"O, I do not believe it will be so bad as that," said Emily, smiling.
"Mrs. Ellis"s manner is rather rough, but you will get used to her."
Just then a voice was heard in the entry, "To see _Miss Flint_! Really!
Well, _Miss Flint_ is in Miss Emily"s room. She"s going to entertain company, is she?" Gertrude coloured, for it was Mrs. Ellis"s voice, and her tone was very derisive. Emily stepped to the door, and opened it.--"Mrs.Ellis."
"What say, Emily?"
"Is there anyone below?"
"Yes; a young man wants to see Gertrude; it"s that young Sullivan, I believe."
"Willie!" exclaimed Gertrude, starting forward.
"You can go down and see him, Gertrude," said Emily, "Come back here when he"s gone; and, Mrs. Ellis, I wish you would step in and put my room a little in order. I think you will find plenty of pieces for your rag-bag about the carpet--Miss Randolph always scatters so many when she is engaged with her dressmaking."
Mrs. Ellis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a couch at the side of the fire-place, with her coloured rags in one hand and the white in the other, commenced speaking of Gertrude.
"What are you going to do with her, Emily?" said she; "send her to school?"
"Yes. She will go to Mr. W."s this winter."
"Why! Isn"t that a very expensive school for a child like her?"
"It is expensive, certainly; but I wish her to be with the best teacher I know of, and father makes no objection to the terms. He thinks as I do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. I talked with him about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade at once, than half-educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit her for anything. He was willing I should manage the matter as I pleased, and I resolved to send her to Mr.
W."s. So she will remain with us for the present. I wish to keep her with me as long as I can, not only because I am fond of the child, but she is delicate and sensitive; and now that she is so sad about old Mr.
Flint"s death, I think we ought to do all we can to make her happy; don"t you, Mrs. Ellis?"
"I always calculate to do my duty," said Mrs. Ellis, rather stiffly.
"Where is she going to sleep when we get settled?"
"In the little room at the end of the pa.s.sage."
"Then, where shall I keep the linen press?"
"Can"t it stand in the back entry? I should think the s.p.a.ce between the windows would accommodate it."
"I suppose it must," said Mrs. Ellis, flouncing out of the room, and muttering to herself, "everything turned topsy-turvy for the sake of that little upstart!"
Mrs. Ellis was vexed. She had long had her own way in the management of all household matters at Mr. Graham"s, and had become rather tyrannical.
She was capable, methodical, and neat; accustomed to a small family, and now for many years quite _unaccustomed_ to children; Gertrude was in her eyes an intruder--one who must of necessity be in mischief, continually deranging her most cherished plans.
She saw in the new inmate a formidable rival to herself in Miss Graham"s affections; and Mrs. Ellis could not brook the idea of being second in the regard of Miss Emily, who, owing to her peculiar misfortune, and to her delicate health, had long been her special charge, and for whom she felt the greatest tenderness. Owing to these circ.u.mstances, Mrs. Ellis was not favourably disposed towards Gertrude; and Gertrude was not yet prepared to love Mrs. Ellis very cordially.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHO ARE HAPPY?
Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a meeting of bank-directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the dining-room.
Willie detained Gertrude in the little library, and Emily was indulging in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on her hand; her face, usually so placid, was sad; and her whole appearance denoted despondency. As thought pressed upon thought, and past sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sank upon the cushions of the couch where she sat, and tears slowly trickled through her fingers. Suddenly a hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual pre-occupation of mind had made Gertrude"s approaching step unheard. "Is anything the matter, Miss Emily?" said Gertrude. "Do you like best to be alone, or may I stay?"
The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child"s question, touched Emily. She drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, "O, yes, stay with me;" then observing, as she pa.s.sed an arm round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agitated, she added, "But what is the matter with you, Gerty? What makes you tremble and sob so?"
At this, Gertrude broke forth with, "O, Miss Emily, I thought you were crying when I came in, and I hoped you would let me come and cry with you; for I"m so miserable I can"t do anything else."
Calmed herself by the agitation of the child, Emily tried to discover the cause of this new affliction. Willie had been to tell her that he was going away, going out of the country; as Gertrude expressed it, to the other end of the world--to India. Mr. Clinton was interested in a mercantile house in Calcutta, and had offered William the most favourable terms to go abroad as clerk to the establishment. The prospect was far better than he could hope for by remaining at home; the salary was sufficient to defray all his own expenses, and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming more dependent upon him. The chance, too, of future advancement was great; though the young man"s affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and interest prompted. He agreed to the proposal, and whatever his own struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years" banishment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully about it to his mother and grandfather.
"Miss Emily," said Gertrude, when she had acquainted her with the news, "how can I bear to have Willie go away? How can I live without Willie?
He is so kind, and loves me so much! He was always better than any brother, and, since Uncle True died, he has done everything in the world for me. I believe I could not have borne Uncle True"s death if it had not been for Willie; and now how can I let him go away?"
"It is hard, Gertrude," said Emily, kindly, "but it is no doubt for his advantage; you must try and think of that."
"I know it," replied Gertrude--"I suppose it is; but, Miss Emily, you do not know how I love Willie. We were so much together; and there were only us two, and we thought everything of each other; he was so much older than I, and always took such good care of me. O, I don"t think you have any idea what friends we are!"
Gertrude had unconsciously touched a chord that vibrated through Emily"s whole frame. Her voice trembled as she answered, "_I_, Gertrude! _not know_, my child! I know better than you imagine, how dear he must be to you. I, too, had----" then she paused abruptly, and there were a few moments" silence, during which Emily got up, walked hastily to the window, pressed her aching head against the frosty gla.s.s, and then returning, said, in a low voice which had recovered its usual calmness, "O Gertrude! in the grief that oppresses you now, you little realise how much you have to be thankful for. Think, my dear, what a blessing it is that Willie will be where you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant news of his friends."
"Yes," replied Gerty; "he says he shall write to me and his mother very often."
"Then, too," said Emily, "you ought to rejoice at the good opinion Mr.
Clinton must have of Willie: the confidence he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. I think that is very flattering."
"So it is," said Gerty; "I did not think of that."
"And you have lived so happily together," continued Emily, "and will part in such perfect peace. O Gertrude! Gertrude! such a parting as that should not make you sad; there are so much worse things in the world. Be patient, my dear child; do your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting, that will repay you for all you suffer in the separation."
Emily"s voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. Gertrude"s eyes were fixed upon her friend with a puzzled expression. "Miss Emily,"
said she, "I begin to think that everything has trouble."
"Certainly, Gertrude; can you doubt it?"
"I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought other folks were more fortunate. I fancied that rich people were all very happy; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful thing, I supposed you were used to it; and you always looked so pleasant and quiet, I took it for granted nothing ever vexed you now. And then, Willie!--I believed once that nothing could make him look sad, he was always so gay; but when he hadn"t any place, I saw him really cry; and then, when Uncle True died, and now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, he could hardly speak, he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since I see that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come, though you try to keep them back, I think the world is full of trials, and that every one gets a share."
"It is the lot of humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it to be otherwise."
"Then, who can be happy, Miss Emily?"
"Those, only, my child, who have learned submission; those who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving Father, and obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod."
"It is very hard, Miss Emily."
"It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can rightly be called happy; but if, even in the midst of our distress, we can look to G.o.d in faith and love, we may, when the world is dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven."
Willie"s departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a week in which to make those arrangements which a mother"s thoughtfulness deems necessary. Her hands were therefore full of work, and Gerty, whom Emily at once relinquished for the short time previous to the vessel"s sailing, was of great a.s.sistance to her. Willie was very busy during the day, but was always with them in the evening.
On one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and his mother and grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put aside her sewing, he said to her, "Come, Gerty, if you are not afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as we used to do in old times; there will be no more such warm days as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner."