TIES--NOT OF EARTH.
In a private room of one of those first-class hotels in which New York
city abounds, Phillip Amory sat alone. It was evening, the curtains were
drawn, the gas-lamps burning brightly and giving a cheerful glow to the
room, the comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly with the
pale countenance and desponding attitude of its solitary inmate, who
leaned upon a table in the centre of the apartment. He had thus sat for
nearly an hour without once moving or looking up. Suddenly he started
up, straightened his commanding figure to its full height, and slowly
paced the room. A slight knock at the door arrested his steps; a look of
annoyance overspread his countenance; he again flung himself into his
chair, and, in reply to the servant's announcing, "A gentleman, sir,"
was preparing to say, "I cannot be interrupted"--but it was too late;
the visitor had advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly
closed and repeated.
The new-comer--a young man--stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but
checked himself, abashed at the coldness of the reception by his host.
"Excuse me, Mr. Phillips," said William Sullivan, for it was he; "I fear
my visit is an intrusion."
"Do not speak of it," replied Mr. Amory. "I beg you to be seated;"
politely handing a chair.
Willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to lean
lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing. "You
have changed, sir," continued he, "since I last saw you."
"Changed! Yes, I am," said the other, absently.
"Your health, I fear, is not----"
"My health is excellent," said Mr. Amory, interrupting his remark. "It
is a long time, sir, since we met. I have not yet forgotten the debt I
owe you for your timely interference between me and Ali, that Arab
traitor, with his rascally army of Bedouin rogues."
"Do not name it, sir," said Willie. "Our meeting was fortunate; but the
benefit was as mutual as the danger to which we were alike exposed."
"I cannot think so. You seemed to have a most excellent understanding
with your own party of guides and attendants, Arabs though they were."
"True; I have had some experience in Eastern travel, and know how to
manage those inflammable spirits of the desert. But at the time I joined
you, I was myself entering the neighbourhood of hostile tribes, and
might soon have found our party overawed but for having joined forces
with yourself."
"You set but a modest value upon your conciliatory powers, young man. To
you, who are so well acquainted with the facts in the case, I can hardly
claim the merit of frankness for the acknowledgment that it was only my
own hot temper and stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent
danger which you were fortunately able to avert. No, no! I must once
more express my gratitude for your invaluable aid."
"You are making my visit, sir," said Willie, smiling, "the very reverse
of what it was intended to be. I did not come here this evening to
receive but to render thanks."
"For what, sir?" asked Mr. Amory, abruptly, almost roughly. "You owe me
nothing."
"The friends of Isabella Clinton, sir, owe you a debt of gratitude which
it will be impossible for them ever to repay."
"You are mistaken, Mr. Sullivan; I have done nothing which places that
young lady's friends under a particle of obligation to me."
"Did you not save her life?"
"Yes; but nothing was further from my intention."
Willie smiled. "It could have been no accident, I think, which led you
to risk your own life to rescue a fellow-passenger."
"It was no accident which led to Miss Clinton's safety from destruction.
I am convinced of that. But you must not thank _me_; it is due to
another than myself that she does not now sleep in death."
"May I ask to whom you refer?"
"I refer to a dear and noble girl, to whom I swam in that burning wreck
to save. Her veil had been agreed upon as a signal between us. That
veil, carefully thrown over the head of Miss Clinton, whom I found
clinging to the spot assigned to--to her whom I was seeking, deceived
me, and I bore in safety to the shore the burden which I had ignorantly
seized from the gaping waters, leaving my own darling, who had offered
her life as a sacrifice to----"
"Oh, not to die!" exclaimed Willie.
"No; to be saved by a miracle. Go thank her for Miss Clinton's life."
"I thank God," said Willie, with fervour, "that the horrors of such
scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like that."
The stern countenance of Mr. Amory softened as he listened to the young
man's enthusiastic outburst of admiration at Gertrude's noble
self-devotion.
"Who is she? Where is she?" continued Willie.
"Ask me not!" replied Mr. Amory, with a gesture of impatience; "I cannot
tell you if I would. I have not seen her since that ill-fated day."
His manner seemed to intimate an unwillingness to enter into further
explanation regarding Isabel's rescue, and Willie, perceiving it, stood
for a moment silent and irresolute. Then advancing nearer, he said,
"Though you so utterly disclaim, Mr. Phillips, any participation in Miss
Clinton's escape, I feel that my errand would be but imperfectly
fulfilled if I should fail to deliver the message which I bring to one
who was the final means if not the original cause of her safety. Mr.
Clinton, the young lady's father, desired me to tell you that, in saving
the life of his only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but
herself had an early death, you have prolonged his life, and rendered
him grateful to that degree which words on his part are powerless to
express; but that, as long as his feeble life is spared, he shall never
cease to bless your name and pray to heaven for its choicest gifts upon
you and those who dwell next your heart."
There was a slight moisture in the penetrating eye of Mr. Amory, but a
courteous smile upon his lip, as he said, "All this from Mr. Clinton!
Very gentlemanly, and equally sincere, I doubt not; but you surely do
not mean to thank me wholly in his name, my young friend. Have you
nothing to say for your own sake?"
Willie looked surprised, but replied, unhesitatingly, "Certainly, sir;
as one of a large circle of acquaintances and friends whom Miss Clinton
honours with her regard, my admiration and gratitude for your
disinterested exertions are unbounded; and not only on her account, but
on that of whom you nobly rescued from a most terrible death."
"Am I to understand that you speak only as a friend of humanity, and
that you felt no personal interest in any of my fellow-passengers?"
"I was unacquainted with nearly all of them. Miss Clinton was the only
one I had known for any greater length of time than during two or three
days of Saratoga intercourse; but I should have mourned her death, since
I was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have
lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her father, my
respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who is now much
enfeebled in health, could hardly have survived so severe a shock as the
loss of an only child, whom he idolises."
"You speak very coolly, Mr. Sullivan. Are you aware that the prevailing
belief gives you credit for feeling more than a mere friendly interest
in Miss Clinton?" The dilating of Willie's eyes, as he fixed them
inquiringly upon Mr. Amory--the half-scrutinising expression of his
face, as he seated himself in the chair, were sufficient evidence of the
effect of the question unexpectedly put to him. "Sir," said he, "I
either misunderstood you, or the prevailing belief is a most mistaken
one."
"Then you never before heard of your own engagement."
"Never, I assure you. Is it possible that so idle a report has obtained
an extensive circulation among Miss Clinton's friends!"
"Sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of Saratoga life, to
hear it whispered from ear to ear, as a fact worthy of credit."
"I am surprised and vexed at what you tell me," said Willie.
"Nonsensical and false as such a rumour is, it will, if it should reach
Miss Clinton, be a source of annoyance to her; and on that account, I
regret the circumstances which have probably given rise to it."
"Do you refer to considerations of delicacy on the lady's part, or have
you the modesty to believe that her pride would be wounded by having her
name thus coupled with that of her father's junior partner, a young man
hitherto unknown to fashionable circles? But, excuse me; perhaps I am
stepping on dangerous ground."
"By no means, sir; you wrong me if you believe my pride to be of such a
nature. But I have not only reference to both the motives you name, but
to many others, when I assert my opinion of the resentment Miss Clinton
would probably cherish if your remarks should reach her ears."
"Mr. Sullivan," said Mr. Amory, "are you sure you are not standing in
your own light? Are you aware that undue modesty with false notions of
refinement has oft prevented many a man's good fortune, and is likely to
interfere with your own?"
"How so, sir? You speak in riddles, and I am ignorant of your meaning."
"Handsome young fellows, like you, can often command any amount of
property for the asking; but many such chances rarely occur to one
individual; and the world will laugh at you if you waste so fair an
opportunity as you now have."
"Opportunity for what? You surely do not mean to advise me----"
"I do, though. I am older than you are, and I know something of the
world. A fortune is not made in a day, nor is money to be despised. Mr.
Clinton's life is almost worn out in toiling after that wealth which
will soon be the inheritance of his daughter. She is young, beautiful,
and the pride of that high circle in which she moves. Both father and
daughter smile upon you; you need not look disconcerted--I speak as
between friends, and you know the truth of that which strangers have
observed, and which I have frequently heard mentioned as beyond doubt.
Why do you hesitate!"
"Mr. Phillips," said Willie, with embarrassment, "the comments of mere
casual acquaintances, such as most of those with whom Miss Clinton
associated in Saratoga, are not to be depended upon. The relations in
which I stand towards Mr. Clinton have been such as to draw me into
constant intercourse with himself and his daughter. He is almost without
relatives, has scarcely any trustworthy friend at command, and therefore
appears to the world more favourably disposed towards me than would be
found to be the case should I aspire to his daughter's hand. The lady,
too, has so many admirers, that it would be vanity in me to believe----"
"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed Mr. Phillips, "tell that, Sullivan, to a greater
novice, a more unsophisticated individual, than I am! It is very
becoming in you to say so; but a few reminders will hardly harm a youth
who has such a low opinion of his own merits. Pray, who was the
gentleman for whose society Miss Clinton was, a few nights since, so
ready to forego the music of Alboni, the crowded hall, and the smiles of
a train of adorers?"
Willie said, "I remember!--That, then, was one of the causes of
suspicion. I was then a messenger merely, to summon Miss Isabel to the
bedside of her father, by whom I had been watching for hours, and who,
on awakening from a lethargic sleep, which alarmed the physician,
eagerly inquired for his daughter, that I did not hesitate to interrupt
the pleasure of the evening and call her to the post of duty in the
cottage occupied by Mr. Clinton, at the extremity of the grounds, to
which I accompanied her by moonlight."
Mr. Amory laughed, cast upon Willie that look of benignity which became
his fine countenance, and exclaimed, "So much for watering-place gossip!
I must forbear speaking of any further evidences of a tender interest
manifested by either of you. But believe, dear Sullivan, that though the
young lady's heart be still, like her fortune, in the united keeping of
herself and her father, there is nothing easier than for you to win and
claim them both. You possess business talent indispensable to the elder
party; if, with your handsome face, figure, and accomplishments, you
cannot render yourself equally so to the younger, there is no one to
blame but yourself."
Willie laughed. "If I had that object in view, I know of no one to whom
I would so soon come for encouragement as to you, sir; but the
flattering prospect you hold out is quite wasted upon me."
Mr. Amory said, "I cannot believe you will be so foolish as to neglect
the opportunity of taking that stand in life to which your education and
qualities entitle you. Your father was a respectable clergyman; you
profited by every advantage in your youth, and have done yourself such
credit in India as would enable you, with plenty of capital at command,
to take the lead in a few years among mercantile men. A man just
returned from a long residence abroad is thought to be an easy prey to
the charms of the first of his fair countrywomen into whose society he
may be thrown; and it can scarcely be wondered at, if you are subdued by
such winning attractions as are rarely to be met with in this land of
beautiful women. Nor can it be possible that you have for six years
toiled beneath an Indian sun without learning to appreciate the
looked-for but happy termination of your toils, whose crowning blessing
will be the possession of your beautiful bride."
"Mr. Phillips," said Willie, speaking with decision and energy, which
proved how heart-felt were the words he uttered, "I have not spent many
of the best years of my life toiling beneath a burning sun, and in exile
from all that I held most dear, without being sustained by high hopes,
aims, and aspirations. But you misjudge me greatly if you believe that
the ambition that has spurred me on can find its gratification in those
rewards which you have so vividly presented to my imagination. No, sir!
believe me, I aspire to something higher yet, and should think my best
efforts wasted if my hopes tended not to a still more glorious good."
"And to what quarter do you look for the fulfilment of such prospects?"
asked Mr. Amory.
"Not to the gay circles of fashion," replied Willie, "nor yet to that
moneyed aristocracy which awards to each man his position in life. I do
not depreciate an honourable standing in the eyes of my fellow-men; I am
not blind to the advantages of wealth, or to the claims of grace and
beauty; but these were not the things for which I left my home, and it
is not to claim them that I have returned. Young as I am, I have seen
enough of trial to believe that the only blessings worth striving for
are something more enduring, more satisfying, than precarious wealth or
fleeting smiles."
"To what, then, I ask, do you look forward?"
"To a _home_, and that not so much for myself as for another, with whom
I hope to share it. A year since"--and Willie's lip trembled, his voice
faltered--"there were others, besides that dear one whose image now
fills my heart, whom I had fondly hoped, and should have rejoiced, to
see reaping the fruits of my exertions. But we were not permitted to
meet again; and now--but pardon me, sir; I would not trouble you with my
private affairs."
"Go on," said Mr. Amory; "I deserve some confidence in return for the
disinterested advice I have been giving you. Speak to me as to an old
friend; I am much interested in what you say."
"It is long since I have spoken freely of myself," said Willie, "but
frankness is natural to me, and, since you profess a desire to learn
something of my aim in life, I know of no motive I have for reserve or
concealment. But my position, sir, even as a child, was singular; and
excuse me if I briefly refer to it. I could not have been more than
twelve or fourteen years of age when I began to realise the necessity
which rested upon me. My widowed mother and her aged father were the
only relatives I knew. One was feeble, delicate, and unequal to active
exertion; the other was old and poor, being wholly dependent upon a
small salary for officiating as sexton of a neighbouring church. Yet in
spite of these circumstances they maintained me for several years in
comfort and decency, and gave me an excellent education.
"At an age when kites and marbles are so engrossing, I had an earnest
desire to relieve my mother and grandfather of a part of their care and
labour; and I obtained a situation, in which I was well treated and well
paid, and which I retained until the death of my excellent master. Then,
for a time, I felt bitterly the want of employment, and became
despondent; a state of mind which was fostered by constant association
with my desponding grandfather, who, having met with great
disappointment in life, encouraged me not, but was ever hinting at the
probability of my failing in every scheme for advancement.
"I have since thought his doubtings answered a good purpose; for nothing
so urged me on to efforts as the desire to prove the mistaken nature of
his gloomy predictions, and few things have given me more satisfaction
than the assurances I have received during the past few years that he
came at last to a full conviction that my prosperity was established,
and that one of his ill-fated family was destined to escape the trials
of poverty.
"My mother was a quiet, gentle woman, small in person, with great
simplicity, and some reserve of manner. She loved me like her own soul;
she taught me everything I know of goodness; there is no sacrifice I
would not have made for her happiness. I would have died to save her
life; but we shall never meet again in this world, and I--I--am learning
to be resigned.
"For these two, and one other, whom I shall speak of presently, I was
ready to go away, and strive, and suffer, and be patient. The
opportunity came and I embraced it. And soon one great object of my
ambition was won; I was able to earn a competency for myself and for
them. And I began to look forward to a day when my long looked-for
return should render our happiness complete. I little thought then that
the sad tidings of my grandfather's death were on their way, and the
news of my mother's slow but sure decline so soon to follow. But they
are both gone; and I should now be so solitary as almost to long to
follow them but for one other, whose love will bind me to earth so long
as she is spared."
"And she?" exclaimed Mr. Amory, with an eagerness which Willie,
engrossed with his own thoughts, did not observe.
"Is a young girl," continued Willie, "without family, wealth, or beauty;
but with a spirit so elevated as to make her great--a heart so noble as
to make her rich--a soul so pure as to make her beautiful."
Mr. Amory's fixed attention, his evident waiting to hear more,
emboldened Willie to add: "There lived in the same house which my
grandfather occupied an old man, a city lamplighter. He was poorer even
than we were, but there never was a better or a kinder-hearted person in
the world. One evening, when engaged in his round of duty, he picked up
and brought home a little ragged child, whom a cruel woman had thrust
into the street to perish with cold, or die a more lingering death in
the almshouse; for nothing but such devoted care as she received from my
mother and Uncle True (so we always called our old friend) could have
saved the half-starved creature from the consequences of long exposure
and ill-treatment. Through their unwearied watching and efforts she was
spared, to repay in after years more than all the love bestowed upon
her. She was then miserably thin, and plain in her appearance, besides
being possessed of a violent temper, which she had never been taught to
restrain, and a stubbornness which resulted from her having long lived
in opposition to all the world.
"All this, however, did not repel Uncle True, under whose loving
influence new virtues and capacities soon began to manifest themselves.
In the atmosphere of love in which she now lived she soon became a
changed being; and when, in addition to the example and precepts taught
her at home, a divine light was shed upon her life by one who, herself
sitting in darkness, casts a halo forth from her own spirit to illumine
those of all who are blessed with her presence, she became, what she has
ever since been, a being to love and to trust for a lifetime. For
myself, there were no bounds to the affection I soon came to cherish for
the little girl, to whom I was first attracted by compassion merely.
"We were constantly together; we had no thoughts, no studies, no
pleasures, sorrows, or interests that were not shared. I was her
teacher, her protector, the partner of all her childish amusements; and
she was by turns an advising and sympathising friend. In this latter
character she was indispensable to me, for she had a hopeful nature, and
a buoyancy of spirit which imparted itself to me. I well remember when
my kind employer died, and I was plunged in grief and despair, the
confidence and energy with which she, then very young, inspired me. The
relation between her and Uncle True was beautiful. Boy as I was I could
not but view with admiration the old man's devoted love for the adopted
darling of his latter years (his birdie, as he always called her), and
the grateful affection which she bore him in return.
"During the first few years she was wholly dependent upon him, and
seemed only a fond, affectionate child; but a time came at last when the
case was reversed, and the old man, stricken with disease, became infirm
and helpless. It was then that the beauty of her woman's nature shone
forth triumphant; and, oh! how gently, child as she was, she guided his
steps as he descended to the grave. Often have I gone to his room at
midnight, fearing lest he might be in need of care which she in her
youth and inexperience would be unable to render; and never shall I
forget the little figure seated calmly by his bedside, at an hour when
many of her years would be shrinking from fears conjured up by the night
and the darkness, with a lamp dimly burning on a table before her, and
she herself, with his hand in hers, sweetly soothing his wakefulness by
her loving words, or with her eyes bent upon her little Bible, reading
to him holy lessons. But all her care could not prolong his life; and
just before I went to India he died, blessing God for the peace imparted
to him through his gentle nurse.
"It was my task to soothe our little Gerty's sorrows, and do what I
could to comfort her, an office which, before I left the country, I was
rejoiced to transfer to the willing hands of the excellent blind lady
who had long befriended both her and Uncle True. Before I went away, I
solemnly committed to Gerty, who had in one instance proved herself both
willing and able, the care of my mother and grandfather. She promised to
be faithful to her trust; and nobly was that promise kept. In spite of
the unkindness and deep displeasure of Mr. Graham (the blind lady's
father), upon whose bounty she had for a long time been dependent, she
devoted herself heart and hand to the fulfilment of duties which in her
eyes were sacred and holy. In spite of suffering, labour, watching, and
privation, she voluntarily forsook ease and pleasure, and spent day and
night in the patient service of friends whom she loved with a greater
love than a daughter's, for it was that of a saint."