved
towards the door.
"Stay!" said Mr. Bruce, catching her hand; "listen to me one moment; let
me ask you one question. Are you jealous of my late attentions to
another?"
"No," answered Gertrude; "but I confess I have not understood your
motives."
"Did you think," asked he, "that I care for silly Kitty? Did you believe
that I had any other desire than to show you that my devotion was
acceptable elsewhere? No, I never had the least particle of regard for
her; my heart has been yours all the time, and I only danced attendance
upon _her_, in hopes to win a glance from _you_--an _anxious_ glance, if
might be. Oh, I have wished that you would show only one quarter of the
pleasure that she did in my society; would blush and smile as she did;
would look sad when I was dull, and laugh when I was merry; so that I
might flatter myself that your heart was won. But as to _loving_
her,--pooh! Mrs. Graham's poodle-dog might as well try to rival you as
that soft----"
"Stop! stop!" exclaimed Gertrude; "for _my_ sake, if not for your _own_!
Oh, how----" She could say no more; but, sinking into a seat, burst into
tears, and hiding her face in her hands, as had been her habit in
childhood, wept without restraint.
Mr. Bruce stood by in utter amazement; at last he approached her, and
asked, in a low voice, "What is the matter? what have I done?"
It was some minutes before she could reply; then, lifting her head, and
tossing the hair from her forehead, she displayed features expressive
only of the deepest grief, and said, in broken accents, "What have you
done? Oh, how can you ask? She is gentle, and amiable, and affectionate.
She loves everybody, and trusts everybody. You have _deceived_ her, and
_I_ was the cause of it. Oh, how, how could you do it!"
Ben exclaimed, "She will get over it." "Get over _what_!" said Gertrude;
"her love for you? Perhaps so; I know not how deep it is. But, think of
her happy, trusting nature, and how it has been betrayed! Think how she
believed your flattering words, and how hollow they were, all the while!
Think how her confidence has been abused! how that fatherless and
motherless girl, who had a claim to the sympathy of all the world, has
been taught a lesson of distrust."
"I didn't think you would take it so," said Ben.
"How else could I view it?" asked Gertrude; "could you expect that such
a course would win my respect?"
"You take it very seriously, Gertrude; such flirtations are common."
"I am sorry to hear it," said Gertrude. "To my mind, unversed in the
ways of society, it is a dreadful thing to trifle thus with a human
heart. Whether Kitty loves you is not for me to say; but what opinion,
alas! will she have of your sincerity?"
"I think you're rather hard, Miss Gertrude, when it was my love for you
that prompted my conduct."
"Perhaps I am," said Gertrude. "It is not my place to censure; I speak
only from the impulse of my heart. One orphan girl's warm defence of
another is but natural. Perhaps she views the thing lightly, and does
not _need_ an advocate; but, oh, Mr. Bruce, do not think so meanly of my
sex as to believe that one woman's heart can be won to love and
reverence by the author of another's betrayal! She were less than woman
who could be so false to her sense of right and honour."
"Betrayal!--Nonsense! you are very high-flown."
"So much so, Mr. Bruce, that half-an-hour ago I could have wept that you
should have bestowed your affection where it met with no requital; and
if now I wept for the sake of her whose ears have listened to false
professions, and whose peace has, to say the least, been _threatened_ on
my account, you should attribute it to the fact that my sympathies have
not been exhausted by contact with the world."
A short silence ensued. Ben went a step or two towards the door, then
stopped, came back, and said, "After all, Gertrude Flint, I believe the
time will come when your notions will grow less romantic, and you will
look back to this night and wish you had acted differently." He
immediately left the room, and Gertrude heard him shut the hall-door
with a bang.
A moment after the silence that ensued was disturbed by a slight sound
which seemed to proceed from the recess in the window. Gertrude started,
and, as she went towards the spot, heard a smothered sob. She lifted a
curtain, and there, upon the window-seat, her head buried in the
cushions, and her little slender form distorted into a strange attitude,
sat, or rather crouched, poor Kitty Ray.
"Kitty?" cried Gertrude. At the sound of her voice Kitty sprung suddenly
from her recumbent posture, threw herself into Gertrude's arms, laid her
head upon her shoulder, and though she did not, _could_ not weep, shook
with an agitation uncontrollable. Her hand which grasped Gertrude's was
cold; her eyes fixed; and at intervals the same hysterical sound which
had at first betrayed her in her hiding-place alarmed her young
protector, to whom she clung. Gertrude supported her to a seat, and
then, folding the slight form to her bosom, chafed the cold hands, and
again and again kissing the rigid lips, succeeded in restoring her to
something like composure. For an hour she lay thus, receiving Gertrude's
caresses with evident pleasure, and now and then returning them
convulsively, but speaking no word and making no noise. Gertrude, with
the truest delicacy, refrained from asking questions, or recurring to a
conversation, the whole of which had been thus overheard and
comprehended; but, patiently waiting until Kitty grew more calm,
prepared for her a soothing draught; and then, finding her completely
prostrated, both in mind and body, passed her arm around her waist,
guided her upstairs, and took her into her own room, where, if she
proved wakeful, she would be spared the scrutiny of Isabel. Still
clinging to Gertrude, the poor girl, to whose relief tears came at last,
sobbed herself to sleep. Gertrude, though nearly the same age as Kitty,
had seen too much trouble to enjoy in times of disquiet the privilege of
sinking easily to repose. She felt under the necessity, too, of
remaining awake until Isabel's return, that she might inform her what
had become of Kitty, whom she would be sure to miss from the room which
they both occupied. It was past midnight when Mrs. Graham and her niece
returned home, and Gertrude went immediately to inform the latter that
her cousin was asleep in her room. The noise of the carriage, however,
had awakened the sleeper, and when Gertrude returned she was rubbing her
eyes, and trying to collect her thoughts. Suddenly the recollection of
the scene of the evening flashed upon her, and with a deep sigh she
exclaimed, "Oh, Gertrude, I have been dreaming of Mr. Bruce! Should you
have thought he would have treated me so?"
"No, I should not," said Gertrude; "but I wouldn't dream about him,
Kitty, nor think of him any more; we will both go to sleep and forget
him."
"It is different with you," said Kitty, with simplicity. "He loves you,
and you do not care for him; but I--I----" Here her feelings overpowered
her, and she buried her face in her pillow.
Gertrude approached, laid her hand kindly upon the head of the poor
girl, and finished the sentence for her.
"You have such a large heart, Kitty, that he found some place there,
perhaps; but it is too good a heart to be shared by the mean and base.
You must think no more of him--he is not worthy of your regard."
"I can't help it," said Kitty; "I am silly, just as he said."
"No, you are not," said Gertrude, encouragingly; "and you must prove it
to him."
"How?"
"Let him see that, with all her softness, Kitty Ray is brave; that she
believes not his flattery, and values his professions at just what they
are worth."
"Will you help me, Gertrude? You are my best friend; you took my part,
and told him how wicked he had been to me. May I come to you for comfort
when I can't make believe happy any longer to him, and my aunt, and
Isabel?"
Gertrude's fervent embrace assured her.
"You will be as bright and as happy as ever in a few weeks," said she;
"you will soon cease to care for a person whom you no longer respect."
Kitty disclaimed the possibility of ever being happy again; but Gertrude
was more hopeful. She saw that Kitty's outburst of sobs and tears was
like an impetuous grief, but that the deepest recesses of her nature
were safe. She felt a deep compassion for her, and many fears lest she
would want sufficient strength of mind to behave with dignity and
womanly pride in her future intercourse with Mr. Bruce.
Fortunately, the trial was spared her by Mr. Bruce's absenting himself
from the house, and in a few days leaving home for the remainder of the
summer; and, as this circumstance involved his own and Mrs. Graham's
family in wonder as to the cause of his sudden departure, Kitty's trials
were in the perpetual questionings from her aunt and cousin as to her
share in this occurrence. Had she quarrelled with him?--and why? Kitty
denied that she had; but she was not believed.
Mrs. Graham and Isabel were aware that Kitty's refusing at the last
moment to attend the wedding _levee_ was owing to her having learned,
just before the carriage drove to the door, that Mr. Bruce was not to be
one of the party; and, as they got her to confess that he had passed a
part of the evening at the house, they came to the conclusion that some
misunderstanding had arisen between the lovers.
Isabel was too well acquainted with Kitty's sentiments to believe she
had voluntarily relinquished an admirer who had evidently been highly
prized; and she also saw that the sensitive girl winced under every
allusion to the deserter. Where was her affection? For she made Mr.
Bruce and his disappearance her constant topic; and, on the slightest
difference between herself and Kitty, she distressed the latter by
cutting sarcasm relative to her late love-affair. Kitty would then seek
refuge with Gertrude, and claim her sympathy; and she not only found in
her a friendly listener to her woes, but invariably acquired in her
society greater strength and cheerfulness than she could elsewhere rally
to her aid.
Many a time, when Isabel had been tantalising Kitty beyond what her
patience could endure, a little figure would present itself at the door
of Miss Graham's room, and with the sweetest of voices say, "I hear you,
Kitty; come in, my dear; we shall be glad of your pleasant company;" and
seated by the side of Gertrude, learning from her some little art in
needlework, listening to an agreeable book, or Emily's more agreeable
conversation, Kitty passed hours which were never forgotten, so peaceful
were they, so serene, so totally unlike any she had ever spent before.
None could live in familiar intercourse with Emily, listen to her words,
observe the radiance of her heavenly smile, and breathe in the pure
atmosphere that environed her very being, and not carry away with them
the _love_ of virtue and holiness, if not something of their _essence_.
She was so unselfish, so patient, notwithstanding her privations, that
Kitty would have been ashamed to repine in her presence; and there was a
contagious cheerfulness ever pervading her apartment, which, in spite of
Kitty's recent cause of unhappiness, often led her to forget herself,
and break into her natural tone of buoyancy and glee.