THE STRICKEN DEER.
When Gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did as soon as
she had seen Emily comfortably established in the drawing-room in
conversation with Madam Gryseworth, she found there a beautiful bouquet
of the choicest flowers, which the chamber-maid said she had been
commissioned to deliver to herself. She rightly imagined the source from
whence they came, divined the motives of kindness which had prompted the
donor of so acceptable a gift, and felt that, if she must accept pity
from any quarter, Mr. Phillips was one from whom she could more easily
bear to receive it than from any other.
Notwithstanding Netta's intimations, she did not suspect that any other
motives than those of kindness had prompted the offering of the
beautiful flowers. Nor had she reason to do so; Mr. Phillips' manner
towards her was rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began
to regard him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which she
had ever thought of him or believed that he ever regarded her. She
placed the flowers in water, returned to the parlour, and constrained
herself to talk on indifferent subjects until the breaking up of the
circle--part to ride, part to take a drive, and the rest a nap. Among
these last was Gertrude, who made her headache as an excuse to Emily for
this unwonted indulgence.
In the evening she had an urgent invitation to accompany Dr. Gryseworth,
his daughters, and the Petrancourts to a concert at the United States
Hotel. This she declined. She felt that she could not undergo another
such encounter as that of the morning--she should be sure to betray
herself; and now that the whole day had passed and Willie had made no
attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world, put
herself in his way and run the risk of being recognised by him in a
crowded concert-room.
Thus the parlour, being half deserted, was very quiet--a great relief to
Gertrude's aching head and troubled mind. Later in the evening an
elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to Emily, and was talking
with her; Madam Gryseworth and Dr. Jeremy were entertaining each other,
Mrs. Jeremy was nodding, and Gertrude, believing that she should not be
missed, was gliding out of the room to sit in the moonlight when she met
Mr. Phillips in the hall.
"What are you here all alone for?" asked he. "Why didn't you go to the
concert?"
"I have a headache."
"I saw you had at dinner. Is it no better?"
"No. I believe not."
"Come and walk with me on the piazza a little while. It will do you
good."
She went; and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her a great
many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile, and even laugh,
and seemed pleased at having done so. He related many amusing things he
had seen and heard since he had been staying at Saratoga in the
character of a spectator, and ended by asking her if she didn't think it
was a heartless show.
Gertrude asked his meaning.
"Don't you think it is ridiculous in so many thousand people coming here
to enjoy themselves?"
"I don't know," answered Gertrude; "but it has not seemed so to me. I
think it's an excellent thing for those who do enjoy themselves."
"And how many do?"
"The greater part, I suppose."
"Pshaw! no they don't. More than half go away miserable, and nearly all
the rest dissatisfied."
"Do you think so? Now, I thought the charm of the place was seeing so
many happy faces; they have nearly all looked happy to me."
"Oh, that's all on the surface; and, if you'll notice, those who look
happy one day are wretched enough the next. Yours was one of the happy
faces yesterday, but it isn't to-day, my poor child."
Then, perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested on his arm
to tremble, while the eyes which had been raised to his suddenly fell
and hid themselves under their long lashes, he said, "However, we will
trust soon to see it as bright as ever. But they should not have brought
you here. Catskill Mountain was a fitter place for your lively
imagination and reflecting mind."
"Oh!" exclaimed Gertrude, imagining that Mr. Phillips suspected her to
be smarting under some neglect, feeling of wounded pride, or, perhaps,
serious injury, "you speak harshly; all are not selfish, all are not
unkind."
"Ah! you are young, and full of faith. Trust whom you can, and as long
as you can. _I_ trust _no one_."
"No one! Are there none, then, in the whole world whom you love and
confide in?"
"Scarcely; certainly not more than one. Whom should I trust?"
"The good, the pure, the truly great."
"And who are they? How shall we distinguish them? I tell you, my young
friend, that in my experience--and it has been rich, ay, very rich"--and
he set his teeth and spoke with bitterness--"the so-called good, the
honourable, the upright man, has proved but the varnished hypocrite, the
highly finished and polished sinner. Yes," continued he, his voice
growing deeper, his manner more excited, "I can think of one, a
respectable man, a church-member, whose injustice and cruelty made my
life what it has been--a desert, a blank, or worse than that; and I can
think of another, an old, rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a
day never passed that he did not take the name of his God in vain, yet
had at the bottom of his heart a drop of such pure, unsullied essence of
virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten thousand of your
polished rogues. Which, then, shall I trust--the good religious men, or
the low, profane, and abject ones?"
"Trust in _goodness_, wherever it be found," answered Gertrude; "but oh,
trust _all_ rather than _none_."
"Your world, your religion, draws a closer line. You are a good child,
and full of hope and charity," said Mr. Phillips, pressing her arm
closely to his side. "I will try and have faith in _you_. But see! our
friends have returned from the concert."
Alboni had excelled herself; and they were so sorry Gertrude did not go.
"But, perhaps," whispered Netta, "you have enjoyed yourself more at
home." But Gertrude, as she stood leaning unconcernedly upon Mr.
Phillips' arm, looked so innocent of confusion or embarrassment, that
her manner refuted Netta's suspicions.
"Miss Clinton was there," continued Netta, "and looked beautiful. She
had a crowd of gentlemen about her; but didn't you notice (and she
turned to Mrs. Petrancourt) that one met with such marked favour that I
wonder the rest were not discouraged. I mean that tall, handsome young
man who waited upon her into the hall and went out soon after. She
devoted herself to him while he stayed."
"The same one, was it not," asked Ellen, "who towards the close of the
concert came in and stood leaning against the wall for some minutes?"
"Yes," answered Netta; "but he only waited for Alboni to finish singing,
and then approaching Miss Clinton, whispered in her ear. After that she
got up, left her seat, and they both went off, rather to the
mortification of the other gentlemen."
"Oh, it is not strange, under the circumstances," said Mr. Petrancourt,
"that Miss Clinton should prefer a walk with Mr. Sullivan to the best
music in the world."
"Why?" asked Netta. "Is he very agreeable? Is he supposed to be the
favoured one?"
"I should think there was no doubt of it," answered Mr. Petrancourt. "I
believe it is generally thought to be an engagement. He was in Paris
with them during the spring, and they all came home in the same steamer.
Everybody knows it is the wish of Mr. Clinton's heart, and Miss Isabel
makes no secret of her preference."
"Oh, certainly," interposed Mrs. Pentracourt; "it is an understood
thing."
What became of Gertrude all this time? Could she, who for six years had
nursed the fond idea that to Willie she was, and should still continue
to be, all in all--could she stand patiently by and hear him thus
disposed of and given to another? She did do it; not consciously,
however, for her head swam round, and she would have fallen but for the
firm support of Mr. Phillips, who held her arm so tightly that, though
he felt, the rest could not see how she trembled. Fortunately, too, none
but he saw her blanched face; and, as she stood in the shadow, he alone
was watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, the
death-like pallor of her countenance.
Standing there with her heart beating, and almost believing herself in a
horrid dream, she listened, heard, and comprehended every word. She
could not, however, have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant
more accident might have betrayed her excited condition. But Mr.
Phillips acted, spoke, and moved for her, and she was spared an exposure
from which her sensitive spirit would have shrunk.
"Mr. Sullivan!" said he. "Ah! a fine fellow; I know him. Miss Gertrude,
I must tell you an anecdote about that young man;" and moving forward in
the direction in which they had been walking when they met the party
from the concert, he related that he and Mr. Sullivan were, a few years
previous, travelling across an Arabian desert, when the latter proved of
signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering tribe
of Bedouins. He stopped in his narration and perceived that all danger
of observation was passed, and without ceremony placed her in an
arm-chair just by. "Sit here," said he, "while I bring you a glass of
water." He wrapped her mantle tightly about her and walked quickly away.
Oh, how Gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus considerately leaving
her and giving her time to recover herself! It was the most judicious
thing he could have done, and the kindest. He saw that she would not
faint, and knew that left alone she would soon rally her powers.
When here returned she was perfectly calm. She tasted the water, but he
did not urge her to drink it; he knew she did not require it. "I have
kept you out too long," said he; "come, you had better go in now."
She rose; he put her arm once more through his, guided her feeble steps
to a window which opened into her and Emily's room; and then, pausing a
moment, said in a meaning tone, at the same time enforcing his words by
the fixed glance of his piercing eye, "You exhort me, Miss Gertrude, to
have faith in everybody; but I bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to
beware lest you believe too much. Where you have good foundation for
confidence, abide by it, if you can, firmly, but trust nothing which you
have not fairly tested, and rest assured that the idle gossip of a place
like this is utterly unworthy of credit. Good night." What an utter
revulsion of feeling these words occasioned Gertrude! They came to her
with all the force of a prophecy, and struck deep into her heart.
During their long and regular correspondence no letter had come from
Willie that did not breathe a devoted affection for Gertrude--an
exclusive affection, in which there could be no rivalship. All his
thoughts of home and future happy days were inseparably associated with
her; and although Mrs. Sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was
one of her characteristics, never broached the subject to Gertrude, her
whole treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the
event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. The bold
declaration on Willie's part, conveyed in the letter received by
Gertrude soon after his mother's death, that his hopes, his prayers, his
labours were now all for her, was not a more convincing proof of the
tender light in which he regarded her than all their previous
intercourse had been. Should Gertrude, then, distrust him? Should she at
once set aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence
to his prompt desertion of his early friend? No! she resolved to banish
the unworthy thought; to cherish still the firm belief that some
explanation would shortly offer itself which would yet satisfy her
aching heart.
Gertrude continued during the remainder of the evening in an elevated
frame of mind, and she was able to go back to the drawing-room for
Emily, say good night to her friends with a cheerful voice, and before
midnight she sought her pillow and went quietly to sleep. But this
calmness of mind, however, was the result of strong excitement, and
therefore could not last. The next morning she yielded to depressed
spirits, and the effort which she made to rise, dress, and go to
breakfast was almost mechanical. She excused herself from her customary
walk with the doctor, for to that she felt unequal. Her first wish was
to leave Saratoga; she longed to go home, to be in a quiet place, where
so many eyes would not be upon her; and when the doctor came in with the
letters which had arrived by the early mail, she looked at them so
eagerly that he observed it, and said, smilingly, "None for you, Gerty;
but one for Emily, which is the next best thing, I suppose."
To Gertrude this was the _very_ best thing, for it was a long-expected
letter from Mr. Graham, who had arrived at New York, and desired them to
join him there the following day. Gertrude could hardly conceal her
satisfaction, and Emily, delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting
her father, was eager to prepare for leaving.
They retired to their own room, and Gertrude's time until dinner was
occupied in packing. During the whole of the previous day she had been
anxiously hoping that Willie would make his appearance at their hotel;
now she dreaded such an event. To meet him in so public a manner, too,
as must here be inevitable, would be insupportable; she would prefer to
be in Boston when he should first recognize her; and, if she tormented
herself yesterday with the fear that he would not come, the dread that
he might do so was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day.
She was therefore relieved when, after dinner, Mr. Phillips proposed to
drive to the lake. Dr. Gryseworth and one of his daughters had agreed to
take seats in a carriage he had provided, and he hoped she would not
refuse to occupy the fourth.
At the lake Dr. Gryseworth and his daughter Ellen had been persuaded by
a party whom they had met there to engage in bowling. Mr. Phillips and
Gertrude declined taking part, and stood looking on. As they sat thus,
surveying the beautiful sheet of water, a couple approached and took up
a position near them. Mr. Phillips was screened from their observation
by the trunk of a tree, and Gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed,
yet the paleness of her face as they drew near indicated that she saw
and recognized William Sullivan and Isabel Clinton. The words which they
spoke fell distinctly upon her ear. "Shall I then be so much missed?"
asked Isabel, looking earnestly into the face of her companion, who,
with a serious air, was gazing out upon the water.
"Missed!" replied he, turning towards her and speaking in a slightly
reproachful voice; "how can it be otherwise? Who can supply your place?"
"But it will be only two days."
"A short time under ordinary circumstances," said Willie, "but an
eternity----" He here checked himself and made a sudden motion to
proceed on their walk. Isabel followed him, saying, "But you will wait
here until my return?"
He turned to reply, and this time the reproachful look of his features
was visible to Gertrude as he said, with earnestness, "Certainly; can
you doubt it?" The strange, fixed, unnatural expression of Gertrude's
countenance as she listened to this conversation, to her so deeply
fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness.
"Gertrude!" exclaimed Mr. Phillips, after watching her for a moment;
"Gertrude, for Heaven's sake do not look so! Speak, Gertrude! What is
the matter?"
But she did not turn her eyes, did not move a feature of that stony
face; she evidently did not hear him. He took her hand. It was cold as
marble. His face now wore an appearance of distress almost equal to her
own; great tears rolled down his cheeks. Once he stretched forth his
arms as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe her like a
little child, but he repressed the emotion. "Gertrude," said he, leaning
forward and fixing his eyes full upon hers, "what have these people done
to you? Why do you care for them? If that young man has injured you--the
rascal!--he shall answer for it;" and he sprung to his feet. The words
and the action brought Gertrude to herself. "No, no!" said she, "he is
not that. I am better now. Do not speak of it; don't tell," and she
looked anxiously in the direction of the bowling-alley. "I am a great
deal better;" and to his astonishment--for the fearful, rigid look upon
her face had frightened him--she rose with composure and proposed going
home.
He accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way up the hill,
where they had left the carriage, they were overtaken by the rest of
their party, driving toward Saratoga. During the whole drive and the
evening which followed Gertrude preserved this same unnatural composure.
Once or twice before they reached the hotel Dr. Gryseworth asked her if
she felt ill. The very tones of her voice were constrained--so much so
that Emily asked, "What is the matter, my dear child?"
But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the duties of
the evening, bidding farewell to many of her friends, and arranged with
the Gryseworths to see them in the morning.
Emily was the more troubled of the two, for she could not be deceived,
and reflected back, in her whole demeanour, the better concealed
sufferings of Gertrude. Gertrude neither knew at the time, nor could
afterwards recall, one-half the occurrences of that evening. She never
could understand what it was that sustained her and enabled her, half
unconsciously, to perform her part in them. How she so successfully
concealed her misery she never could comprehend or explain.
That Willie was faithless to his first love she could not doubt; and
with this conviction she realised that the stay of her life had fallen.
Uncle True and Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was
still a dear and steadfast friend; but all of these had been more or
less dependent upon Gertrude, and although she could ever repose in the
assurance of their love, two had, long before they passed away, come to
lean wholly upon her youthful arm; and the other trusted to her to guide
her uncertain steps, but those steps were tending downwards to the
grave. Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lean? To whom could she with
confidence turn for counsel, protection, support, and love? To whom but
Willie? And Willie had given his heart to another--and Gertrude would
soon be left alone! No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted
weep, wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself
sick, faint, and exhausted. And then she thought she heard voices, as in
her childhood, whispering, "Gerty!--Gerty!--poor little Gerty!" She sank
upon her knees, her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the sweet
resignation of her countenance gave evidence that in her prayer to God
her soul held deep communion with its Maker, and once more her spirit
was uttering the simple words, "Here am I, Lord!"
Oh, blessed religion, which can sustain the heart in such an hour as
this! Oh, blessed faith and trust which, when earthly support fails us,
and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, lifts the soul
above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its God!
And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and sees Emily,
whom she believed to be asleep, but from whom anxiety and the sobs of
Gertrude banished slumber, is standing by her side.
"Gertrude," said she, "are you in trouble, and did you seek to hide it
from me? Do not turn from me, Gertrude!" and, throwing her arms around
her, she drew her head close to her bosom, and whispered, "Tell me all,
my darling! What is the matter with my poor child?"
And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to her the only
secret she had ever kept from her; and Emily wept as she listened, and
when Gertrude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart,
exclaiming with an excitement which Gertrude had never before witnessed
in the usually placid blind girl, "Strange, strange, that you, too,
should be thus doomed! Oh, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep
together; but still, believe me, your sorrow is less bitter than mine!"
And then in the darkness of that midnight hour was Gertrude's confidence
rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and woe which twenty
years before had blighted Emily's youth, and which was still vivid to
her recollection casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her
blindness was but a single feature.