It may be as well to state here, however, that he who was p.r.o.nounced 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 ma.n.u.script 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 pa.s.sing 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, rea.s.sured 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 embarra.s.sment 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 circ.u.mstances. Her embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed; 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 a.s.sumed 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 circ.u.mstances.
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 cla.s.s, 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 b.u.t.toned 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.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE FATHER"S STORY.
"MY DAUGHTER,--My loving, kind-hearted girl. Now that your own words encourage me with the a.s.surance that my first fear was unfounded--now that I can appeal to you as to an impartial witness, I will disclose the story of my life; and, while I prove to you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child at least will believe, love, and trust her father, in spite of a world"s injustice.