THE ROCK OF AGES.
Before they had gained the road leading to the Mountain House, they
became conscious of the vast difference between the temperature of the
river and that of the inland country, and, in being suddenly deprived of
the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed on board the boat, they fully
realised the extreme heat of the weather. For the first few miles
Gertrude's care was required to shield Emily and herself from the rays
of the burning sun; and it was a great relief when they reached the
beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the mountain. The
atmosphere being clear, the gradually widening prospect was beautiful,
and Gertrude's delight was such that the restraint imposed by
stage-coach decorum was almost insupportable. When, therefore, the
ascent became so laborious that the gentlemen alighted to relieve the
weary horses, Gertrude gladly accepted Dr. Jeremy's proposal that she
should accompany him on a walk of a mile or two.
Gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the active doctor soon
left the coaches far behind. At a sudden turn in the road they stopped
to view the scene below, and stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of
the spot, when they were startled by hearing a voice, saying, "A fine
landscape, certainly!"
It came from Mr. Phillips, seated upon a moss-grown rock, against which
Gertrude was leaning. His attitude was easy and careless, his
broad-brimmed straw hat lay on the ground, and his snow-besprinkled hair
was tossed back from his high and expanded forehead. He immediately
joined Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude.
"You have got the start of us, sir," said the former.
"Yes; I have walked from the village--my practice always when the roads
are such that no time can be gained by riding."
As he spoke, he placed in Gertrude's hand, without looking at her, or
seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich laurel blossoms.
She would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that it
afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking with the
doctor, as if she had not been present.
All three resumed their walk. Mr. Phillips and Dr. Jeremy conversed in
an animated manner, and Gertrude, content to be a listener, soon
perceived that she was not the only person to whom the stranger had
power to render himself agreeable. Dr. Jeremy engaged him upon a variety
of subjects, upon all of which he appeared equally well informed; and
Gertrude smiled to see her old friend rub his hands together--his mode
of expressing satisfaction.
Gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a botanist by
profession, so versed was he in everything relating to that science.
Again, she was sure that geology must have been with him an absorbed
study, so intimate seemed his acquaintance with mother earth; and both
of these impressions were in turn dispelled when he talked of the ocean
like a sailor, of the counting-house like a merchant, of Paris like a
man of fashion and the world. In the meantime she walked beside him,
silent but not unnoticed; for, as they approached a rough and steep
ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should become
fatigued. Dr. Jeremy declared his belief that Gerty could outwalk them
both; and, thus satisfied, Mr. Phillips resumed the broken thread of
their discourse, into which Gertrude was drawn almost unawares.
Mr. Phillips no longer seemed in Gertrude's eyes a stranger--he was a
mystery, but not a forbidding one. She longed to learn the history of a
life which many an incident of his own narrating proved to have been
made up of strange and mingled experience; especially did her
sympathetic nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated
melancholy which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made
his very smile a sorrowful thing. Dr. Jeremy, who shared her curiosity,
asked a few questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend's
history; but in vain. Mr. Phillips' lips were sealed on the subject.
The doctor now felt very weary, and seating themselves by the roadside,
they awaited the arrival of the coach. There had been a short silence,
when the doctor, looking at Gertrude, remarked, "There will be no church
for us to-morrow, Gerty."
"No church," exclaimed Gerty, gazing about her with a look of reverence;
"how _can_ you say so?"
Mr. Phillips smiled, and said in a peculiar tone, "There is no Sunday
here, Miss Flint; it doesn't come up so high."
He spoke lightly--too lightly, Gertrude thought--and she replied with
some seriousness and much sweetness, "I have often rejoiced that the
Sabbath has been sent _down_ into the _lower_ earth; the higher we go
the nearer we come, I trust, to the eternal Sabbath."
Mr. Phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying. There was an
expression about his mouth which Gertrude did not like; but she could
not find it in her heart to reproach him for the slight sneer which his
manner, rather than his look, implied; for as he gazed a moment or two
into vacancy there was in his absent countenance such a look of sorrow
that she could only pity and wonder. The coaches now came up, and, as he
placed her in her former seat, he resumed his wonted serene and kind
expression, and she felt convinced that it was only doing justice to his
frank and open face to believe that nothing was hid behind it that would
not do honour to the man.
An hour brought them to the Mountain House, and to their joy they were
shown to some of the most excellent rooms the hotel afforded. As
Gertrude stood at the window of the chamber allotted to herself and
Emily, and heard the loud murmurs of some of her fellow-travellers who
were denied any tolerable accommodation, she could not but be astonished
at Dr. Jeremy's unusual good fortune. Emily, being greatly fatigued with
the toilsome journey, had supper brought to her own room, and Gertrude
partaking of it with her, neither of them sought other society that
night, but at an early hour went to rest. The last thing that Gertrude
heard before falling asleep was the voice of Dr. Jeremy saying, as he
passed their door, "Take care, Gerty, and be up in time to see the sun
rise."
But she was not up in time, nor was the doctor; neither of them had
calculated upon the sun being such an early riser; and though Gertrude
sprang up almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was
pouring in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which banished regret
at having overslept herself, since nothing, she thought, could be more
glorious than that which now lay outspread before her.
Far out to the distant horizon nothing was to be seen but a sea of snowy
clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower earth and hid it from view.
Vast, solid, and of the most perfect whiteness, they stretched on every
side, forming, as they lay in thick masses, between which not a crevice
was discernible, an unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the
earth. The foliage of the oaks, the pines, and the maples, which had
found root in this lofty region, was rich in varied hues, and tame and
fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches. Gertrude
gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and go out upon the
platform.
She was soon joined by Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy, the former full of life, and
dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance
proclaimed how unwillingly she had forgone her morning nap. The doctor
rubbed his hands as they joined Gertrude. "Very fine, this, Gerty! A
touch beyond anything I had calculated upon," Gertrude turned upon him
her beaming eyes, but did not speak.
The doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which they stood,
placed his hands beneath his coat tails, and indulged in a soliloquy,
made up of short exclamations and interjectional phrases, expressive of
his approbation.
"Why, this looks queer, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Jeremy, rubbing her
eyes, and gazing about her; "but I daresay it would be just so an hour
or two hence. I don't see what the doctor would make me get up so early
for." Then she darted forward, exclaiming, "Dr. Jeremy, for mercy's
sake, don't stand so near the edge of that precipice! Why, are you
crazy, man? You frighten me to death! You'll fall over and break your
neck!"
Finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, Mrs. Jeremy grew so disturbed
by his dangerous position that, looking most imploringly at Gertrude,
she begged her to get the doctor away, for the poor man was so
venturesome he would surely be killed.
"Suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house,"
suggested Gertrude; "it looks attractive."
"So it does," said Mrs. Jeremy; "beautiful little shady path. Come,
doctor, Gerty and I are going to walk up here--come!"
The doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed.
"Ah!" said he, "that is the path the man at the office spoke about; it
leads up to the pine gardens. We'll climb up, by all means, and see what
sort of a place it is."
Gertrude led the way, all walking in single file, for the path was a
mere foot-track. The ascent was very steep, and they had not proceeded
far before Mrs. Jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue, stopped short,
and declared her inability to reach the top; she would not have come if
she had known what a hard hill she would have to climb. Encouraged and
assisted by her husband and Gertrude, she was induced to make a further
attempt; and they had gone on some distance, when Gertrude, who was some
steps in advance, heard Mrs. Jeremy give a slight scream. She looked
back; the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the
picture of consternation, was trying to pass him and retrace her steps
down the hill.
"What is the matter?" asked Gertrude.
"Matter!" cried Mrs. Jeremy; "why, this hill is covered with
rattlesnakes; and here we are all going up to be bitten to death!"
"No such thing, Gerty!" said the doctor, still laughing. "I only told
her there had been one killed here this summer, and now she's making it
an excuse for turning back."
"I don't care!" said the good-natured lady, half laughing herself, in
spite of her fears; "if there's been one, there may be another; and I
won't stay a minute longer! I thought it was a bad enough place before,
and now I am going down faster than I came up."
Finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her, calling to
Gertrude and assuring her there was no danger, and begging her wait for
him at the top of the hill, where he would join her after he left his
wife in safety at the hotel. Gertrude, therefore, went on alone. For the
first few yards she looked about her, and thought of rattlesnakes; but
the path was so well worn that she felt sure it must be often trod, and
was probably safe; and the beauty of the place engrossed all her
attention. After active climbing, she reached the highest point of
ground, and found herself once more on the elevated platform, from which
she could look forth upon the unbroken sea of clouds.
She seated herself at the foot of an immense pine-tree, removed her
bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise; and she inhaled the
refreshing mountain breeze. She had sat thus but a moment when a slight
rustling noise startled her; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was
springing to her feet; but hearing a low sound, as of some one
breathing, turned her eyes in the direction from which it came, and saw,
only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the
ground, apparently asleep. She went towards it with a careful step, and
before she could see the face, the large straw hat and the long,
blanched, wavy hair betrayed the identity of the individual. Mr.
Phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his head was pillowed upon
his arm, his eyes were closed, and his attitude denoted perfect repose.
Gertrude stood still and looked at him. As she did so, his countenance
suddenly changed; the peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy
look which had at first excited her sympathy. His lips moved, and in his
dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, "No! no! no!" each time that he
repeated the word pronouncing it with more emphasis; then wildly
throwing one arm above his head he let it fall heavily upon the ground,
and, the excitement subsiding from his face, he uttered the simply
words, "_Oh, dear!_" much as a grieved and tired child might do as he
leans his head upon his mother's knee.
Gertrude was deeply touched. She forgot that he was a stranger; she
only saw a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair, open forehead; she
leaned over him, brushed it away, and, as she did so, one of her tears
fell upon his cheek. He awoke, and looked full in the face of the
embarrassed girl, who started, and would have hastened away; but,
leaning on his elbow, he caught her hand and detained her. He gazed at
her a moment without speaking; then said, in a grave voice, "My child,
did you shed that tear for me?"
She did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glistening with
the dew of sympathy.
"I believe you _did_," said he, "and from my heart I bless you! But
never again weep for a stranger. You will have woes enough of your own
if you live to be my age."
"If I had not had sorrows," said Gertrude, "I should not know how to
feel for others; if I had not often wept for myself I should not weep
now for you."
"But you are happy?"
"Yes."
"Some find it easy to forget the past."
"_I_ have not forgotten it."
"Children's griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce more than a
child."
"I _never_ was a child," said Gertrude.
"Strange girl!" soliloquised her companion. "Will you sit down and talk
with me a few minutes?"
Gertrude hesitated.
"Do not refuse; I am an old man, and very harmless. Take a seat here
under this tree, and tell me what you think of the prospect."
Gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old man, and
calling her a child; but, old or young, she had it not in her heart to
fear him, or refuse his request. She sat down, and he seated himself
beside her, but did not speak of the prospect, or of anything, for a
moment or two; then turning to her abruptly, he said, "So you never were
unhappy in your life?"
"Never?" exclaimed Gertrude. "Oh, yes; often."
"But never long?"
"Yes, I can remember whole years when happiness was a thing I had never
even dreamed of."
"But comfort came at last. What do you think of those to whom it never
comes?"
"I know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them."
"What can you do for them?"
"_Hope_ for them--_pray_ for them!" said Gertrude, with a voice full of
feeling.
"What if they be past hope--beyond the influence of prayer?"
"There are no such," said Gertrude, with decision.
"Do you see," said Mr. Phillips, "this curtain of thick clouds, now
overshadowing the world? Even so many a heart is weighed down and
overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness."
"But the light shines brightly above the clouds," said Gertrude.
"Above! well, that may be; but what avails it to those who see it not?"
"It is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the
mountain-top; but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which
brings him _above the clouds_," replied Gertrude, with enthusiasm.
"Few ever find the road that leads so high," responded her melancholy
companion; "and those who do cannot live long in so elevated an
atmosphere. They must come down from their height, and again dwell among
the common herd; again mingle in the warfare with the mean, the base,
and the cruel."
"But they have seen the glory; they know that the light is ever burning
on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce the gloom at
last. See, see," said she, her eyes glowing with the fervour with which
she spoke--"even now the heaviest clouds are parting; the sun will soon
light up the valley!"
She pointed as she spoke to a wide fissure which was gradually
disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on
either side, and then turned to the stranger to see if he observed the
change; but, with the same smile upon his unmoved countenance, he was
watching, not the display of nature in the distance, but that close at
his side. He was gazing with intense interest upon the young and ardent
worshipper of the beautiful and the true; and, in studying her features
and observing the play of her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed
that Gertrude--believing he was not listening to her words, but had
fallen into one of his absent moods--ceased speaking, rather abruptly,
and was turning away, when he said----
"Go on, happy child! Teach _me_, if you can, to see the world tinged
with the rosy colouring it wears for _you_; teach me to love and pity as
you do that miserable thing called _man_. I warn you that you have a
difficult task, but you seem to be very hopeful."
"Do you hate the world?" asked Gertrude, with straightforward
simplicity.
"Almost," was Mr. Phillips' answer.
"_I_ did _once_," said Gertrude, musingly.
"And will again, perhaps."
"No, that would be impossible; it has been a good foster mother to its
orphan child, and now I love it dearly."
"Have they been kind to you?" asked he, with eagerness. "Have heartless
strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for them?"
"Heartless strangers!" exclaimed Gertrude, the tears rushing to her
eyes. "Oh, sir, I wish you could have known my Uncle True, and Emily,
dear, blind Emily! you would think better of the world for their sakes."
"Tell me about them," said he, and he looked fixedly down into the
precipice which yawned at his feet.
"There is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor, and the
other wholly blind; and yet they made everything rich, and bright, and
beautiful to me--a poor, desolate, injured child."
"Injured! Then you acknowledge that you had previously met with wrong
and injustice?"
"I!" exclaimed Gertrude; "my earliest recollections are only of want,
suffering, and much unkindness."
"And these friends took pity on you?"
"Yes. One became an earthly father to me, and the other taught me where
to find a heavenly one."
"And ever since then you have been free and light as air, without a wish
or care in the world."
"No, indeed, I did not say so--I do not mean so," said Gertrude. "I have
had to part from Uncle True, and to give up other dear friends, some for
years and some forever; I have had many trials, many lonely, solitary
hours, and even now am oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and
dread."
"How, then, so cheerful and happy?" asked Mr. Phillips.
Gertrude had risen, for she saw Dr. Jeremy approaching. She smiled at
Mr. Phillips' question; and after looking into the deep valley beneath
her, gave him a look of holy faith, and said, in a low but fervent tone,
"I see the gulf yawning beneath me, but I lean upon the Rock of Ages."
Gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one anxiety and
dread oppressed her; for, mingled with a fear lest the time was fast
approaching when Emily would be taken from her, she had of late been
grieved by the thought that Willie Sullivan, towards whom her heart
yearned with more than a sister's love, was forgetting the friend of his
childhood, or ceasing to regard her with the love of former years. It
was now some months since she had received a letter from India; the last
was short, and written in a haste which Willie apologised for on the
score of business duties; and Gertrude was compelled unwillingly to
admit the chilling presentiment that, now that his mother and
grandfather were no more, the ties which bound the exile to his native
home were sensibly weakened.
Nothing would have induced her to hint, even to Emily, a suspicion of
neglect on Willie's part; nothing would have shocked her more than
hearing such neglect imputed to him by another; and still, in the depths
of her heart, she sometimes mused with wonder upon his long silence, and
his strange diminution of intercourse between herself and him. During
several weeks, in which she had received no tidings, she had still
continued to write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have
reached him by every mail. What, then, but illness or indifference could
excuse his never replying to her faithfully-despatched missives?
Dr. Jeremy's approach was the signal for hearty congratulations between
himself and Mr. Phillips; the doctor began to converse in his animated
manner, spoke with hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that
bright Sabbath morning in the mountains; and Mr. Phillips, compelled to
exert himself and conceal the gloom which weighed upon his mind, talked
with an ease, and even playfulness, which astonished Gertrude, who
walked back to the house wondering at this strange and inconsistent man.
She did not see him at breakfast, and at dinner he sat at some distance
from Dr. Jeremy's party, and merely gave a graceful salutation to
Gertrude as she left the dining-hall.
The Jeremys stayed two days longer at the Mountain House; the
invigorating air benefited Emily, who appeared stronger than she had
done for weeks past, and was able to take many a little stroll in the
neighborhood of the house. Gertrude was never weary of the glorious
prospect; and an excursion which she and the doctor made on foot to the
cleft in the heart of the mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a
distance of two hundred feet into the valley below, furnished the theme
for many a descriptive reverie, of which Emily reaped a part of the
enjoyment. They saw no more of their new acquaintance, who had
disappeared. Dr. Jeremy inquired of their host concerning him, and
learned that he left at an early hour on Monday, and took up a
pedestrian course down the mountain. The doctor was disappointed, for he
liked Mr. Phillips much, and had flattered himself, from some particular
inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route, that he had an
idea of attaching himself to their party.
"Never mind, Gertie," said he, "I daresay we shall come across him yet
some time when we least expect it."