THE RECOMPENSE.
When Uncle True died, Mr. Cooper buried his old friend in the ancient
graveyard which adjoined the church where he had long officiated as
sexton. But long before the time-worn building gave place to a modern
structure the hallowed remains of Uncle True had found a quieter
resting-place--even a beautiful piece of undulating woodland in the
neighbourhood of Mr. Graham's country residence, which had been
consecrated as a rural cemetery; and in the loveliest nook of this
beautiful spot the ashes of the good old lamplighter found their final
repose.
This lot of land, which had been purchased by Willie's liberality,
selected by Gertrude, and by her made fragrant with summer rose and
winter ivy, now enclosed also the forms of Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Sullivan;
and over these three graves Gertrude had planted many a flower and
watered it with her tears. Especially did she view it as a sacred duty
and privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute
of fresh garlands; and, with this pious purpose in view, she left Mr.
Graham's house one beautiful afternoon about a week after the events
narrated in the previous chapter.
She carried on her arm a basket, containing her offering of flowers;
and, as she had a long walk before her, started at a rapid pace. Let us
follow her, and briefly pursue the train of thought which accompanied
her on her way. She had left her father with Emily. She would not ask
him to join her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to
visit the grave of Uncle True, for he and Emily were talking together so
contentedly, it would have been a pity to disturb them; and Gertrude's
reflections were engrossed by the thought of their tranquil happiness.
She thought of herself, too, as associated with them both; of the deep
and long-tried love of Emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection
daily and hourly lavished upon her by her newly-found parent, and felt
that she could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a
lifetime.
She tried to banish the remembrance of Willie's faithlessness and
desertion. But the painful recollection presented itself continually,
notwithstanding her utmost efforts to repress it; and at last, ceasing
the struggle, she gave herself up for the time to a deep and saddening
reverie. She had received two visits from Willie since the first; but
the second meeting had been in its character very similar, and on the
succeeding occasion the constraint had increased instead of diminishing.
Several times Willie had made an effort to speak and act with the
freedom of former days; but a sudden blush, or sign of confusion and
distress, on Gertrude's part, deterred him from any further attempt to
put to flight the reserve which subsisted in their intercourse. Again,
Gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him with
frankness, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered her
hand with such sisterly freedom, that he was emboldened to take and
retain in his grasp, and was on the point of unburdening his mind of
some weighty secret, when she turned abruptly away, took up some trivial
piece of work, and while she seemed absorbed in it, addressed to him an
unimportant question--a course of conduct which disconcerted him for the
remainder of his stay.
As Gertrude pondered the distressing results of every visit, she half
hoped he would discontinue them, believing that their feelings would be
less wounded by a total separation than by interviews which must leave
on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement.
Strange, she had not yet acquainted him with the event so interesting to
herself--the discovery of her dearly-loved father. Once she tried to
speak of it, but was so overcome at the idea of imparting to the
confidant of her childhood an experience of which she could scarcely yet
think without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that,
should she on any topic give way to her sensibilities, she should lose
all restraint over her feelings and lay open her whole heart to Willie.
But one thing distressed her more than all others. In his first attempt
to throw off all disguise, Willie had more than intimated to her his own
unhappiness; and ere she could find an opportunity to change the subject
and repel a confidence for which she still felt herself unprepared, he
had spoken mournfully over his future prospects in life.
The only construction which Gertrude could give to this confession was
that it had reference to his engagement with Isabel, and it gave rise to
the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty, he had impulsively bound
himself to one who could never make him happy. The little scenes to
which she herself had been a witness corroborated this idea, as, on both
occasions of her seeing the lovers and overhearing their words, some
cause of vexation seemed to exist on Willie's part. "He loves her,"
thought Gertrude, "and is also bound to her in honour; but he sees
already the want of harmony in their natures. Poor Willie! It is
impossible he should ever be happy with Isabel."
And Gertrude's sympathising heart mourned not more deeply over her own
griefs than over the disappointment that Willie must be experiencing, if
he had ever hoped to find peace in a union with so overbearing,
ill-humoured, and unreasonable a girl.
Wholly occupied with these and similar musings, she walked on with a
quickness she was scarcely herself aware of, and soon gained the shelter
of the heavy pines which bordered the entrance to the cemetery. Here she
paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches;
and, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage-road at the right,
and proceeded slowly up the ascent. The place, always quiet and
peaceful, seemed unusually still and secluded, and save the occasional
carol of a bird, there was no sound to disturb the perfect silence and
repose. As Gertrude gazed upon the familiar beauties of those sacred
grounds which had been her frequent resort during several years--as she
walked between beds of flowers, inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and
felt the solemn appeal, the spiritual breathings, that haunted the holy
place--every motion that was not in harmony with the scene gradually
took its flight, and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and
half-joyful melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy
dead.
After a while she left the broad road and turned into a little bypath,
and then again to a narrower foot-track, and gained the shady and
retired spot which had recommended itself to her choice. It was situated
on the slope of a little hill; a huge rock protected it on one side from
the observation of the passer-by, and a fine old oak overshadowed it
upon the other. The iron enclosure, of simple workmanship, was nearly
overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by Gertrude's
hand, and the moss-grown rock was festooned by its tendrils. Upon a
jutting stone beside the grave of Uncle True Gertrude seated herself,
and after a few moments of contemplation sighed heavily, emptied her
flowers upon the grass, and commenced weaving a graceful chaplet, which,
when completed, she placed upon the grave at her feet. With the
remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other mounds; and then,
drawing forth a pair of gardening gloves and a little trowel, she
employed herself for nearly an hour among the flowers and vines with
which she had embowered the spot. Her work finished, she again placed
herself at the foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back
from her forehead the braids of her hair, and appeared to be resting
from her labours.
It was seven years that day since Uncle True died, but Gertrude had not
forgotten the kind old man. As she gazed upon the grassy mound that
covered him, and scene after scene rose up before her in which that
earliest friend and herself had whiled away the happy hours, there came,
to embitter the cherished remembrance, the recollection of that third
and seldom absent one who completed the memory of their fireside joys;
and Gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflection, unconsciously
exclaimed aloud, "Oh, Uncle True! you and I are not parted yet; but
Willie is not of us!"
"Oh, Gertrude," said a reproachful voice close at her side, "is Willie
to blame for that?" She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts
with his mild sad eye fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying
to his question, buried her face in her hands.
He threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and, as on the occasion of
their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed head from the
hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her to look him in the
face, saying at the same time in the most imploring accents, "Tell me,
Gerty, in pity tell me, why I am excluded from your sympathy?" But still
she made no answer, except by the tears that coursed down her cheeks.
"You make me miserable," continued he. "What have I done that you have
so shut me out of your affection? Why do you look so coldly upon me--and
even shrink from my sight?" added he, as Gertrude, unable to endure his
searching look, turned her eyes in another direction and strove to free
her hands from his grasp.
"I am not cold--I do not mean to be," said she, her voice half-choked
with emotion.
"Oh, Gertrude," replied he, relinquishing her hands and turning away, "I
see you have ceased to love me. I trembled when I first beheld you, so
lovely, so beautiful, and so beloved by all, and feared lest some
fortunate rival had stolen your heart from its boyish keeper. But even
then I did not deem that you would refuse me, at least, a _brother's_
claim to your affection."
"I will not," exclaimed Gertrude eagerly. "Oh, Willie, you must not be
angry with me! Let me be your sister!"
He smiled a most mournful smile, and said, "I was right, then; you
feared lest I should claim too much, and discouraged my presumption by
awarding me nothing. Be it so. Perhaps your prudence was for the best;
but, oh Gertrude, it has made me heartbroken."
"Willie!" exclaimed Gertrude, with excitement, "do you know how
strangely you are speaking?"
"Strangely?" responded Willie, in a half-offended tone. "Is it so
strange that I should love you? Have I not for years cherished the
remembrance of our past affection, and looked forward to our reunion as
my only hope of happiness? Has not this fond expectation inspired my
labours, and cheered my toils, and endeared to me my life, in spite of
its bereavements? And can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds,
beneath which lie buried all else that I held dear on earth, crush and
destroy without compassion this solitary but all-engrossing----"
"Willie," interrupted Gertrude, her calmness suddenly restored, and
speaking in a kind but serious tone, "is it honourable for you to
address me thus? Have you forgotten----"
"No, I have _not_ forgotten," exclaimed he vehemently. "I have not
forgotten that I have no right to distress or annoy you, and I will do
so no more. But oh, Gerty! my sister Gerty (since all hope of a nearer
tie is at an end), blame me not, and wonder not, if I fail at present to
perform a brother's part. I cannot stay in this neighbourhood. I cannot
be the patient witness of another's happiness. My services, my time, my
life, you may command, and in my far-distant home I will never cease to
pray that the husband you have chosen, whoever he be, may prove himself
worthy of my noble Gertrude, and love her one-half as well as I do!"
"Willie!" said Gertrude, "what madness is this? I am bound by no such
tie as you describe; but what shall I think of your treachery to
Isabel?"
"To Isabel!" cried Willie, starting up, as if seized with a new idea;
"and has that silly rumour reached _you_ too? and did you put faith in
the falsehood?"
"Falsehood!" exclaimed Gertrude, lifting her hitherto drooping eyelids
and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look of earnest
scrutiny.
Calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided nor quailed
under, Willie responded unhesitatingly, and with a tone of astonishment
not unmingled with reproach, "Falsehood! Yes. With the knowledge you
have both of her and myself, could you doubt its being such for a
moment?"
"Oh, Willie!" cried Gertrude, "could I doubt the evidence of my own eyes
and ears? Had I trusted to less faithful witnesses, I might have been
deceived. Do not attempt to conceal from me the truth, to which my own
observation can testify. Treat me with frankness, Willie! Indeed,
indeed, I deserve it at your hands!"
"Frankness, Gertrude! it is you only who are mysterious. Could I lay my
whole soul bare to your gaze, you would be convinced of its truth, its
perfect truth, to its first affection. And as to Isabel Clinton, if it
is to her that you have reference, your eyes and your ears have both
played you false, if----"
"Oh, Willie! Willie!" exclaimed Gertrude, interrupting him; "have you so
soon forgotten your devotion to the belle of Saratoga, your
unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your sight, the
pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused you, and the fond
impatience which threatened to render those few days an eternity?"
"Stop! stop!" cried Willie, a new light breaking in upon him, "and tell
me where you learned all this?"
"In the very spot where you spoke and acted. Mr. Graham's parlour did
not witness our first meeting. In the public promenade-ground, on the
shore of Saratoga lake, and on board the steamboat at Albany, did I both
see and recognize you--myself unknown. There, too, did your own words
serve to convince me of the truth of that which from other lips I had
refused to believe."
"Listen to me, Gertrude," said he, in a fervent and almost solemn tone,
"and believe that in sight of my mother's grave, and in the presence of
that pure spirit (and he looked reverently upward) who taught me the
love of truth, I speak with such sincerity and candour as are fitting
for the ears of angels. I do not question the accuracy with which you
overheard my expostulations and entreaties on the subject of Miss
Clinton's proposed journey, or the impatience I expressed at parting for
her speedy return. I will not pause either to inquire where the object
of all my thoughts could have been at the time that, notwithstanding the
changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. Let me first clear myself
of the imputation, and then there will be room for all further
explanations.
"I did feel pain at Miss Clinton's sudden departure for New York, under
a pretext which ought not to have weighed with her for a moment. I did
employ every argument to dissuade her from her purpose; and when my
eloquence had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, I availed
myself of every suggestion and motive which possibly might influence her
to shorten her absence. Not because the society of the selfish girl was
essential, or even conducive, to my happiness--far from it--but because
her excellent father, who so worshipped and idolized his only child that
he would have thought no sacrifice too great to promote her enjoyment,
was at the very time, amid all the discomfort of a crowded
watering-place, hovering between life and death, and I was disgusted at
the heartlessness which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived
of all female tending, to the charge of a hired nurse and an unskillful
though willing youth like myself. That eternity might, in Miss Clinton's
absence, set a seal to the life of her father was a thought which in my
indignation I was on the point of uttering, but I checked myself,
unwilling to interfere too far in a matter which came not within my
rightful province, and perhaps excite unnecessary alarm in Isabel. If
selfishness mingled at all in my views, dear Gerty, and made me
over-impatient for the return of the daughter to her post of duty, it
was that I might be released from almost constant attendance upon my
invalid friend, and hasten to her from whom I hoped such warmth of
greeting as I was only eager to bestow. Can you wonder, then, that your
reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart?"
"But you understand the cause of that coldness now," said Gertrude,
looking up at him through a rain of tears, which like a summer
sun-shower reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her happy
countenance. "You know now why I dared not let my heart speak out."
"And this was all, then?" cried Willie; "and you are free, and I may
love you still?"
"Free from all bonds, dear Willie, but those which you yourself clasped
around me, and which have encircled me from my childhood."
And now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each other's ear the
tale of mutual affection, planted in infancy, nourished in youth,
fostered and strengthened amid separation and absence, and perfected
through trial, to bless and sanctify every year of their after life.
"But, Gerty," exclaimed Willie as, confidence restored, they sat side by
side conversing freely of the past, "how could you think for an instant
that Isabel Clinton would have power to displace you in my regard? I was
not guilty of so great an injustice towards you; for even when I
believed myself supplanted by another, I fancied that other hero of such
shining qualities as could scarcely be surpassed."
"And who could surpass Isabel?" inquired Gerty. "Can you wonder that I
trembled for your allegiance when I thought of her beauty, her fashion,
her family, and her wealth, and remembered the forcible manner in which
all these were presented to your sight and knowledge?"
"But what are all these, Gerty, to one who knows her as we do? Do not a
proud eye and a scornful lip destroy the effect of beauty? Can fashion
excuse rudeness, or noble birth cover natural deficiencies? And as to
money, what did I ever want of that, except to employ it for the
happiness of yourself--and them?" and he glanced at the graves of his
mother and grandfather.
"Oh, Willie! you are so disinterested."
"Not in this case. Had Isabel possessed the beauty of a Venus and the
wisdom of a Minerva, I could not have forgotten how little happiness
there could be with one who, while devoting herself to the pursuit of
pleasure, had become dead to natural affections and indifferent to the
holiest of duties. Could I see her flee from the bedside of her father
to engage in the frivolities and drink in the flatteries of an idle
crowd--or, when unwillingly summoned thither, shrink from the toils and
watchings imposed by his feebleness--and still imagine that such a woman
could bless and adorn a fireside? Could I fail to contrast her unfeeling
neglect, ill-concealed petulance, flagrant levity, and irreverence of
spirit, with the sweet and loving devotion, the saintly patience, and
the deep and fervent piety of my own Gertrude? I should have been false
to myself, as well as to you, dearest, if such traits of character as
Miss Clinton constantly evinced could have ever weakened my love and
admiration for yourself. And now, to see the little playmate whose image
I cherished so fondly matured into the lovely and graceful woman, her
sweet attractions crowned by so much beauty as to place her beyond
recognition, and still her heart as much my own as ever! Oh, Gerty, it
is too much happiness! Would that I could impart a share of it to those
who loved us both so well!"
And who can say that they did not share it?--that the spirit of Uncle
True was not there to witness the completion of his many hopeful
prophecies? that the old grandfather was not there to see all his doubts
and fears giving place to joyful certainties? and that the soul of the
gentle mother whose rapt slumbers had even in life foreshadowed such a
meeting, and who, by the lessons she had given her child in his boyhood,
the warnings spoken to his later years, and the ministering guidance of
her disembodied spirit, had fitted him for the struggle with temptation,
sustained him through its trials, and restored him triumphant to the
sweet friend of his infancy--who shall say that even now she hovered not
over them with parted wings, realising the joy prefigured in that dreamy
vision which pictured to her sight the union between the son and the
daughter of her love, when the one, shielded by her fond care from every
danger and snatched, from the power of temptation, should be restored to
the arms of the other who, by a long and patient continuance in
well-doing, had earned so full a recompense, so all-sufficient a reward?