THE LONG LOOKED-FOR RETURNED.
"Miss Gertrude," said Mrs. Prime, opening the parlour-door, putting her
head cautiously in, looking round, and then advancing with a stealthy
pace--"my! how busy you are! Lor's sakes alive, if you an't rippin' up
them great curtains of Mrs. Graham's for the wash! I wouldn't be
botherin' with 'em, Miss Gertrude; she won't be here this fortnight, and
Mrs. Ellis will have time enough."
"Oh, I have nothing else to do, Mrs. Prime; it's no trouble." Then,
looking up pleasantly at the old cook, she added, "It seems very cosy
for us all to be at home--doesn't it?"
"It seems beautiful!" answered Mrs. Prime; "and I can't help thinking
how nice it would be if we could all live on jist as we are now, without
no more intrusions."
Gertrude smiled and said, "Everything looks as it used to in old times,
when I first came here. I was quite a child then," continued she, with a
sigh.
"Gracious me! What are you now?" said Mrs. Prime. "For mercy's sake,
Miss Gertrude, don't you begin to think about growin' old. There's
nothin' like feelin' young to keep young. There's Miss Patty Pace,
now----"
"I have been meaning to ask after her," exclaimed Gertrude; "is she
alive and well yet?"
"She!" replied Mrs. Prime; "Lor', she won't never die! Old women like
her, that feel themselves young gals, allers live for ever; but the
baker's boy that fetched the loaves this mornin' brought an arrant from
her, and she wants to see you the first chance; but I wouldn't hurry
either about goin' there or anywhere, Miss Gertrude, till I got rested;
for you an't well, you look so kind o' tired out."
"Did she wish to see me?" asked Gertrude. "Poor old thing! I'll go and
see her this very afternoon; and you needn't feel anxious about me, Mrs.
Prime--I am quite well."
Gertrude went. She found Miss Patty nearly bent double with rheumatism,
dressed with less than her usual care, and crouching over a miserable
fire. She was in tolerable spirits, and hailed Gertrude's entrance by a
cordial greeting. Innumerable were the questions she put to Gertrude
regarding her own personal experiences during the past year.
"So you have not yet chosen a companion," said she, after Gertrude had
responded to all her queries. "That is a circumstance to be regretted.
Not," continued she, with a little smirk, "that it is ever too late in
life for one to meditate the conjugal tie, which is often assumed with
advantage by persons of fifty or more; and certainly you, who are still
in the bloom of your days, need not despair of a youthful swain.
Existence is twofold when it is shared with a congenial partner; and I
had hoped that before now, Miss Gertrude, both you and myself would have
formed such an alliance; for the protection of the matrimonial union is
one of its greatest advantages."
"I hope you have not suffered from the want of it," said Gertrude.
"I have, Miss Gertrude, suffered incalculably. But the keenest pangs
have been the sensibilities; yes, the sensibilities--the finest part of
our nature, and that which will least bear wounding."
"I am sorry to hear that you have been thus grieved," said Gertrude. "I
should have supposed that, living alone, you might have been spared this
trial."
"Oh, Miss Gertrude!" exclaimed the old lady, lifting up both hands, and
speaking in a pitiable tone--"Oh, that I had the wings of a dove,
wherewith to fly away from my kindred! I fondly thought to have
distanced them, but during the past year they have discovered my
retreat, and I cannot elude their vigilance. Hardly can I recover from
the shock of one visitation--made for the sole purpose of taking an
inventory of my possessions and measuring the length of my days--before
the vultures are again seen hovering round my dwelling. But," exclaimed
she, raising her voice and chuckling as she spoke, "they shall fall into
their own snare; for I will dupe every one of them yet!"
"I was not aware that you had any relations," said Gertrude; "and it
seems they are such only in name."
"Name!" said Miss Pace, emphatically. "I am glad at the thought that
they are not honoured with a cognomen which not one of them is worthy to
bear. No, they pass by a different name--a name as plebeian as their own
coarse souls. Three of them stand to each other in a fraternal relation,
yet they are alike hateful to me. One, a contemptible coxcomb, comes
here to overawe me with his presence, which he conceives to be imposing;
calls me aunt--aunt; thus testifying by his speech to a consanguinity
which he blindly fancies makes him nearer akin to my property!" The old
lady almost shrieked the last word. "And the other two are beggars!
always were--always will be; let 'em be--I'm glad of it!"
"You hear me, Miss Gertrude; you are a young lady of quick
comprehension, and I will avail myself of your contiguity, which,
although you deny the charge, may shortly be interrupted by some eager
lover, to request at your hands a favour, such as I little thought once
I should ever feel compelled to seek. I sent for you to write (Miss
Patty whispered) the last will and testament of Miss Patty Pace."
The poor woman's trembling voice evinced a deep compassion for herself,
which Gertrude could not help sharing; and she expressed a willingness
to comply with her wishes as far as was in her power, at the same time
declaring her utter ignorance of all the forms of law.
To Gertrude's astonishment, Miss Patty announced a perfect acquaintance
with all the legal knowledge which the case demanded; and in so complete
a manner did she dictate the words of the important instrument that,
being afterwards properly witnessed, signed, and sealed, it was found in
a few months--at which time Miss Patty died--free from imperfection and
flaw, and proved a satisfactory direction for the disposal of the
inheritance.
It may be as well to state here, however, that he who was pronounced
sole heir to the valuable property never availed himself of the
bequest, otherwise than to make a careful bestowal of it among her
relatives. The solo inheritor of her estate was William Sullivan, the
knight of the rosy countenance, who with chivalrous spirit captivated
Miss Patty's virgin heart, and gained her lasting favour. But that
chivalrous spirit accepted not a reward so disproportioned to the slight
service he had rendered the old lady.
Gertrude found it no easy task to gather and transfix in writing the
exact idea which the old woman's rambling dictation was intended to
convey; and it was two or three hours before the manuscript was
completed.
The sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain began to fall, as she walked
home; but the distance was not great, and the only damage she sustained
was a slight dampness to her garments. Emily perceived it, and said,
"Your dress is quite wet, you must sit by the parlour fire. I shall not
go down until tea-time, but father is there, and will be glad of your
company; he has been alone all the afternoon."
Gertrude found Mr. Graham sitting in front of a pleasant wood fire,
half-dozing, half-reading. She took a book and a low chair and joined
him. But to avoid the heat she went to the sofa. Soon there was a ring
at the front door bell. The housemaid, who was passing by the door,
opened it, and immediately ushered in a visitor. It was Willie!
Gertrude rose, but trembling from head to foot, so that she dared not
trust herself to take a step forward. Willie advanced to the centre of
the room, looked at Gertrude, bowed, hesitated, and said, "Miss
Flint!--is she here?" The colour rushed into Gertrude's face. She
attempted to speak, but failed. It was not necessary. The blush was
enough. Willie recognised her, and starting forward, eagerly seized her
hand.
"Gerty! is it possible?"
The perfect naturalness and ease of his manner, the warmth with which he
took and retained her hand, reassured the agitated girl. The spell
seemed partially removed. For a moment he became in her eyes the Willie
of old, her dear friend and playmate, and she found voice to exclaim,
"Oh, Willie, you have come at last! I am so glad to see you!" The sound
of their voices disturbed Mr. Graham, who had fallen into a nap. He
turned round in his easy chair, then rose. Willie dropped Gertrude's
hand and stepped towards him. "Mr. Sullivan," said Gertrude, with a
feeble attempt at a suitable introduction.
They shook hands, and then all three sat down.
And now all Gertrude's embarrassment returned. It is often the case that
when the best of friends meet after a long separation they salute or
embrace each other, and then, notwithstanding the weight of matter
pressing on the mind of each--sufficient, perhaps, to furnish subjects
of conversation for weeks to come--nothing of importance presents itself
at once, and a pause ensues, which is finally filled up by some trivial
question concerning the journey of the newly-arrived party. She had seen
Willie before; she was aware of his arrival; knew even the steamer in
which he had come; but was anxious to conceal from him this knowledge.
She could not tell him, since he seemed so ignorant of the fact himself,
that they had met before; and she was at an utter loss what to do or say
under the circumstances. Her embarrassment soon communicated itself to
Willie; and Mr. Graham's presence, which was a restraint to both, made
matters worse. Willie, however, first broke the momentary silence.
"I should hardly have known you, Gertrude. I did not know you. How----"
"How did you come?" asked Mr. Graham, abruptly, apparently unconscious
that he was interrupting Willie's remark.
"In the _Europa_," replied Willie. "She got into New York about a week
ago."
"Out here, I mean," said Mr. Graham, rather stiffly. "Did you come out
in the coach?"
"Oh, excuse me, sir," replied Willie; "I misunderstood you. No, I drove
out from Boston in a chaise."
"Did anyone take your horse?"
"I fastened him in front of the house."
Willie glanced out of the window (it was now nearly dusk) to see that
the animal was still there. Mr. Graham settled himself in his easy chair
and looked into the fire. "You are changed, too," said Gertrude, in
reply to Willie's unfinished comment. Then, fearing he might feel hurt
at what he must know to be true in more ways than one, the colour which
had retreated mounted once more to her cheeks. But he did not seem to
feel hurt, but replied, "Yes, an Eastern climate makes great changes;
but I think I can hardly have altered more than you have. Why, only
think, Gerty, you were a child when I went away! I suppose I must have
known I should find you a young lady, but I begin to think I never fully
realised it."
"When did you leave Calcutta?"
"The latter part of February. I passed the spring months in Paris."
"You did not write," said Gertrude in a faltering voice.
"No, I was expecting to come across by every steamer, and wanted to
surprise you."
Gertrude looked confused, but replied, "I was disappointed about the
letters; but I am very glad to see you again, Willie."
"You can't be so glad as I am," said he, lowering his voice and looking
at her with great tenderness. "You seem more and more like yourself to
me every minute that I see you. I begin to think, however, that I ought
to have written and told you I was coming."
Gertrude smiled. Willie's manner was so unchanged, his words so
affectionate, that it seemed unkind to doubt his friendliness, although
to his undivided love she felt she could have no claim. "No," said she,
"I like surprises. Don't you remember, I always did?"
"Remember? Certainly," replied he; "I have never forgotten anything that
you liked."
Just at this moment Gertrude's birds, whose cage hung in the window at
which Willie sat, commenced a little twittering noise which they always
made just at night. He looked up. "Your birds," said Gertrude; "the
birds you sent me."
"Are they all alive and well?" asked he.
"Yes, all of them."
"You have been a kind mistress to the little things. They are very
tender."
"I am very fond of them."
"You take such care of those you love, dear Gerty, that you are sure to
preserve their lives as long as may be." His tone still more than his
words betrayed the deep meaning with which he spoke. Gertrude was
silent.
"Is Miss Graham well?" asked Willie.
Gertrude related, in reply, that her nerves had been recently much
disturbed by the terrible experiences through which she had passed; and
this led to the subject of the recent disaster, at which Gertrude
forebore to mention her having been herself present. Willie spoke with
feeling of the sad catastrophe, and with severity of the reckless
carelessness which had been the cause of it; and said that he had valued
friends on board the boat, but was unaware that Miss Graham, whom he
loved for Gertrude's sake, was among them.
Conversation between Gertrude and Willie had by this time assumed
something of their former familiarity. He had taken a seat near her on
the sofa, that they might talk unrestrainedly; for although Mr. Graham
might have dropped asleep again, yet it was not easy to forget his
presence. There were many subjects on which it would have seemed natural
for them to speak, had not Gertrude avoided them. The causes of Willie's
sudden return, his probable stay, his future plans in life, and his
reasons for having postponed his visit until he had been in the country
more than a week--all these were inquiries which curiosity would have
suggested; but to Gertrude they all lay under embargo. She neither felt
prepared to receive nor willing to force the confidence on matters which
must be influenced by his engagement with Miss Clinton, and therefore
preserved silence on these topics. And Willie, deeply grieved at this
strange want of sympathy on her part, forebore to thrust upon her notice
these seemingly neglected circumstances.
They talked of Calcutta life, of Parisian novelties, of Gertrude's
school-keeping, and many other things, but not a word of matters nearest
to the hearts of both. At length a servant announced tea. Mr. Graham
rose and stood with his back to the fire. Willie rose also and prepared
to take leave. Mr. Graham, with frigid civility, invited him to remain,
and Gertrude urged him to do so; but he declined with such decision that
the latter understood that he felt the neglect with which Mr. Graham had
treated him and his visit. In addition to the fact that the old
gentleman disliked young men as a class, and that Willie had intruded
upon the privacy in which he was indulging, there was the bitter
recollection that Gertrude had once forsaken himself and Emily (for so
he in his own mind styled her conscientious choice between conflicting
duties) for the very family of which their visitor was the only
remaining member--a recollection which did not tend to conciliate the
prejudiced man.
Gertrude accompanied Willie to the door. The rain had ceased, but the
wind whistled across the piazza. It was growing cold. Willie buttoned
his coat, and promised to see Gertrude on the following day.
"You have no overcoat," said she; "the night is chilly, and you are
accustomed to a hot climate. You had better take this shawl;" and she
took from the hat-tree a heavy Scotch plaid. He thanked her and threw it
over his arm; then, taking both her hands in his, looked her steadily in
the face for a moment, as if he would fain have spoken. But, seeing that
she shrank from his affectionate gaze, he dropped her hands and, with a
troubled expression, bade her good-night.
Gertrude stood with the handle of the door in her hand until she heard
the sounds of the horse's hoofs as he drove down the road; then retired
to her own room. Well as she had borne up during the longed-for yet
much-dreaded meeting, calmly as she had sustained her part, her courage
all forsook her now, and in looking forward to days, weeks, and months
of frequent intercourse, she felt that the most trying part of the
struggle was yet to come.
Had Willie changed to her? No; he had come back as he went--generous,
manly, and affectionate. He had manifested the same unaffected warmth of
feeling, the same thoughtful tenderness, he had ever shown. In short, he
was the Willie she had thought of, dreamed of, imagined, and loved.
There was a light tap at her door. Thinking it a summons to the
tea-table, she said, "Jane, I do not wish for any supper."
"It isn't that," said the girl; "but I have brought you a letter."
Gertrude sprang up and opened the door.
"A little boy handed it to me and then ran off," said the girl, placing
a large package in her hand. "He told me to give it to you straight
away."
"Bring me a light," said Gertrude.
The girl went for a lamp, while Gertrude wondered what a package so
large could contain. She thought no letter could so soon arrive from Mr.
Amory. While she was wondering, Jane brought a lamp, by the light of
which she detected his handwriting; and, breaking the seal, she drew
from the envelope several closely-written pages, whose contents she
perused with the greatest eagerness and excitement.