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Title: Good for evil
        or, Rose Cottage

Author: Madeline Leslie

Release date: June 14, 2023 [eBook #70977]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Henry A. Young & Company, 1868


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GOOD FOR EVIL ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: SILVER LAKE SERIES.]


                     Silver Lake Series.


                       GOOD FOR EVIL;

                            OR,

                       ROSE COTTAGE.



                   [BY MADELINE LESLIE.]



    "Not rendering evil for evil; or railing for railing;
          but contrariwise blessing."—1 Peter 3:9.



                         BOSTON:
                HENRY A. YOUNG & COMPANY,
                    NO. 24 CORNHILL.



    Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
                  HENRY A. YOUNG & COMPANY.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
               the District of Massachusetts.


CONTENTS.

 CHAPTER I. THE LAW STUDENTS

 CHAPTER II. GOING HOME

 CHAPTER III. THE RECEPTION

 CHAPTER IV. TAKING TIME BY THE FORELOCK

 CHAPTER V. IMPULSE VERSUS PRUDENCE

 CHAPTER VI. NEWS FROM THE WEST

 CHAPTER VII. BROKEN PROMISES

 CHAPTER VIII. THOUGHTS AND REVELATIONS

 CHAPTER IX. THE SURPRISE

 CHAPTER X. THE NEW PROJECT

 CHAPTER XI. JOYS AND SORROWS

 CHAPTER XII. THE TINY ROSE BUD

 CHAPTER XIII. UNAPPRECIATED

 CHAPTER XIV. THE SEPARATION

 CHAPTER XV. SALES OF THE ROCKS

 CHAPTER XVI. THE TRAVELLERS

 CHAPTER XVII. THE WINTER IN ROME

 CHAPTER XVIII. THE EFFECTS OF CRIME

 CHAPTER XIX. GOOD FOR EVIL

 CHAPTER XX. SALVATION BY CHRIST

 CHAPTER XXI. CONSCIENTIOUSNESS

 CHAPTER XXII. FATHER AND SON



GOOD FOR EVIL.

CHAPTER I.

THE LAW STUDENTS.

THE day was sultry; the air, portending a shower. Groups of young men
were loitering about the steps of the different collegiate halls;
some glancing up to the sky; others gazing wishfully in the direction
of the river, where even at this distance a number of boats could be
distinguished, safely moored ready for the race of the morrow.

"Look at that cloud," murmured a young man about to graduate from the
law school. "We shall hear the thunder soon; or I'm mistaken. But if
you say so, Paul, we'll go as far as the great elm."

"Aye! aye! Wallingford. I shall feel better for the walk. If we are
caught in the rain, the wetting, on a day like this, will do us no
harm."

"There they go," exclaimed a youth, whom his companions called Cicero,
on account of his frequent quotations from that renowned orator.
"They're walking off together as usual. It would be a treat to see
Wallingford by himself for once."

"They're too Davidiac and Jonathanic for that," laughed another. "They
are both fine fellows; but I confess Wallingford is more to my taste
than Dudley; and I prophesy he'll make a greater mark in the world."

In the mean time the two friends sauntered slowly on through the
college grounds, keeping a careful survey of the advancing cloud, until
at length they reached the Post office where Dudley secured a couple of
letters.

"You're a lucky fellow, Paul," said his companion heartily.

"It's only from mother," was the careless rejoinder. "One of her
lengthy epistles about nothing. Even the girl's scribblings have more
interest."

"Don't speak so," murmured Wallingford. "If you were motherless, as I
am, you'd understand how such words hurt me."

"Pshaw, Ned! you know I love my mother. She isn't exactly the character
to inspire respect as you can well understand. Warm-hearted and
affectionate, ready to work herself to death to please one of my
foolish fancies; yet she is not all that one would want in a mother."

Ned Wallingford paused his face flushed with more than the heat, and
gazed reproachfully at his companion. "I would rather cut off my hand,"
he said at length, "than to speak so of a mother. Excuse me, Paul; but
the only fault I could see in yours, was that she was too anxious to
please you. She displayed devoted love."

"The natural consequence of being the only son in a family of five,"
Dudley answered with a light laugh. "Worship comes natural to me. I
shall exact a vast amount of homage from my wife."

"Not more than you will yield to her charms, I hope."

"It strikes me, we are starting a new subject," demurely answered Paul;
"and as I felt a drop of rain on my nose, I propose we adjourn to
number eighteen, North Hall, up one flight, before we proceed with the
interesting discussion of my wife's claims on my affection."

Three minutes of quick walking brought them inside the large hall just
as the windows of heaven were opened and the rain descended in torrents.

Wallingford having thrown off his wet, linen coat, seated himself at
the window and watched for a time the occasional flashes of lightning
illumining the dark clouds and followed by the rumbling of the distant
thunder; but his thoughts were not on the scene before him, sublime as
it was.

Memory was carrying him back some dozen years, to the hour when his
mother lay upon the bed of death. Her face was pale as the white robes
that surrounded her; but there was a holy light resting on every
feature, which had made such an impression on the boy's mind, that he
had never forgotten it. He knew as he stood by her side that she must
die;—that, the transparent hand closely clasping his would soon become
the food for worms;—that the voice now feebly lisping words of love
and counsel would soon be silenced for aye; but he could not weep. She
was so happy, rejoicing that she was soon to be in the presence of her
Saviour, and to join the husband and babes who had gone before her to
glory; her death seemed such a fitting end to a life like hers; humble,
active, trusting, that he felt it would be selfish to wish her to stay.
Again, he heard her dying voice; committing him and her little Gertrude
to the care of the Shepherd of Israel; again he saw her eyes, dim with
the film of dissolving nature, turn to his with the parting injunction,
"Edward I leave Gertrude to you as a sacred legacy, teach her to fear
God and keep his commandments, I shall expect to meet you both in
heaven."

"What in the world are you thinking of, Chum?" asked Paul in a gay
tone, tossing, as he spoke, his mother's letter on the table. "You've
sighed and sighed like a heart-broken maiden."

"I was thinking of my mother," was the serious reply. "Though she has
been dead a dozen years, she still exists in my mind as the embodyment
of every womanly virtue. If my sister lives to imitate her, I shall be
happier than I deserve to be."

Dudley arose from his seat, looking graver than he was wont, and
crossing the room to where his companion sat, he put his mother's
letter into Wallingford's hand, murmuring:

"You have made me ashamed of what I said."

He spoke earnestly, adding with a bright flush, "You're my good genius,
Chum, and have been for six years. You must read what mother says about
you. Even she, blind to my faults as her love makes her, admits that I
might be better if I would imitate my friend more closely. What I shall
do when you are not by, I can scarcely conceive."

Wallingford grasped the hand which had given him the letter, saying
earnestly:

"No mother could have a son more frank to confess an error. Now the
shower is over, shall we walk again?"

"Yes, I can spare half an hour."

My dear reader, I will improve the time of their absence by relating
briefly a history of the two friends I have introduced to your
acquaintance.

Paul Dudley, as the senior in age, must first be described. He was the
third child and only son of a merchant in Philadelphia. His mother
was the sole manager in the family; she averring that her husband
had his share of labor in earning the money which supported them. He
was engaged in a lucrative business which afforded his family every
comfort, and some of the luxuries of life. He was an honest; upright
man in the world's opinion, and in his own opinion; but though he took
no advantage of his neighbor's necessity, he defrauded his Maker, of
what was his due,— the first and best affections of his heart; and
beside this, he defrauded his own soul of the comfort and support of
religion.

Mrs. Dudley was a devoted mother. She was bound up in her family, for
whom she was willing to work early and late; denying herself many
luxuries, that her children might never feel the need of them. Two
daughters, girls of good sense and a fair education, were already
settled in homes of their own; the one just younger than Paul was
betrothed to her father's junior partner; and Anna, the youngest, was
still in school.

Though probably Mrs. Dudley would not have admitted the fact, it was
allowed by all the others, that Paul was her favorite. From his very
birth his sisters had been taught to yield their will and wishes to
his. As he grew older they were called to wait upon him; to humor his
whims; and in many ways involving self-denial and sacrifice, the whole
family proved to his young lordship that his pleasure was their first
consideration.

Of course under such training, it could not be expected that Paul would
be otherwise than selfish and domineering, claiming their service as a
right; petulant and irritable when his demands did not receive a due
amount of attention.

When he entered College he was thrown into the society of Edward
Wallingford; and admiring his abilities as a scholar, sought his
friendship. For six years they had roomed, studied, talked and walked
together. The ambition of Dudley's friend had stimulated his best
efforts, while the constant society of a noble, ingenuous mind had done
much toward counteracting for the time what was erroneous in his early
training.

Edward Wallingford was the son of a gentleman who had accompanied his
father from England at the age of ten years. They settled at length in
New York, where they established a large iron and steel business. The
younger Wallingford married soon after he attained his majority and
took his wife to his father's house, where they lived only two years
before the death of the Senior partner in the firm, produced a change
in the business. Six months later, the elder Mr. Wallingford died,
leaving his son his share in the iron works together with a few acres
of rocky land just outside of the city proper.

Edward, the subject of our story, was the second child and the only one
out of six children who lived to be seven years of age. Fearing, from
these repeated afflictions, that the air and confinement of a city were
the cause of the death of his loved ones, the father, in Edward's ninth
year, purchased a place on the Hudson river, and removed his family
there just before the birth of a tiny girl called Gertrude.

There amidst the picturesque scenery of that region, the children grew
apace until Ned had reached his twelfth and Gerty her third summer;
when a terrible affliction came upon them in the death of their father.

Mr. Wallingford had been greatly esteemed as a shrewd, successful
businessman; the papers in noticing his death, remarked that he was a
friend and supporter of all the benevolent enterprises of the day; but
only the wife and children of the deceased knew how his large heart
had beat in sympathy with every effort to advance the cause of the
Redeemer's kingdom. To them it appeared for a time as if the sun had
set in a total eclipse. Even after years had passed, and time had in a
degree allayed their grief, they mourned his loss as the most tender
husband, the most loving father, the most conscientious, humble and
earnest Christian, it had been their lot to know.

Three years Mrs. Wallingford survived him; and then she too was
called to her home in the skies. The summons was not a sudden one;
for months she had felt her health to be declining, and to her the
thought of being free from her body of sin and death was delightful.
The only struggle she felt in exchanging the scenes of time for those
of eternity, was when she thought of her children. But her faith in
the promises of a covenant-keeping God at length prevailed over every
doubt; she said to her faithful pastor:

"How can I shrink from leaving my dear ones with my heavenly Father,
when I know how he pities his afflicted children? and when I remember
how many earnest prayers for them are registered in heaven."

Soon after her death Edward was sent to school to prepare for college;
and it was only during his vacations that he had returned to Rose
Cottage, where Gertrude in the care of their faithful Hannah still
resided.



CHAPTER II.

GOING HOME.

THE last day of the last term had come; and gone. Paul Dudley with
Edward Wallingford were candidates for the bar. Paul had chosen the new
and flourishing city of Chicago as the field in which he was to become
famous, while Edward had decided to return to his native place. The
thought of the separation which their new lives involved, was painful
to both. Six years of the closest intimacy had united their hearts in
an uncommon degree. Paul's love to Edward was mingled so largely with
respect, that during all their intercourse he had been conscious of a
desire to keep his own bad qualities out of sight, lest they should
excite contempt.

Edward, though the younger by a year, had come gradually to regard his
chum as a charge; one who must be encouraged and assisted to do right.
This very care, had greatly enhanced his affection.

Since he entered college, it had been Wallingford's habit to return
to Rose Cottage twice a year; spending at least part of his vacations
there; but now fully twelve months had elapsed since his last visit.
One short recess he had passed with Paul in Philadelphia, while the
long vacation was occupied by a pedestrian excursion, long talked of,
to Niagara and the Canadas. Now that their examination had passed
successfully, Paul gladly complied with his friend's invitation to
spend one month together at Rose Cottage before they commenced their
battle with the world.

Edward had often spoken to Paul of his anxieties concerning his sister;
and his fear lest she were growing up under the care of Hannah, in a
state of semi-barbarism. He complained of her want of interest in her
books; the perfect wildness and ignorance of the most common customs of
society, which had characterized her at their last interview.

Paul remembered having seen a picture of the little sprite in the
earlier days of his acquaintance with his friend; and he must be
pardoned if he judged from her juvenile scrawls, denominated letters,
of the same period, that she had been, indeed, sadly neglected.

After they had taken their seats in the cars which were to convey them
to Wallingford's home, the young lawyer's heart sank as he reflected
on his mother's parting injunction; and realized how sadly he had
neglected his duty to the sister left in his care.

His regretful thoughts were reflected on his countenance, and
his companion gayly insisted on an explanation of his gloomy and
disconsolate appearance.

"I was thinking of my little sister," was the serious, almost gloomy
reply. "You musn't blame her too much, Paul, if she appears rude and
romping. I left her wholly unformed; her greatest delights being to
climb the highest trees where she used to sit like a little monkey,
swaying about among the blanches; the air filled with her shouts of
mirth at my alarm."

"She must have a curious governess," remarked Paul, dryly.

"Good old Hannah has never been dignified with that title. She is
manager general of the farm, house and grounds and can't be expected
to have much time to devote to Gerty's education, even if she were
competent to direct it."

He was silent for a few minutes when he added earnestly, "Excuse myself
as I may, by my absence from home, I feel keenly that I have not done
my duty toward my sister. I remember now how disappointed she was when
I wrote that I should not be at home all last summer. Well, it's too
late to help that; and I shall be near enough to Rose Cottage to return
there every Saturday night; and next winter I will have her attend one
of the best schools in New York."

Paul smiled at the idea of his fastidious chum escorting through the
streets a little, wild Gypsy, in short clothes; her cheeks as brown as
a nut, and her black hair flying in every direction.

Hurrying through New York they took passage in a North River boat
which would land them within a mile of their destination. Nearly half
the passage had been accomplished, when a gentleman who had for some
minutes been promenading the deck came toward them and offering his
hand to Edward exclaimed eagerly:

"I think I cannot be mistaken. You are young Wallingford, son of my old
friend."

"Yes, and you are Mr. Winslow. I am more than glad to meet you."

The gentleman then turned to Paul and offered his hand, saying:

"From your resemblance to the family I conclude you are a relative,
though I have never seen you before."

The young lawyers both laughed. "We have often been mistaken for
brothers," Edward explained. "Our only connexion is, that we have
been room-mates the last six years. My friend's name is Paul Dudley;
and like myself he expects his fame as a lawyer and statesman to ring
through the land."

"You are indeed very like," murmured the stranger as if speaking to
himself while his eye glanced kindly at the stalwart forms before him.
"And yet," he added after an earnest gaze into Paul's eye, "there is a
difference."

Both the young men wore heavy whiskers, trimmed like their hair in the
same fashion, which fact greatly increased the resemblance; but the
gentleman's thought was:

"Wallingford has his father's calm, truthful eye, which wins the
confidence at once. Dudley's gaze shrinks from meeting yours. He may,
or may not, become a villain."

Edward urged his old friend to accompany him to Rose Cottage, if only
for a night; insisting that he and his sister had a claim on the
kindness of their father's friend, for the sake of old times, but Mr.
Winslow was obliged to decline.

"My destination is the same as yours," he explained; "but I have to
wait an hour for a stage coach to take me back into the country. If you
can remain with me during that time I should like to converse with you
concerning your future prospects."

"Of course I can," cried Edward, who had been longing for just such a
disinterested friend. "I will find an opportunity for Paul to ride and
carry the valises and I will walk home after I see you safely off."

On landing, Edward hailed a young countryman named Biles, who had been
disappointed in the company he expected; and engaged him to take his
friend to Rose Cottage, or as far as he went in that direction; after
which, leaving his own trunks and boxes in the care of the baggage
master till sent for, he passed an hour profitably in relating his
plans for the future to his father's friend; and in receiving much
useful counsel from Mr. Winslow's lips.

Gertrude's name was mentioned; and after some thought, the gentleman
said, "I must go and see her. If she is as ignorant and unformed as you
state, she must be placed in a good family school; but I cannot tell
what is best till I hear her plead her own cause."

In the meantime Mr. Dudley having accepted a seat in an open wagon by
the side of a good-natured looking farmer, began to gaze about him. On
every side the most picturesque views met his eye;—the majestic river
white with sails, varied now and then by a huge iron chimney, puffing
and belching forth its smoke, rolled calmly on its course to the sea.
The high bluffs, a continuation of the Highlands, rising, and breaking
against the sky;—the pretty villas dotting the banks of the river;—the
patches of cultivated land varied by the richest green sward; each in
turn rivetted his attention, and called forth an exclamation of delight.

"I reckon you're a stranger in these parts," the countryman said, after
having surveyed his companion from head to foot.

"Yes."

"Going to stop a spell?"

"Uncertain, how long."

"Going to Rose Cottage, hey? Wall I hope Hannah Goldby knows she's
going to have visitors."

Paul's curiosity was roused and overlooking the familiarity of the
driver, which a moment before had excited his disgust, he asked with a
smile:

"Is a visitor at Rose Cottage a very uncommon event?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the man, leaning back to enjoy the joke.
"Uncommon? ha! ha! ha! why there hasn't been a visitor at Rose Cottage,
to my knowledge, since the young man went off to college better'n a
year ago. Hannah wont have 'em." He shook his head in a mysterious
manner, conveying the idea that he could tell strange things if he had
a mind.

Paul mentally resolved that his stay should be very brief. After a
pause he remarked:

"The woman takes charge of the little girl, I suppose."

This speech caused another burst of merriment. When he recovered
himself the man said, "I 'spose she don't. The little girl takes care
of her, more likely. She's a regular—"

Here a terrible jolt broke up the sentence, and presently, a man hailed
the driver, and asked how far he was going.

Before he was answered, the stranger was subjected to a survey that
would have done honor to a detective; then squirting a mouthful of
tobacco juice beyond the wheel, he said to Dudley:

"There's Rose Cottage just behind that clump of linden trees; 'tisn't
more'n a quarter of a mile. I think it's likely I shall turn off here."

After offering payment for the accommodation, which was answered by
another:

"Ha! ha! ha! 'tisn't likely I want pay for such a trifle," Mr. Dudley
descended from the wagon by an elastic spring over the wheel; and
taking one carpet bag in each hand he started off in the direction
indicated.



CHAPTER III.

THE RECEPTION.

THE sun was unclouded and the young man soon found the heat
intolerable. He leaped the wall into a newly mown field and took a
direct line for the stone cottage, becoming every moment more visible.
At the distance of two or three hundred rods from the house was the
grove of lindens the driver had pointed out. On one side was a patch
of delicious green turf, soft and smooth as velvet, where in the shade
formed by a cluster of young spruces, lay a couple of Jersey calves,
chewing their cuds as they calmly viewed the magnificent prospect.

These creatures were so tame that they did not move when the stranger
approached and patted their heads; they only raised their meek eyes
wishfully to his face.

Approaching the front door, which stood wide open, not a sign of life
was visible about the premises. Even the stranger's loud ring brought
no one to answer his summons. Tired of waiting, he ventured into a wide
hall which the air from the river rendered deliciously cool. This hall
extended through the centre of the house uninterrupted by staircase;
and was hung with fine old pictures, and maps. A large mahogany table,
with spread leaves, and claw feet, stood near the back door which was
of glass and opened upon another plateau of grass, interspersed with
small beds of well cultivated flowers.

The table was covered with a handsome woollen cloth; and upon it stood
a silver ice pitcher on a huge salver; which also supported two silver
goblets.

Laying his bags in one of the heavy leather-covered chairs, our
traveller took a long draught of the ice water with which the pitcher
had been lately filled; and having smoothed his locks by the small
mirror set in the hat-rack made his way into an open room on the left
hand of the hall.

Here he found additional evidence of refinement and taste. On one
side of the spacious apartment was an elegantly carved book case; and
through the glass in front, rows of well bound volumes were visible.
Between the windows a long mirror descended from the roof to a marble
slab about two feet from the floor, upon which slab lay a child's hat,
tied with blue ribbons. On the marble mantel; on the tables; and every
where that they could be placed, stood vases of flowers exquisitely
arranged. The fragrance of roses, heliotrope, mignionette and other
varieties, would have been oppressive but for the air which stole in
through the Venetian blinds.

A well pleased smile played about the mouth of the stranger, as he
gazed leisurely around. "A fancy nook Ned has here," he said to
himself. "If I had another like it, and a wife to welcome me home after
the trials of the day, I'd ask nothing more of fortune."

Leaning back in the luxurious chair which held out its arms so
invitingly, he began to wonder how it happened that no one was at home.
Gradually his thoughts became more indistinct, and he slept.

His dreams were interrupted by a vision so exactly in accordance with
them, that for a moment, he supposed himself still the sport of an
illusion.

Just in front of him stood a young girl apparently not more than
fifteen years whose laughing eyes were gazing into his own, while her
sweet rosy mouth was parted in a bewitching smile.

"When did you come? How long have you been here?" exclaimed a clear,
ringing voice. "Why didn't you tell me you were growing this?"
playfully pulling his beard.

"Am I awake?" murmured Paul, trying to rouse himself, and sitting
forward in his chair; his gaze still rivetted on the beautiful vision.

"Hannah! Hannah!" called out the young girl. "Ned has come, and fallen
asleep in the parlor."

A middle aged, motherly looking woman, speedily answered the summons,
and was hurrying across the hall, when the real Ned appeared at the
door.

"Ah, Hannah!" he said cheerily. "You're in good health I see. How's
Gerty? I suppose my friend has come, as I see our valises are here."

For one moment Gertrude stood in the centre of the floor bewildered,
blushes mantling her cheeks as she realized that she had made a
mistake; then with one bound she flew into the outstretched arms of her
brother.

"Are you really Ned?" she inquired archly, having nestled her head
against his breast.

"Yes, my little sis. Am I so changed that you didn't know me?"

"I feel greatly flattered," explained Paul, coming forward with a
smile. "Miss Gertrude, as I suppose this young lady to be, did me the
honor to imagine I was her brother. I found the house deserted and fell
asleep, and could not at once shake off the idea that the laughing eyes
looking into mine and the voice, calling me Ned, did not belong to my
vision."

"It was this that deceived me," laughed Gerty pulling her brother's
curly whiskers. "I don't think you look at all alike now."

"How pleasant and cool you keep yourselves," exclaimed Edward, turning
to Hannah who had seated herself opposite him. "Is every thing
prosperous about the farm? I see you have a pair of fancy calves on the
lawn."

"Yes, and two more in the pasture. I believe the work is well advanced
for the season. I wrote you about the new man I had hired."

"Yes, and I shall want to hear all about it in the morning. My long
walk from the landing has heated me terribly."

"Your room is in order if you would like to go to it before tea. I will
have the north chamber ready in a few minutes."

"No, Hannah, stay here please," exclaimed Gertrude, "and I'll run up
and open the blinds. You know, Ned, she keeps the house in such perfect
order there is nothing else to do."

She flew up stairs almost like a bird, her voice breaking out into a
strain of warbling, which with a thought of the stranger, was instantly
checked. Seizing two tiny silver vases, filled with delicately tinted
flowers, from her own room, she carried them to the guest-chamber;
then throwing open the blinds on the north side let in the refreshing
breeze. One minute more to fill the large china pitcher with fresh
water; and then she gayly announced that the rooms were ready.

"Ned," exclaimed Paul, the instant they were alone, "confess at once
that you have been deceiving me all these years. How dared you tell me
your sister was ignorant, unformed, a Gypsy and so on? She is the most
perfect specimen of humanity that it has ever been my fortune to meet.
Then what refinement! Only think, Ned, what a home she'd make for a
man; think of her arch glances and bewitching smiles."

"She has greatly improved within a year;" was Wallingford's grave
reply, "more than I dared to hope. She is not yet sixteen. By the time
she is twenty-two or three, I believe she will resemble our mother."

Without another word he turned to his own room, leaving his companion
examining the flowers, and wondering whether Gertrude had placed them
there, before she knew of his coming.

An hour later they were seated in the hall, around the abundant board.
In the centre a huge glass dish of raspberries was well flanked by a
pitcher of cream.

"These are delicious," exclaimed Edward, helping himself and his friend
to a bountiful supply.

"Hannah and I were out picking them, when Mr. Dudley came," said
Gertrude with an arch glance in his direction. "I remembered how fond
you used to be of berries."

"We don't often see such cream at our College ordinaire," suggested
Paul, pouring the thick, new luxury over his fruit.

"If you wish to get into Miss Goldby's good graces, praise her
Alderney's," remarked Ned, laughing. "But seriously Hannah, I must
arrange somehow to board at home, when I take an office in New York."

"I thought that would be a matter of course," urged Gerty seriously.
"I've been anticipating the pleasure of driving to the landing every
afternoon to meet you."

"Ah, Wallingford! you're the luckiest fellow I know," cried his
friend with a shrug at his own fate. "Here you will be, in the midst
of luxuries, with a lady to greet you on your return from business;
with a well ordered household and an estate exactly to your taste;
while I must delve among musty old law papers twenty hours out of the
twenty-four, in order to have butter with my bread."

"There is no food tastes so sweet as that we have worked for," remarked
Hannah sagely; "but Gertrude do you notice how late it is, only ten
minutes of seven."

The young girl blushed, as she hurriedly rose from the table, and only
saying; "Good night, Ned, good night Mr. Dudley," put on the hat Paul
had seen lying on the marble slab, and went out by the front door.

Both the young men started to accompany her; but Hannah said decidedly,
"She prefers to walk alone, and Hiram will go for her at nine."

"I protest," began Paul; but Ned interrupted him by asking gravely:

"Where does she go at this hour?"

"She spends three evenings every week with a friend," was the evasive
answer. "It is a great privilege for her, and we are both grateful for
the opportunity."



CHAPTER IV.

TAKING TIME BY THE FORELOCK.

"AND so you don't approve Mr. Dudley as an acquaintance for Gertrude,"
began Mr. Wallingford, laughing at Hannah's anxious countenance.

"No, Edward, I'm free to say I don't. I can't explain why it is; but I
mistrust him." She was kneading a pan of dough, and knuckled away for a
moment in a most decided manner.

"But, Hannah, I've roomed with him for six years. If there was any
thing very bad about him I should have found it out before now."

There was no answer until the dough had been pounded and put into pans
for a second rising; then turning to the young lawyer the woman said:

"Edward Wallingford, I held Gertrude in my arms before she was an
hour old, and loved her as if she were my own. But when your mother,
the day before she went to heaven, called me to the bed and made me
promise to be a mother to her motherless girl, I called God to witness
that I would be so till I died. So far I've kept my vow. Within a year
I've had a chance to have a home and a husband; but I said 'no, I've a
promise to keep, and God helping me I'll keep it till I'm called away.'
Edward, I love that girl with all her faults; and she has faults,
better than I could even love any other human being; if any sorrow were
to come to her, 'twould go nigh to kill me."

"I don't see how Mr. Dudley's being here for a few weeks can bring
sorrow to her."

"None are so blind as those who wont see," murmured the woman with a
sigh. "But remember what I tell you. If you don't put some check upon
your friend, as your father would do were he alive, you'll regret it
when it is too late."

"Do speak plain, Hannah. What is it you fear? Gertrude is only a child;
and after this visit will probably never see Paul again."

"God grant it; for I tell you he will never make a kind husband; and
I can see, if you can't, that he's doing his best to steal away her
heart."

Edward laughed, but not heartily. "You're mistaken, Hannah," he urged.
"He has no idea of marrying for years, I have heard him say so a
hundred times. He means to be settled and make a fortune first; and
then his ideas of a wife, are the very reverse of what Gerty is."

"Well, time will show which of us is right; and I pray earnestly my
fears may prove false; but will you answer one question; supposing, I
am right and that his hanging round after Gertrude, watching every step
she takes, and being quite lost when she is out of sight, means that
he wants her for a wife, have you never in all the years you've been
together seen any thing you would disapprove in a brother-in-law?"

The young lawyer started at this plain question; but as she gazed
searchingly in his eye, he answered:

"I never thought of him in that light. I know him to be a man who
will succeed well in business. When he has made a few thousands, and
Gertrude has four or five years more over her heads I don't know that I
could offer any serious objection. Still men are so different in their
intercourse with each other, from what they are with the other sex—I—"

"Yes, that is it," she exclaimed, interrupting him. "I'll venture to
say I know more about Mr. Dudley, in some points, than you do, after
all your intimacy."

"I've been with him several times to his home," murmured Edward as if
speaking to himself.

"Well, how did he act there? Was he a good son and a kind brother? I
heard him tell Gerty he had four sisters."

The young man felt his face flush as he recollected certain home
scenes, which at the time had roused his indignation. He recalled also
remarks Paul had made about his mother; and realized that after all,
Hannah's opinion might be more correct than his own.

The woman stood with an anxious face awaiting an answer, when he
suddenly laughed aloud:

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "Gerty has scarcely commenced her education.
Paul is too honorable to engage her affections, till he is sure of my
consent. When he asks me the question it will be time enough to refuse."

She walked to the window with a sigh, but turned back suddenly and put
her hand on his arm.

"Look," she said, "and see for yourself. Oh, I wish her mother were
alive!"

Paul and Gertrude were crossing the lawn together. In her arms she
carried a favorite dog, which seemed to have been injured, for she
bent over it, pressing her cheek to its silky hair. Her companion was
talking earnestly; and just as Edward reached the window, she raised
her head and gave one shy, loving glance into his face. That gaze told
volumes to the anxious spectators.

Edward started, exclaiming in an angry tone:

"If he has dared,—" when she interrupted him:

"It is as I feared," she groaned, sinking back on a chair. "Now I beg
you to be cautious, for the more you thwart her, the more resolute her
determination will be. Oh, why did you bring him here!"

"You knew him better than I. He is a rascal; and I shall tell him so."

He caught his hat from the rack in the hall, and was starting for the
door in an excited manner, when she again stopped him.

"Edward, I am only an uneducated woman; and you have spent twenty-three
years in piling up learning; but listen to me this once. I was right in
thinking he was trying to win her. I may be, I think I am right now.
Don't say a word to him 'till you are calmer, till you have thought it
over for an hour at least. If she thinks he is treated cruelly, she
will take his part, poor, innocent thing. If he is a gentleman he will
speak to you before long."

"You're right, Hannah;" and turning in the opposite direction, she
presently saw him walking with rapid strides up the road back of the
farm.

"If his mother were alive, she would go to her closet and tell her
trouble to God," murmured Hannah, wiping away a tear; "and I'll do the
same, for as sure as the sun will set to-night, there's sorrow before
my poor, undisciplined girl, if she gives her heart to that man."

It was indeed as the good woman had apprehended, too late to interfere
between the lovers. From the very hour when waking from his sleep, Paul
had seen the bright vision before him, he had cast aside honor, fame,
future success and every thing else, with the determination to win this
beautiful creature in all her sweet fresh girlhood. He easily foresaw,
that her present beauty, great as it was, only gave promise of what it
would be when more fully developed; and he was certain that unless he
secured her now, he would have rivals with whom it might not be easy to
compete. He acknowledged that she was backward in many branches; but,
then she knew so many things of which girls of her age were usually
ignorant. There was not a flower in her garden; and scarcely an herb
growing in the vicinity that she could not describe, and explain its
uses. Then she was such an ardent lover of nature, and so enthusiastic
over a fine view;—she had such wonderful power over animals;—the most
stubborn farm-horse on the place, yielding readily to the touch of
her slender fingers. As to learning, he reasoned with himself, that
it would be a delightful task to open before her expanding intellect
the gems in literature. If he had her to himself, he would educate
her according to his own favorite theories, and would have no one but
himself to blame if she did not make a wife to suit him.

He passed hours when every other inmate of Rose Cottage was asleep
in what he called calm reflection. There was only one subject which
worried him.

"If I only could ascertain," he said to himself, again and again,
"whether she has any property in her own right; enough for instance
to set up house keeping. Wallingford was always economical; but never
pinched as I often am; and the estate here must be very valuable. I was
surprised to find the style of living so far beyond ours at home."

I cannot say that he did not have misgivings: concerning the
future;—that there were not moments when he realized that honor would
have required him to gain the brother's consent before he confessed
his love to Gertrude;—that prudence required him to establish himself
in business, and be sure that he could support a family before he
undertook the responsibility of one;—that he did not sometimes question
himself whether he could trust his own heart with the care of one so
young and undisciplined. Occasionally the recollection of his own
overbearing temper would cause him to pause, before he subjected a
child, he really loved, to its chilling influence; but one glance
in her bewitching eyes; one tone of her clear, silvery voice would
dissipate all doubt; and his resolution would be stronger than ever to
win her if it was in his power.

When Miss Goldby came forth from her closet, having left her cares
at the foot of the cross, she found Paul and Gertrude walking slowly
back and forth across the piazza; their tones low but earnest; their
attention wholly absorbed. As she busied herself in laying the table
for supper, an occasional glance showed her how lovingly he bent his
tall head toward her girlish form; and her heart went up to God with
the petition:

"May his affection for her deepen and grow more fervent from this
hour." For, understanding Gertrude as she did, she knew as well as if
the young couple were already standing before their minister, that they
would be married at no distant day.

Edward did not make his appearance until they were seated at the table;
longer delay on his account being inexpedient on account of Gertrude's
evening engagement, which as yet had never been postponed. When he
did come in, he took his seat gravely; his face pale, but calm. He
had been going over his whole acquaintance with Paul; and had come to
the conclusion that Hannah was right, in her opinion. Dudley, though
an agreeable friend to one of his own sex, was neither fitted by
education nor by native refinement of feeling to make a wife happy. He
was resolved, therefore, positively to refuse his consent; and if his
wishes were set at nought, to appeal to her guardian, an old gentleman
in New York city, one of his father's most valued friends.

"We waited for you as long as we could," explained Gertrude, laughing
in her brother's serious face. "This is my night to go away; and I
always try to be punctual."

"I was the one in fault," he answered without a smile, "and by the
way, that reminds me that I must engage a music teacher from the city
for you at once. A few quarters of thorough drilling will turn you out
quite a brilliant performer."

Gerty glanced uneasily in Paul's face and then meeting her brother's
eye, blushed deeply, rising to hide her embarrassment.

"Put on your knit sacque," urged Hannah. "There will be a fog. Hiram
will be there for you at nine, as usual."

"I object to that arrangement," protested Paul with rising color. "That
must be my privilege, now."

Though turning a shade paler, Hannah took no notice of his remark; but
rising, brought the soft scarlet sacque, and assisted Gerty to put it
on.

The moment the door was shut, Edward turned to his guest, and with a
kindling eye, asked:

"By what right do you assert any care of my sister?"

It was evident to both persons present that he was laboring under
intense excitement which he was trying, however, to conceal.

"Give me an hour and I will explain," was the cool reply.

"I am at your service immediately;" and taking their hats, the two
young men walked out to the linden grove, where they were soon seated
on a rustic bench.



CHAPTER V.

IMPULSE VERSUS PRUDENCE.

TWO hours passed. Hiram had gone to attend his young mistress home
as usual, when, Hannah, whose anxiety was almost more than she could
endure, heard Gertrude's step on the piazza.

"Are you alone and in the dark?" the young girl asked petulantly. "Well
I must say, I do like people to keep their promises. Where are all the
people?"

In the moonlight Hannah could see that her darling wore an ugly pout
and that her cheeks were crimson. Trying to steady her voice, she
answered:

"Edward and Mr. Dudley went out together, directly after you did, and I
have not seen them since."

"Did you find Mr. Monroe, as agreeable a teacher as usual?" she added
presently, as the young girl threw herself listlessly into a chair.

There was no answer, to this; but after a few moments' silence, a sob
was heard.

"What is the matter, my poor child?" exclaimed the kind woman,
approaching her darling and kissing her forehead. "You're like a child
to me, you know; and you wont keep any thing back from one, who loves
you better than herself."

Gerty sprang up and threw her arms around Hannah's neck.

"I do believe you love me," she sobbed, clinging to her oldest friend,
"and you wont let Ned be cross now when—"

"Don't be afraid to tell your own Hannah all that's in your heart, my
dear child."

"Well—well, Paul—Mr. Dudley, I mean, wants me to go and live with him
in Chicago; and I'm almost sure Ned will—will say I'm too young."

"But darling there'll be time enough to talk about that, when you have
finished your education. You're getting on so finely now; and Mr.
Monroe is so earnest to help you along, that in a few years you'll be
like your own blessed mother. Then if Mr. Dudley and you are agreed, I
don't think Edward will refuse his consent."

"Chicago is so far away I should not be happy any more. He wants me to
go now: he says he is sure of being successful. Oh, Hannah, I love him
so dearly!"

"Well, well, child!" said the woman resolutely checking back a sob.
"I'd go to bed now. Why you're nothing but a baby; old Hannah's baby. I
don't see how I can give you up yet."

"I shall miss you terribly I know," urged the child impulsively. "Paul,
he says I'm to call him Paul, now, thinks we had better board at first
till he earns a little money; but I shall go to house keeping very
quick, and then you'll come and be my dear good Hannah, wont you?"

"Oh, my pet!" cried the woman, overcome at last, "I can't give you up
to a stranger. I can't! I can't! I've had the care of you sixteen years
next Christmas; and I wouldn't know how to live without my darling
girl."

"I've made you a great deal of trouble," murmured the child, kissing
the woman's cheek. "You must think of that."

"'Tisn't for myself alone, I'm grieving dear. I'd try to bear it,
praying God to help me; but it's for you, Gerty. You're too young; and
it can't be expected a stranger will have the patience with your faults
which those have, who've known you longer."

"Not if the stranger is my husband? You don't know how he loves me,
Hannah."

The woman shook her head; but instantly added; "If I could be sure
'twas for your good; and that your mother in heaven would approve; I'd
hide all my own grief at the parting, so far down in my own heart, that
you would never know it; but I can't be sure and so—"

The sound of hasty steps on the gravelled path checked her words.
Gertrude started to her feet, and seemed about to dart away; but like
a frightened bird, not knowing from which direction the enemy would
appear.

The young men came in together. It was a relief to all that in the
moonlight the traces of emotion could be but dimly observed. Edward
advanced at once to his sister and put his arm around her.

"Come with me a moment," he said softly.

"I have heard Paul's confession," he began abruptly. "I would give all
I am worth if he never had come to Rose Cottage; or that, having come,
he had shown the honor of a man. He says you have engaged to be his; to
leave your home in a month and go with him to Chicago where he may, or
may not, succeed."

"Yes, I told him so; and I shall keep my word." Gertrude held up her
head and looked her brother proudly in the face.

"Not with my consent," was the firm response. "Nor with the consent of
your guardian. Why, Gerty, you are only a child; not half educated;
totally unfit for the cares of a family."

"Paul has promised to teach me; to overlook all my deficiencies, if I
will be his wife."

He groaned, aloud. "I know Paul better than you do," he urged in a
bitter tone. "I know him better in the last hour, than in the six years
which have preceded it. Oh, Gerty, cannot you understand that it is
solely for your good, I urge you to pause before you bind yourself!
Wait only one year. If your attachment continues, it will be time
enough then, and Paul will have established himself in business."

"He says his success is in a great measure dependent on me," she
answered in a pleading tone; "that a gentleman with a family can gain
access to society where another would be excluded. I gave him my
promise freely, and unless he releases me I shall hold myself bound to
keep it."

"Just the words he uses," muttered Edward angrily.

"If he isn't good, and all that, why did you bring him here?" she asked
in a triumphant tone.

"I considered him a gentleman; and as I had paid repeated visits to his
house, I wished to return his hospitality. To-morrow morning I shall go
to New York for an interview with your guardian. You must promise me
that this foolish affair shall proceed no farther until you have his
sanction."

"I have already given promises enough for one day," was her evasive
answer, "besides, his opinion will have no weight with me. I know what
is necessary for my own happiness."

"The law gives him power, Gertrude."

"Over my property," she rejoined laughing; "but not over my person."

"Paul has an apt scholar, I see," he remarked bitterly.

"He only taught me how to defend my rights; but seriously Ned, I wish
you would tell me whether I have any money. I must buy wedding clothes,
you know."

"I have already enlightened Paul on that subject."

Mr. Van Husen, Gertrude's guardian, was shocked at the intelligence
Edward communicated; and declared up and down that the foolish child
should not be allowed to throw herself away; that the wild scheme must
be checked in some manner. But after the young lawyer had repeated his
conversation with Dudley;—the cool determination of the lover to carry
his point;—and the self-will which he was obliged to confess was a
prominent trait in Gertrude's character, the white-haired old gentleman
shook his head gravely.

It is not necessary at present to state all that passed on this
occasion, Mr. Wallingford returned to Rose Cottage with a heavy heart,
resolved, however, to effect a compromise if possible; and on the plea
of time to prepare a trousseau for his sister, to postpone the time of
marriage until her sixteenth birthday, which would be a week before
Christmas.

Three days later Mr. Dudley had taken his leave, intending to make a
hasty trip to Philadelphia; inform his parents of his new plans; and
then proceed to Chicago, to establish himself in business.

Through the aid of a relative, Mr. Lancester, one of the monied men
of that rising city, he was enabled to write his old chum that his
prospects were of the most flattering kind. He took an office with
a popular lawyer, with the understanding, that if agreeable to both
parties, they would eventually enter into a partnership.

In October he wrote Edward again, (his letters to Gertrude were of
weekly occurrence,) saying:

"Every body is congratulating me on coming here exactly at the right
time. I have had such a successful practice so far, and am so confident
of being able to support my family even in the style I used to talk
about in the good college days; that if I could feel your consent to
our marriage was willingly bestowed, I should have no more favors to
ask of fortune. Dear Ned, any thing else under heaven that you could
have asked me, except that I would resign the dear hand so confidingly
trusted to my keeping, would have been granted without a word of
dissent. I mean to prove myself such a model husband; and withal to act
as teacher, that in time your prejudices, and those of that prim old
maid will be disarmed."

Finding it useless longer to resist, Edward paid several visits to New
York for the purpose of consulting Mr. Van Husen in regard to finances.
The old gentleman had a few thousand dollars which he had carefully
hoarded for the education of his ward; and as she was still under
age, he refused to give up more than was absolutely necessary for her
fitting out.

Rose Cottage was given by will to Edward; and he had heretofore refused
to sell a foot of land, even when somewhat pressed for money; but he
now resolved to part with a valuable house-lot rather than have his
sister go penniless to her new home. He knew enough of Paul to be
sure that in a house of his own, well furnished, he would be a more
considerate husband than if the inmate of a fashionable hotel.

With a definite purpose in view he made a journey to Chicago late in
the month of November, and was so fortunate as to find a new house in
a handsome block, on one of the main streets, which he immediately
secured, and furnished; using for the latter purpose, a thousand
dollars he had persuaded Mr. Van Husen to advance, from his sister's
fund.

Having accomplished his object, he returned home without having once
met his old chum. He was delighted, however, to tell Gertrude and
Hannah, that rumor spoke highly of the young attorney; who was bending
the whole force of his mind to his business.

Nor was the wardrobe of the child-bride so neglected as might have
been supposed. Among Miss Goldby's relatives was a widow who kept a
fashionable mantua-maker's establishment in the Empire city. To this
place was conveyed a large, old fashioned camphor-wood trunk, in which
Hannah had hoarded some articles formerly belonging to her mistress.
There was a large velvet cloak, bought when Mrs. Wallingford had plenty
of money; several dress patterns of muslin and gauze not made up; a
lilac satin with abundance to make it into the present mode, beside
shawls and laces in variety, and some valuable jewelry.

Several entire days were devoted to shopping in search of more common
articles, bed and table linen, etc., etc., so that when Mr. Dudley came
on for his wife, he found five immense trunks marked Chicago, packed
and ready for transportation.



CHAPTER VI.

NEWS FROM THE WEST.

THE wedding was to be strictly private. This point Gertrude had yielded
to her brother, who was unwilling that any stranger's eye should
intrude on an occasion so painful to him. The husband elect arrived
only the previous evening, and the nuptial ceremony took place at Rose
Cottage at nine o'clock in the morning. There was a handsome breakfast
at eleven; and the bridal party took the boat for Albany at two.

Directly after the ceremony, Edward invited the wedded pair into the
library, where he put into his sister's hand a deed of gift of the
house he had purchased, explaining that he had furnished it with her
money; and that, on a number of the articles, she would find a mark
showing that it could be exchanged if not in accordance with her taste.

Gertrude was wholly overcome at this generous gift, especially as she
knew how her wilfulness had grieved her brother. She threw her arms
around his neck and begged him always to remember that she loved him
next to Paul; and that she never, never would forget his kindness.

The parting between poor Hannah and her darling was so painful that
all were glad when it was over; and the self-sacrificing woman was
free to give vent to her grief. For Gerty's sake she had put a violent
constraint upon her own feelings; dressing her dear child in the bridal
garments with her own hands, and decking her fair head with orange
blossoms. Indeed, since she had found it must be so;—that no arguments
could avail with the self-willed girl, she had abstained from useless
reproach, and substituted such counsel as her true woman's heart
enabled her to give.

Though her opinion of Mr. Dudley had never changed since she first
begged Edward to find some excuse for shortening his friend's visit;
yet never after the marriage was settled did she, by word or look, give
evidence of her distrust.

Every night she sought Gertrude's couch with the excuse, "I shan't
have you with me long darling," and there cautioned her against the
indulgence of those traits which would surely wean her husband's
affection; or begged her to mark out and continue some course of study
such as would fit her to be as useful a woman as her mother was.

Sometimes Gertrude was softened by Hannah's earnestness, and would
promise any thing. At other times she would pout, or say:

"You talk as if Paul didn't love me much; but he does; no matter what I
do wrong, he says he can't help loving me."

Then Hannah would urge a higher motive for self-discipline, even the
favor of God; and the impulsive child would weep and confess:

"I'm sick of being naughty. I wish I could be good always."

Then they both would kneel while Hannah besought the blessing of her
heavenly Father upon the child in the untried scenes before her.

Now the pleasure of working for one she loved was over; and there was
nothing to do but to weep and pray, that out of seeming ill, (for she
could not regard this unseasonable marriage otherwise than an event
to be mourned,) God would bring good. Years after she knew that her
prayers had been answered, and though she acknowledged that—

  "God moves in a mysterious way,
   His wonders to perform,"

yet with streaming eyes she gave to him all the glory.

Edward, at great inconvenience to himself, had continued to make his
home at Rose Cottage while his sister remained. He had taken an office
in the city, and had already gained some suits. Now he intended to
leave at once, and for the rest of the winter apply himself diligently
to business.

Hannah was to remain at Rose Cottage; and Minnie Howard, her niece, to
be her guest till spring.

The morning following the wedding, Edward was seated at the table for
an early breakfast, when he said:

"I shall run up Saturday night as often as possible, for I shall need
cheering; and in the Spring I shall come out every night as I have done
this fall."

"I don't look forward to any thing," was the desponding answer. "I have
a feeling that Gertrude, poor child, will want me. She'll turn to her
old friends when others fail her."

"I hope you don't wish her husband to fail her, that she may come back
to you."

"No, Edward, I love her so dearly that though it would be one of the
greatest sacrifices, yet I would be willing never to see her again, if
I could be sure she would not need me; but I distrust that man, I try
not to; but I can't help it."

"Well," he rejoined with a sigh. "They are married and we must hope for
the best."

The first letter from Gertrude reached her brother on the last day of
the year. It seemed to have been written in great haste, and was full
of expressions of affection and gratitude for his kindness in providing
her with so beautiful a home.

"Paul is busy all the day," she wrote; "but in the evening helps me
arrange the pictures and books I brought from Rose Cottage. We have not
changed one article; and we both admire your taste in the selection of
every thing. I have been to the theatre twice, and oh, it does seem
like heaven! I do hope it isn't wrong to go. I remember Hannah telling
me that my mother said it unfitted one for the duties of life; and if I
thought it would do that I would stay away, much as I like it. My dear
brother, I have made a resolution to be as good a woman as my mother
was; and Paul is so kind he helps me a great deal."

Enclosed in this letter was a slip from Paul with these words:

"Gerty says she has told you how much we like the house; but she could
not, in one letter, give expression to our grateful sense of your
kindness. Your sister has created quite a sensation here by her beauty
and artless manners. You would have been proud of her; and I can assure
you her husband was, and is."

Edward was delighted at the bright prospects opening before the young
couple; but his cheek flushed not a little at Gertrude's almost
illegible scrawl, in which the most common words were either misspelled
or misused. He had thought the letters he received in college bad
enough, but this was much worse.

"Poor, mistaken, child!" he mentally exclaimed. "Instead of passing her
evenings in places of amusement, she ought to be studying her spelling
book, or reciting grammar to her husband."

He was so much distressed at this exhibition of her ignorance that he
took the afternoon boat for Rose Cottage, as fortunately the ice had
not yet closed the river. He found Hannah laughing and crying over a
letter from her darling, just received.

"Shall I read it?" he asked smiling at her manifestations of delight.

"I will read it to you," was her hesitating reply. "I have read it so
many times I can make it out quite well."

I will give my reader's an extract:

"Dear, dear Hannah. Have you longed for your naughty girl, who used to
torment you so much? I hope you have missed me a little, for I have
wanted you every hour in the day. Now don't you go and marry that funny
Mr. Biles who made love to you; for I shall go to Rose Cottage in the
summer to bring you to Chicago. Paul told me something about your beau.
He rode with him the day he first came to see us, and the man talked so
about our never having any visitors; because you wouldn't let any body
come, that Paul was almost afraid to venture."

"Dear Hannah, I wish I didn't find it so hard to write for I have so
much to ask you. I am very happy indeed, I mean, most of the time, but
there are some things which trouble me. The first Sunday I was here,
I dressed to go to church; but Paul said he was tired;—that it was
his only day of rest, and he'd rather stay at home. I was very much
surprised. I told him I had never staid from church in all my life,
unless I was sick; but of course I couldn't go alone; so I stayed. I'm
almost afraid to tell you that we worked all day arranging rooms, and
then in the evening I had to sing and play tunes I never sang before
on Sunday. I tried to laugh and be lively, because Paul said it was
nonsense to be so squeamish; but I can't think it was right. I wish I
knew what I ought to do, for I'm afraid Paul don't mean to go to church
at all. He says his father and mother haven't been inside a church for
years; and that it costs a great deal to hire such a pew as he would be
willing to sit in. I told him I felt wicked all day, working just as if
it wasn't Sunday; and he said; 'Pshaw, Gerty! I'll take care of your
conscience. Your first duty is to obey your husband.'"

Then followed some lines written later:

"Oh, Hannah! how sorry I am I didn't learn to keep house. Paul loves
coffee so dearly; and our servant doesn't know any thing. This morning
I tried myself, and instead of being clear like yours; it was just like
mud. I tried not to cry; but it was hard to be blamed when I had done
my best. There was nothing on the table fit to eat; and so Paul went
off to get his breakfast at a restaurant. I'm sorry now we tried to
keep house, for the servants here are so ignorant."

"Paul's patience will not last long under such circumstances," remarked
young Wallingford gravely; but "Hannah how is it that her letters are
so much worse than those she sent me in college."

The woman's cheek flushed; but at last she acknowledged that it was a
task Gerty was very unwilling to enter upon. "I insisted." she said,
"that she should write all the words on the slate; and then we looked
them out in the dictionary. Sometimes it took a day or two before the
sheet was ready to send off, she had to copy it so many times."

"And was this what took her so many evenings to Mr. Monroe?"

"Yes, he teaches the school you know; but Gerty wouldn't attend because
she was so much behind the rest. He came here one day to buy some fresh
butter, and I made bold to talk with him about her education. Finally
he agreed to teach her three evenings in a week, on condition she would
come regularly and try to improve. I paid him in butter and eggs; and
she was getting on finely, till Mr. Dudley came."

Mr. Wallingford paced the floor in great excitement. "It is even worse
than I feared," he exclaimed; "but regret is useless now. If I had done
my duty,—"

"Don't fret about that, Edward. If you had put her to the best school,
she would not have applied herself; now she feels the need of an
education, she will turn to her books, and her husband has promised to
teach her."

He shook his head.

"I didn't know the dear child had so much conscience," urged Hannah,
turning to the letter again.

"You must be careful what you write," was Edward's caution. "Paul will
doubtless see the letter. I shall write at once recommending Paul to
take a slip in Dr. Gilbert's pew, offering to pay the rent. She can
attend then if he does not."



CHAPTER VII.

BROKEN PROMISES.

THREE months later let us look in upon the girl-bride.

It was a warm morning in the middle of May; but poor Gertrude thought
not of the weather. She was sitting in her own chamber curled up in a
lounging chair, her head resting on the arm, crying as if her heart
would break; and truly the scenes through which she had passed during
the last twenty-four hours would have brought grief to many a wife of
more mature years.

Following their arrival in Chicago, several parties were made in order
to introduce the strangers into society. It was true that the extreme
youth, the beauty and artlessness of Mrs. Dudley made her an object of
interest and attention; and many evenings were by her among friends
whom she felt that she could love. But after one occasion when she
made some blunder, which caused quite a laugh at her expense; and for
which her husband openly reprimanded her; she shrank from appearing in
public, and made almost any excuse in order to remain at home.

One day when a number of ladies and gentlemen were calling upon her, an
allusion was made to Dr. Kane's Arctic Explorations; and a gentleman
said:

"I suppose of course, Mrs. Dudley, you have read his interesting
volumes."

"No," she answered innocently, "I have never heard of them."

Paul, who sat near talking with a lady, called the attention of all to
his wife by saying in a loud voice:

"Gertrude has no suspicion of any other Cain except the naughty boy who
killed his brother."

When the company had gone, he turned to her and said angrily:

"Why need you disgrace me by exposing your ignorance any more than is
necessary? Why couldn't you answer that you had not read the books,
without adding that you never heard of them? I shall be laughed at for
having married a fool."

"I told you I was ignorant; and you promised to teach me," she began,
her lip quivering.

"What time have I to hear a-b, ab," he asked with a sneer.

Another time she was on her way to the parlor after tea, when she heard
a great shout of laughter. She ran back to her room in an agony of
grief and mortification when she overheard her husband reading aloud
for the edification of a coarse companion, one of the letters she had
written him soon after their engagement. Even in her own room she could
hear a fresh burst of merriment when they stumbled upon a word spelled
as it could be found in the dictionary.

All this time the affairs in her house were growing more and more
confused. One servant after another was engaged and dismissed by the
master for some trifling offence, until no decent one would come to
them. It had become a habit of Paul's to take his dinners and often his
breakfasts at a restaurant, without stopping to inquire where his wife
procured her food.

At last he insisted that the usage of society required they should
give a party in return for all their invitations, and their cards were
accordingly sent out.

Poor, ignorant, unhappy Gertrude shrank with actual pain from the
responsibilities of the occasion; and when she timidly asked her
husband what she should do, he answered sharply:

"I can tell better what you will do. You'll act like a fool as you
always have done," in company. But when she began to cry, he softened a
little and explained:

"If you and your servant can manage to have the house in order, I'll
excuse you from every thing else. The entertainment will be sent in
from the confectioners; and waiters will relieve you of all care. You
will take your place by me, nominally to receive the company; but I
have engaged a lady every way competent, to do it in reality."

"Will it be Miss Richmond?"

"Yes."

"I would rather have had Marion Gilbert. She is so kind and really
tries to teach me." The tone was sad and humble; but Paul did not seem
to notice it.

"I have chosen the one I thought suitable," he replied, "and you will
show her proper attention."

A spark of the old wilfulness shot from Gertrude's eye as she said:

"Perhaps I shall not see her, I may not be present at all."

"Just as you please, Mrs. Dudley; but remember if you choose to slight
my invited guests, I never will forgive you."

She was subdued at once, and with a burst of feeling cried:

"Oh, Paul, I never thought you'd treat me so!"

The whole day of the party, Gertrude and her good-natured, but awkward
Bridget spent in sweeping, dusting, washing glass and polishing
silver. When night came, the weary child was more fit to go to bed in
a darkened room; and have cold applications to her throbbing temples,
than to dress and entertain company.

"Do try and get up some color," urged Paul, coming in for the first
time since morning. "You look as if you were in the last stages of
consumption. I should think you'd have some pride about yourself."

At eight the guests began to arrive; and at nine the rooms were
crowded. Two or three times when Paul was introducing some one,
Gertrude thought she should faint. The room seemed to whirl about in
a most unpleasant manner; and once she was obliged to catch hold of a
chair for support. She knew her husband was angry with her, from the
occasional glances he gave her, and she longed to be by herself and
have a good cry.

Miss Richmond stood near her, talking gayly with every one who came up;
entirely ignoring the young wife's presence; and rendering the contrast
between them as great as possible.

When the refreshments were passed around, Gertrude sick and giddy,
declined the offer of one and another to bring her cake, fruit or ices.
She was ignorant that etiquette required her, at least, to toy with
her spoon; and did not understand why so many gazed at her, standing
unemployed.

Presently Paul caught a glimpse of her and seizing a glass of
vanilla-ice said aloud:

"Excuse me, Gertrude, I thought you were supplied."

Her countenance lighted with the attention, and without thought of
harm, she said:

"My head aches so badly, I have no appetite."

"Take it," he muttered under his breath; and without another word
returned to Miss Richmond's side.

Marion Gilbert happened to be near, and witnessed the by-play. All the
evening she had watched Gertrude with a hope to be able to relieve her;
but circumstances had kept them apart. Now she stepped forward, and,
hiding Mrs. Dudley's blanched face from view, tried to interest her in
conversation. She saw with what extreme difficulty the young wife kept
back her tears; and soon managed to draw her into a corner where they
could chat at leisure. At some inconvenience to herself; she staid with
Gertrude until the last guest had departed; and then recommending a
late breakfast kissed the poor child good night.

"I'm so weary, I can scarcely stand," Gerty said, as her husband was
putting out the lights. "I am so glad it's over."

There was no answer, and understanding by this time that Paul was not
pleased, she climbed up the staircase, and throwing off her dress, sank
on the couch and soon fell into a heavy slumber.

The first sound she heard was the breaking of glass and starting up,
to her surprise found it was broad day light. There was loud, angry
talking in the hall; and running to the door Gertrude heard her husband
dismissing Bridget and threatening to have her prosecuted for the
damage she had done.

This was a severe trial; for though wholly ignorant, Bridget had proved
more sympathizing and faithful than any of her predecessors. She knew
it was no use for her to plead the girl's cause; and while she was
wondering what she should do for breakfast the outer door shut, and
Paul had gone.

A timid knock soon after was followed by the girl's entrance.

"I'm going, ma'am; and it's sorry I am for the sake of ye, for any
baby can see ye're not fit to be left alone with the like of himself.
Wherever are yer friends that they don't come, and take ye away before
he kills ye intirely."

"Don't Bridget; don't talk so."

"Feth ma'am, and don't I know that; but sure there's many a husband has
killed the girl he's vowed to love by his hard words. Oh, ma'am! I've
seen throuble meself; and I knows how to sympathize with ye."

"I know you've been kind, Bridget. I'm very sorry you're going. I don't
know what I shall do."

"Put ye're trust in the Lord, ma'am; that's all I can tell ye. Shall
I give ye a bit of my life, ma'am. It'll show yer how the good Lord
carries his children through a dale of throuble."

"Yes, Bridget, I should like to hear it; but I'm so faint. I've taken
nothing since yesterday morning."

"I'll run down, and make ye a cup of tea. It's better for us not to
mind the coffee at all, as himself is away."

In a short time she returned with tea and a cracker, which Gertrude
swallowed with a relish. Then leaving the cup standing on the table,
she began:

"I'm not a girl, ma'am, at all. I'm a married woman; and the ring is in
my trunk. Patrick McCarty was as fine a bye as one would wish to see.
He coorted me for a year; for he used to take a drop at 'the public;'
and I thought it wasn't good for him, and we didn't agree about it. At
last he said he'd lave drinking intirely if I'd be married, and come to
Ameriky. I had seventeen pounds, ma'am, of my own airning, and a chist
of as fine clothes as any one would wish."

"I consinted at last, and directly after our marriage we started for
Liverpool. A cousin of Patrick's came along with us; a bold girl, and
I didn't like my husband to be talking so loud with her in the car.
He took a room for the three of us, with a closet in it for Maggie to
sleep in. From the first day he treated me worse than a dog. He wanted
me to give up all my money to his care; and when I said 'twas safer
for me to keep it in my chist, he abused me awfully; and Maggie took
his part against me. I don't know what I should have done if my mother
hadn't taught me to pray. I used to go in the closet and ask God to
continue my friend; and I had need of him, for one day when I had gone
out to ease my burden by walking through the dirty streets, Patrick
and Maggie carried my trunk away between them, thinking to get to the
vessel and sail without me."

"I was like one disthracted; but whin I found my money and clothes and
every thing, even to my Bible, was gone, I told mysilf 'twas no use
fretting. I got a place pretty soon out of the city, where I churned
butter and washed keelers; and the Lord was helping me grow continted,
whin one day I heard a man had been run over and was lying in a shed
with no one to look after him."

"I don't know what made me go there, for I had not thought of seeing
Patrick; but it was he, poor feller; and I knew at oncet he had but a
little while to live."

"I got leave of my mistress to have him moved to my room; and I nursed
him as well as I was able, and he, all the time, as humble as one could
wish. He and Maggie had quarrelled about the money until they agreed
that she should have the clothes, and he, the siventeen pounds. All
but one pound was gone; and it cost that to bury him; and I wouldn't
be without the thought that I forgave him, the Lord helping me, for a
chist full of money."

"Was he sorry for his cruel treatment?"

"Feth, ma'am; and he was that sorry, he'd never forgive himself at all;
but, ma'am, I told him I read in my Bible, 'Not rindering evil for
evil, or railing for railing, but contrariwise, blessing.'"

The large drops ran down Gertrude's cheeks, as she listened to this
simple story. Presently she called Bridget to her, and putting her arms
up, drew down the homely face and kissed it.

[Illustration: "YOU HAVE DONE ME GOOD AND I CAN'T LET YOU GO."]

"You've done me good," she said softly, "and I can't let you go away."



CHAPTER VIII.

THOUGHTS AND REVELATIONS.

INSTEAD of obeying her angry master and leaving the house, Bridget went
down stairs to the parlors, where a scene of confusion met her eye,
such as would have carried dismay to the heart of her young mistress.
Her resolve was taken at once to bear and forbear, if she might be
allowed to stay, for the sake of the desolate child-wife so far away
from all her friends.

She ran up to the attic to lay aside her bonnet and shawl, and looked
in upon Gertrude to say:

"Be aisy, ma'am; Bridget McCarty's not the girl to lave ye whin ye need
a stout arm and a willing heart."

"I tried to go down," faltered the young wife, "but I grew giddy at
once."

It was when she was left alone that, supporting herself by a chair, she
walked to the window and looked down into the street.

Just passing were two young girls, whom she had often watched during
the winter as they merrily wended their way to school; their books
under their arms.

She sighed as she reflected, "They are just my age; and I might have
been going to school, as happy and free from care as they, if it had
not been for my obstinacy and self-will. Now I am far away from all
who love me, with not one, but a poor servant girl, to speak a word of
sympathy or affection."

A merry burst of laughter from a group of younger children grated
harshly on her ear; and she murmured:

"How long it seems since I was merry! Oh, Hannah! Oh, Edward! you're
prophecies have come true! I am sorry I did not heed your advice. I
deserve to be miserable." With these sad reflections she sank into the
lounging chair and burying her face in her hands, sobbed as I have
described at the commencement of the last chapter.

In a few minutes her grief had exhausted itself and lying there, with
her eyes fixed on the clear, blue sky, her thoughts went backward to
Rose Cottage.

Though ignorant and unaccomplished, Hannah had carefully taught her the
sacred truths revealed in the word of God. She knew that man alienated
from his Maker, could never experience perfect joy. She knew that the
love of the Father had provided a way whereby his sinful children might
secure, not only temporal, but eternal good. Every Sabbath she had
heard of Christ's love to fallen man; again and again she had listened
to the words, "'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.'" "'For the Son of man is come to seek and
save that which was lost.'"

These gracious promises had indeed often fallen on her ear as they were
repeated in church by her good pastor; but never till now did they seem
so full of meaning. For the first time in her young life she felt the
need of an almighty Friend; for the first time, the prayer went up from
her heart as well as from her lips:

"O, God, do help me!"

Poor child! in her deep sorrow she was beginning to seek the Lord, "if
haply she might feel after him, and find him, though he be not far from
every one of us."

"He is in the heavens," she said softly. "Can he hear me?" If she had
but known it, her heavenly Father was by her side; his heart yearning
over her with compassion and tenderness. The Holy Spirit was there too,
waiting to take the things of Christ and reveal them unto her.

While she was in this softened frame, she heard the ring of the door
bell. Instantly all thought was suspended in one absorbing fear that
Paul had returned with Bridget's successor;—that he would be terribly
angry; and that his harsh words would kill her.

Listening intently she heard low voices talking in the hall, and
presently a light footstep mounting the stairs.

"May I come in?" inquired a cheerful voice.

It was Marion Gilbert; and a quick flush of pleasure for one instant
brightened Gertrude's pale cheeks. She put out her arms like a wearied
child; and then received Marion's tender kiss with a burst of joyful
tears.

"I've been sick all the morning, and Bridget has so much to do," she
began, apologizing.

"I shall feel like a stranger if you make excuses;" urged the visitor,
"and I came to ask you if you want a sister. If you do, I shall take
off my bonnet and go to work. There's always so much to do after a
party."

"Oh, Marion! you don't know how much I need one. Bridget is the only
friend I have in this whole city." She said this without the least
intention of reproaching her husband; but her kind friend understood
well how disappointed her hopes must be when his name was not excepted.

"Mamma calls me a very energetic girl," she said laughing; "and I
mean to prove to you that I am. The first thing is to get you some
breakfast, for I suspect you haven't had any."

"Oh, yes, I have!" pointing to the half empty cup.

"Do you like coffee?"

"Very much; but Bridget can't make it nice."

"I'll teach her."

She brought a pillow and laid the weary head tenderly upon it; gave the
wondering child a kiss, and ran away saying, "Lie there, and remember
there are three persons who love you, papa, mamma and your humble
sister."

What power there is in a few kind words. Life looked very different
to poor Gertrude, viewing it from the new aspect. She had long ago
committed to memory a verse of Scripture. "Ask and ye shall receive."
She had with her whole heart asked God to help her, and how speedily
relief had come. Her thoughts were not distinct, as I have given them;
but there was an indefinite feeling, that her heavenly Father was
nearer than she had thought; and was watching over her, together with a
resolution to cast her cares, for the future, on him.

Before she had begun to expect Marion back, she heard laughing in the
hall. How pleasant it sounded.

"No, I can't take both, my dress is too long. I'll carry the cup; and
you may take the waiter."

Before they entered the room the pleasant aroma had revived the sick
child; and oh, how good it did taste! Bridget stood by, her face
lighted up by such a look of pleasure that it made her almost handsome.

"Now finish clearing off the dishes," said Marion, in that clear,
decided tone which servants love to obey. "I'll be down directly and
put away all the dainties. Do you think you shall remember about the
coffee?"

"That I shall, miss; and I'll always be thanking yees as long as the
breath of life is in me."

"You must eat every mouthful of this nice toast and the egg with it.
Don't you like dropped egg?"

"It tastes just like home," was the contented reply.

"Bridget has work enough for the whole morning," said Marion; "and I
am going to be nursery girl as well as cook." She turned down the bed
clothes and threw the bolster near the open window to air, while she
picked up the various articles of dress about the chamber. At last
she turned to Gertrude and said gayly, "It's for sisters to know each
other's ages. I'm twenty next month."

"And I was sixteen the day I left home. Paul wished to be married the
August before; but my brother would not consent."

"Of course not." Marion did not add what she thought. "He must be an
idiot to consent at all."

"I had such a dear home," Gertrude went on. "I told you last night
it was called Rose Cottage. I wish you could see it; and such a good
kind Hannah. She is not a common servant. She was mamma's friend; and
mamma gave me to her, and to Edward in charge. I don't mind telling you
that I acted very badly; and when they begged and plead with me not to
leave home till I was two or three years older at least, and had been
to school; for really, Marion, I know nothing, I wouldn't listen to
them. I just repeated the words Paul told me to use. 'I have given my
promise; and unless he wishes to be free, I shall keep my word.' Now
I know that I am not fit to be a wife; and have the care of a family.
Paul says, I'm a natural fool; and I'm afraid it's true, for I see so
many girls of my age, who know a great deal, and can spell every word
of a letter without looking in a dictionary."

Marion was obliged to bite her lips to keep her indignation within
bounds, at this artless revelation. She had heard the story of the
exposed letter; and ever since had found her heart drawn out toward the
unprotected child.

Gertrude, greatly revived by the most appetizing meal she had partaken
for months, prattled on, revealing every moment traits which drew out
the listener's sympathies more closely.

When the room was put in nice order, Marion looked at her watch.

"Oh, how the time flies!" she exclaimed. "I should so love to sit down
and talk with you; but I promised Bridget to help her. By the way, she
is very fond of you, and though awkward, she is teachable; much better
than the average."

"I'm afraid Paul wont let her stay. She broke a glass dish this
morning," was the timid answer.

"We'll try to contrive somehow to keep her. Now if I shut the blinds,
can you sleep?"

"If you'll promise to wake me as soon as you've done. It's so nice
to have you here. I wish Hannah and Edward knew what a friend I have
found. Do you know," she added in a reverent tone, "I think God sent
you here."

"I am sure he did, my sweet sister." Marion's eyes grew dim as she
looked into the wishful face; but not being a sentimental girl she
winked the tears out of sight, and added gayly:

"Pleasant dreams to you of home and Edward."



CHAPTER IX.

THE SURPRISE.

DOWN stairs there were brisk steps and suppressed, though earnest,
voices. Marion whose whole heart was bent on being of service to the
young wife, had two objects in view in every step she took. First the
room must be cleaned, the carpets cleansed from the spots of grease
which every where met her eye; and what was quite as important, Bridget
must be taught the best method of doing the work. She was delighted
to see that the girl caught her ideas at once; and tried to imitate
whenever it was in her power.

In the meantime Marion listened to a revelation of Paul's unkindness
which shocked her.

"Such cruelty shall be stopped," was her energetic reflection; "but
how?"

By half past eleven the lower part of the house was in fine order,
though it must be confessed there was a strong odor of benzine with
which the carpets had been cleansed. Marion ran softly up to the
chamber and found Gertrude still sleeping; and concluding the rest was
doing her more good than any thing else, went back to consult with the
servant about dinner.

Mr. Dudley, she learned to her astonishment, usually took that meal
away from home; but sometimes came in upon his wife all of a sudden;
and then talked "awful" because there was nothing fit to eat.

"I believe," the young lady said, "that gentlemen are always cross when
they are not well fed; and we must see that he has no excuse of that
kind to-day; for I want to get his leave for you to stay and comfort
your poor mistress."

An exploring expedition into the larder proved there was abundance in
the house for a nice little family dinner. Enough dainties remained
from the feast to furnish dessert for weeks.

There was half a boiled ham from which sandwiches had been made by the
caterer; a slice of steak uncooked, potatoes, rice and plenty of nice
little rolls. These last she had told Bridget to wrap in a towel to
keep them moist; then when needed for breakfast to wet and crisp them
in the oven.

Having begged an apron from the girl, she began to pare a ring around
the potatoes, throwing them into the pot with a little salt; calling
Bridget to observe every motion, with a view to another time.

When the potatoes and rice were boiling, she pounded the meat, to
Bridget's great surprise, and laid it upon the gridiron to be ready
for broiling; and then, seeing that the coal burned briskly, hurried
off to set the table. But finding the servant had already been taught
this operation by her young mistress, she resorted to the chamber; and
faithful to her promise, softly kissed the sleeper's pale cheek.

"I feel so much better. My sister has cured me," Gertrude said, pulling
Marion's face down for a second embrace.

This proved to be a day of pleasant surprises. Marion had assisted
her new sister down stairs, where, with a pillow and shawl she was
realizing how pleasant it was to be cared for once more, when another
ring brought a hectic flush to her cheek.

It is sad indeed for the wife, be she young or old, when she trembles
with fear at the thought of meeting reproachful looks and hard words
from her husband.

"That's Paul," she said half aloud, rising and leaning on her elbow.

But she was mistaken this time; it was not Paul.

"Is Mrs. Dudley at home?" inquired a cheerful, manly voice of the
waiting Bridget.

"Yes, sir, she's at home; but I can't tell without asking whether
she'll be able to see yerself."

"Tell her, Mr. Wallingford, her brother, is here."

"Och, sir! and that's the news I'll be proud to tell. Walk in, sir. Yer
welcome as the morning sun."

"Gerty, dear, I smell medicine. Are you ill?" he asked, opening the
door and descrying her in the back parlor.

He had no time to say more, the youthful figure bounded from the sofa
and almost fell into his outstretched arms.

"Oh, Edward!" was all she could say; but she nestled her head against
his breast, and gazed into his face with such a loving, satisfied
glance he needed no other assurance of welcome.

"What is the matter, Gerty? Your heart is fluttering like a frightened
bird," he said tenderly, seating her on the sofa and gazing sadly into
her pale, wan face. "It is well Hannah is not here or she—"

He stopped abruptly as she exclaimed, with a tear of joy:

"It seems like a dream. I never expected to be so happy again."

"Tell me all your trouble, little sister. I came a great many miles to
satisfy myself whether Paul was keeping his promise."

She went on in her childlike way to relate about the party; her
sickness; the trouble she had experienced with servants, and the
great kindness she had that morning received from Marion Gilbert, the
daughter of their clergyman.

"You have a servant now who seems attached to you," Mr. Wallingford
answered gravely, recalling her characteristic welcome at the door.

"Yes, she's as kind as can be. I do hope Paul will let me keep her.
Marion says she's very teachable."

"Why do you think he will not?"

"She broke a glass dish. She is not generally careless; and he
dismissed her." This was the only mention she had made of her husband.

With a calm, steady gaze in her eyes her brother said:

"Tell me, Gerty. Is Paul kind to you, and considerate of your wants?"

Her eyes fell beneath his; and there was such a pained expression on
her once happy face he needed no other answer.

A little tingle of the table bell announced that dinner was ready; and
almost immediately after Marion appeared smiling and blushing at the
singular position in which she found herself placed.

"This is my brother, Marion," Gertrude said with a bright smile, "I've
been telling him all about my new sister."

"Will you try to come to the table, darling?" whispered the visitor;
"or shall I bring you a piece of steak here?"

"Oh, I will go! Edward will give me his arm."

Marion rolled an easy chair to the table; called Bridget to bring a
cricket, and without a word seated herself at the head of the table
opposite a steaming dish of potatoes, mashed and browned in the form of
a pineapple. She waited one moment hoping Mr. Wallingford would offer
to say grace; but as he did not, she bowed her head one instant and
then with a smile, commenced her self-imposed duty of waiting on the
others.

Bridget, who had been privately instructed, stood behind her chair
waiting to carry the plates.

On the handsome side board was a dish of jelly and a silver basket
filled with different kinds of cake, with Gertrude's pretty service
of silver, exciting suspicion that coffee would be forthcoming in due
time. The young wife colored with delight as she saw what a nice repast
was in readiness for her brother, and could not forbear saying:

"Edward, you must thank my new sister for your dinner. I am a very poor
housekeeper."

"Bridget has proved an efficient help," quietly observed Miss Gilbert.
"You will be able to judge presently of her skill in making coffee."

"But where is your husband?" inquired Edward.

"He generally takes dinner at a restaurant," answered Gerty, trying to
steady her voice.

Edward looked so indignant that the poor child felt called upon to
explain.

"You know, brother, Hannah's cooking was always done with so little
fuss, that I thought it no trouble at all to keep house. Paul would
have very sorry fare, if he took his meals at home."

Before she had finished speaking, there was a loud, decided ring.

"That's Paul," she exclaimed anxiously.

"I know his ring."

"Don't tell him he has visitors," cautioned Marion, as Bridget passed
her to open the door.

"How came you, here?" Paul asked angrily. "You needn't expect a cent
from me. I told you to go at once."

They heard him walking into the hall, where he probably perceived the
smell of steak and coffee.

"So you and your mistress can get up a meal when I'm away," he began in
a sneering tone. "You didn't expect I'd come home, I suppose. Well, I'm
glad I've found what is done in my absence; and you may leave as quick
as you please."

By this time he had laid aside his hat and gloves, thrown his newspaper
on the hall table; and walked toward the dining room, asking: "Is your
mistress here?" throwing open the door.

His tone changed as if by magic; and yet it was easy to perceive
the surprise of seeing his brother-in-law was not at the moment an
agreeable one.

"Why, Wallingford, how are you? Welcome to Chicago. Miss Gilbert you
look as blooming as a June rose. Gertrude, love, are you ill? You are
very pale. Ah, I feared the effect of your last night's dissipation.
Fact, I have myself a blinding headache to-day. Makes me as blue as I
used to get sometimes in our old college days, Wallingford."

"How is business?" inquired Edward, breaking an awkward pause.

"Very good! No, I thank you, Miss Gilbert, I have eaten dinner. I came
home to see how Gerty was getting on with her clearing away, after our
first party. She ate so many dainties last night, feared she would be
sick to-day."

"Why, Paul, you forget I didn't taste any thing."

Both Marion and Mr. Wallingford caught an ugly scowl which for one
moment distorted the features of the lawyer, which instantaneously
changed to a smile, as he said carelessly:

"Ah, was that so? My duties as a host kept me very busy. You are so
fond of cake and candies, that I supposed you indulged freely."



CHAPTER X.

THE NEW PROJECT.

WHEN the coffee was served with the dessert, Mr. Dudley, who had taken
a cup, said with a bow to Miss Gilbert, "I suppose we are indebted to
you for this luxury. Gertrude, I wish you would find out the method.
This is really delicious."

"You are giving me quite too much praise," Marion answered quietly.
"Bridge concocted it; and I agree with you she is deserving of great
credit. Indeed I recognize in her the elements of a first rate cook;
and as she says she has no place, I shall engage her for mamma."

This speech caused Gertrude to open her eyes, while the girl who had
great shrewdness understood the plan at once.

"I don't see how I can spare her," faltered Mrs. Dudley, glancing shyly
at her husband. "Our other servants have been so bad."

"I've no doubt, love, she will stay if you insist," urged Paul,
beginning to fear that in dismissing a girl who could give him such a
cup of coffee, and who was an embryo cook, he had made a mistake. "I
will add another dollar a month to her wages if that will please you."

"Oh, thank you, Paul! I am so very glad."

After dinner the two lawyers went to Mr. Dudley's office; but first the
husband managed to see Gertrude alone, when he asked abruptly:

"What stories of your husband's unkindness have you been telling
Edward? He looks as grave as a judge."

"Not one word, Paul! You ought to know me better than that. I suppose
he is sorry to see me looking so ill."

Upon every indifferent subject Edward conversed with his usual freedom;
but the moment his sister's name was mentioned he proved by his
reticent manner that this was a subject upon which he did not wish to
speak.

Paul offered to show his visitor around the city; and they strolled
for an hour or two through the principal streets, conversing of
improvements to be made; handsome public buildings to be erected;
etc., etc. They were passing a dry goods store when a lady, elegantly
dressed, came out, to whom Paul bowed with great empressement, as the
French say. Edward thought the countenance familiar; and glanced in
his companion's face, wondering he did not speak of her. Paul's lip
was curled into a pleasant smile, as if some agreeable memories had
been stirred; but he presently remarked in continuation of their former
conversation:

"Chicago is destined to be a great city, one of the greatest in the
country."

They returned to find Gertrude impatiently awaiting her brother. At her
earnest request Marion had consented to send Bridget with a note of
explanation to her mother; and remain through the evening.

"A very wise arrangement, little one," observed Paul, playfully tapping
his wife's cheek.

The tea table presented an inviting appearance, glistening with silver,
glass and china. There was a plate of crisp rolls, a platter covered
with thin shavings of ham, a glass of jelly and a basket of cake.

"If Hannah were only here, I should be too happy," cried Gertrude,
looking smilingly around among her guests.

Paul was in unusual spirits. He had always liked Edward; and was more
relieved than he could express that his first visit was passing off so
agreeably. He secretly thanked Gerty again and again for urging Marion
to stay; for it would not be polite to leave his brother alone, and an
engagement for the evening awaited him.

After tea Marion tarried a few minutes in the dining room with Bridget
to show her how to wipe the silver; and to give particular directions
for breakfast, which the girl promised faithfully to remember; and then
at Edward's request accompanied herself in some simple songs.

At the end of one of them, Paul started to his feet exclaiming, "Your
music, Miss Gilbert is so charming that I quite forgot an engagement I
was so unfortunate as to make before I knew I should be honored with
company. I shall shorten it as much as possible and shall hope to find
you here on my return."

How delightfully passed the evening to those left behind. The moment
Paul had shut the door, Wallingford's reticence vanished; and he shone,
as his sister had never seen him before. He talked of their home, and
described to Miss Gilbert, who had never visited New York, the scenery
on the banks of the Hudson river. He told Gerty of Hannah's success in
raising calves; and made them both laugh by detailing the persistent
attentions of Hannah's old beau, Mr. Biles. He talked, too, of his
anxieties that his sister should improve every moment of the time she
could call her own, in making up the deficiencies in her education; and
Gertrude, now realizing as she never had done, how necessary knowledge
is to happiness, promised to take hold of study in earnest. Her eye
grew bright as she realized the possibility, that by this means, she
might win back the love of her husband.

But at last Marion noticed that her sister looked weary, though there
was still a smile on her lip, and insisted on seeing her in her chamber
before she left, calling Bridget to help her mistress to bed. Then
bidding her an affectionate good night, with the promise of another
speedy visit, she took Mr. Wallingford's offered arm, and commenced her
walk home.

"May I talk with you freely, Miss Gilbert, as if you were indeed a
sister," the gentleman began at once. "I am sure you will understand
how my heart aches for poor Gerty."

"I love her like a sister," was the earnest reply; "and before I was
aware she had a brother to defend her rights, resolved to take that
service upon myself."

"Thank you. I shall forget, then, that I am talking to one so lately
a stranger. I see my sister's marriage has resulted even worse than I
feared. Dudley was an intimate college friend; but his treatment of
ladies led me to fear he would never make a tender husband; and poor
Gerty is such a very child."

"Mr. Dudley is extremely popular with the ladies here," was her cool
reply; "but I agree with you that he is not tender of his wife."

"What can I do for her? Shall I charge him with cruelty and take her
home?"

She laughed at his earnest tone, but presently aided seriously:

"'For better for worse, till death us do part,' I think that is the way
the service reads. No, I don't imagine she would be happy away from her
duty."

"It seems to me he has forfeited all claim to her love. Did you notice
the glance he gave her at dinner?"

"Yes; and the meek manner in which she bore it was a proof to me that
she has begun to look above for help. Mr. Wallingford, there is One who
has done more for us than any human being could do; who has set us an
example of forbearance and forgiveness. Shall we not try to imitate him
by bearing with each other's faults?"

For a moment he was too much affected to speak; but recovering himself
said with great feeling:

"Excuse me; your words remind me so much of my mother, long an
inhabitant of heaven. Just so she would have urged me to patience, and
to hope for the future. But if she had lived, Gerty would not have
married Paul."

"How long shall you remain in Chicago?" she asked, rather abruptly.

"Only a day or two."

"Then will you call to-morrow after dinner at my father's? I have
thought of a project; but as I make papa my confident, I wish to
consult him before I mention it to any one."

"Does it regard my sister's education?"

"Yes," laughing. "I forgot you were a lawyer and accustomed to close,
as well as to cross-questioning."

"I will certainly call."

They were at this moment passing the theatre, and both started to
see Mr. Dudley coming under the blaze of the light at the er trance
with a lady hanging on his arm. He was leaning toward her; and as Mr.
Wallingford unconsciously checked his steps, he recognized the lady as
the one to whom his brother-in-law had bowed in the afternoon.

"That is Miss Richmond," said Marion, when the couple had turned in the
opposite direction. "She is an heiress from Philadelphia, visiting in
Chicago."

"An heiress?" repeated Edward.

"Yes, by the death of a miserly uncle, and the non-discovery of any
other heir."

"I remember meeting her in Philadelphia," murmured the gentleman
abstractedly. "She is an old acquaintance of Mr. Dudley."

"She was at the party last night," explained Marion, understanding how
keenly the brother must feel the neglect shown his sister. "She is
brilliant and accomplished; even gay and thoughtless; but I believe her
to have good principles; and I have heard lately that she was betrothed
to a gentleman in New York."

Mr. Wallingford passed the entire forenoon with his sister. She
looked brighter than the preceding day; and there was an expression
of serenity on her exquisitely cut features he had not looked for.
Indeed there was an elevation in her whole countenance which recalled
instantly the scene of his mother's death-bed.

Dudley seemed more at ease than on the previous day; and warmly
commended Bridget on the wonderful improvement in her cooking. He
kissed Gertrude's cheek as he went out, saying gayly, "I shall feel
quite easy about you, love, now that Ned is here to entertain your
ladyship."

The start of pleased surprise with which the wife received this token
of affection convinced her brother that such manifestations were
rare. He recollected with a flush of indignation hearing his old chum
once say to his youngest sister as he rudely threw her off when she
volunteered a sisterly embrace:

"Nonsense, Nannie! don't bother me."

Directly after dinner Mr. Wallingford met his appointment at Dr.
Gilbert's, carrying with him a note to Marion which was, to say the
least, correctly spelled.

"Will it do?" she asked her brother, glancing half shyly in his face?

"Capitally!" reading aloud.

  "If my dear sister knew how much
   good it would do me to have her
   spend the afternoon and evening
   here, I think she would come."

                      "GERTRUDE."

Dr. and Mrs. Gilbert speedily convinced their visitor that they took a
more than ordinary interest in his sister; and gave their full approval
to their daughter's plan; which was that she should review her school
lessons, allowing Gertrude to study them; and then that they examine
each other preparatory to a more rigorous subsequent examination by the
pastor.

"Nothing could have pleased me better than such a plan," warmly
responded Mr. Wallingford. "I fully appreciate the delicacy with which
the proposal is made; and give my hearty consent on one condition.
I know enough of a minister's' life to understand that his hours
of leisure are rare; and therefore precious. If you consent, sir,
to devote even a brief portion of this leisure to your unfortunate
parishioner, I shall insist on your accepting this small sum;" opening
his portemonnaie and putting into the clergyman's hand two fifty dollar
bills.

"As for Miss Marion, I accept her proffered kindness in the same spirit
it is offered; and believe she will find in her own heart a reward for
her warm interest in a desolate stranger."



CHAPTER XI.

JOYS AND SORROWS.

"THANK you, Mr. Wallingford," returned Marion, her cheeks glowing with
pleasure. "I loved Gerty the first time I saw her; and now it will
be such happiness to feel that you have left her in my charge. Papa
doesn't want your money. He's always doing kind things for every body;
and he will take his reward in hearing my pet sing."

But the gentleman insisted that he could not take the trouble to
unclasp his portemonnaie again, and left the bills on the table where
Dr. Gilbert had quietly deposited them.

"I have a condition too," explained Marion as they were walking
together to Mr. Dudley's. "I want this arrangement to be entirely
between Gerty and myself."

"Why so?"

"You are too shrewd a lawyer to ask me to explain."

"Do you imagine my brother-in-law will object?"

"Perhaps not in so many words, but he knows I have heard some remarks
concerning his neglect of his child-wife; and she might be annoyed,—I
may not feel right about it; but I fear obstacles would be thrown in
the way of our meeting daily, as we must; for I intend to give my
little friend lessons in housekeeping as well as in literature."

"Wallingford," said Paul in the evening of the same day when Marion had
accompanied Gertrude to her chamber; "Will you take charge of a lady to
New York? A friend of mine, Miss Richmond, whom you met at our house in
Philadelphia, has been spending a few months in Chicago, and wishes to
return home. Do you remember her?"

"Yes, I saw her the other evening as you were coming out of the
theatre."

Paul started to his feet. "And never said a word about it, Ned? That's
not like the old friend you used to be. The fact was I had engaged to
attend her there before I knew of your coming; and I was ashamed—that
is, it—would have been awkward to tell my wife I was going to a place
of amusement with another lady."

"Decidedly; especially when that lady was one with whom you once
fancied yourself desperately in love."

"Pshaw! Well, Wallingford, it's no use denying she's a splendid girl.
Did you know she's become very rich? I suppose I might have married her
if I'd known what a fortune she would have. It will be the making of
Johnson."

"What Johnson?"

"R. D., Firm of Johnson, Morgan & Co., Wall Street, New York. They're
engaged, though few in Chicago are aware of it beside myself, whom she
honored with her confidence."

"If you had not been in such a hurry to marry a child only just
commencing her education, you might have won the heiress for yourself,"
remarked Edward coolly.

"Just so. Not that I don't love Gerty, and all that," was the somewhat
confused rejoinder; "but now that the excitement has past, I don't deny
it was a mistake. We ought to have waited as you urged us to do."

"Will you give me back my sister, Paul?"

Wallingford had turned and was looking his companion full in the eye.

"What do you mean?"

"To take her home with me and provide teachers for her; to let Hannah
fit her for a housekeeper; and allow the poor child some of the freedom
from care, other children of her age enjoy."

"She wouldn't consent."

And this was true. When her brother proposed it, offering to persuade
Paul to allow her to go back with him for a year or more; she answered
seriously:

"He is my husband; and I have no right to leave him. I know he has not
had much comfort in his home; but Marion is going to teach me to be a
better wife; and I want to try at least to do right."

Our part of Gertrude's new régime was to walk out for, at least, an
hour before dinner. She usually accompanied Marion to market; and
together they made their purchases for the next day, the articles being
sent home in the evening. In the course of a month she could select a
suitable piece for roasting or boiling, could judge which was tough
or tender, and was every day growing more skilful in the purchase of
household supplies.

"If I only knew when Paul would dine at home," she said one day to her
young teacher, "I could surprise him with a nice dinner; but I suppose
it is dull for him to leave all those gentlemen just for poor, stupid
me."

This summer was the most profitable, and in some respects the happiest,
Gertrude had ever passed. To be sure her health was delicate; and there
were many days when if she had yielded to the lassitude which oppressed
her, she would not have risen from her couch; but she was beginning to
find the reward of those who try to please their Saviour. She went to
her heavenly Father as a loving child does to an earthly one, pleading
his promise that all things, to them who love him shall work together
for good. In a dim way her childish heart was learning to rest on him,
and to feel that the discipline she was passing through, was what she
needed for the perfection of her character. She had not the slightest
idea that these exercises were gracious ones, giving evidence, that she
was renewed in the spirit and temper of her mind; and often in talking
with Dr. Gilbert, whom she had come to revere above every other earthly
friend, she said, in her frank, artless way:

"If I were a Christian I should not find it so hard to keep evil
thoughts out of my mind. It would be easy to remember when I am angry,
that Jesus returned not a word to the railing of his enemies."

Instructed by her kind pastor, Gerty was learning that the warfare
between indwelling sin and a yearning after holiness would have to be
maintained as long as we are in a wicked world; but that the victories
the child of God achieves, yield to the soul a sweet peace which all
the pleasures of the earth can never give.

In her studies the young wife made rapid advancement, considering the
circumstances in which she was placed. With a wisdom for which none of
her friends gave her credit, she insisted on reviewing her studies from
the very foundation.

"I am shamefully deficient," she exclaimed, raising her bright eyes
to Marion's. "I used to worry poor Hannah almost to death, wandering
in the field and cultivating the acquaintance of the birds, beasts
and insects. You say I seldom use bad grammar or slang phrases. No
credit is due to me, for I was never allowed in such expressions; and
associating almost entirely with brother and Hannah, I imitated their
manner of speech."

It was amusing to see the young girl walking the chamber repeating
aloud, subjunctive, potential and other moods, then turning to her
spelling book and committing column after column with praiseworthy
diligence. Every week a composition was written, in the form of a
letter, which was sent for the perusal of Edward and Hannah; and which
were of no little interest to the readers. By them her old friend grew
to trace the workings of the Spirit in the heart of her beloved charge,
while in her brother they excited a wish, that he too might experience
the joys of religion.

There were also private epistles, which resulted in Hannah's making
several trips to New York; and at last in, the arrival of a box from
Rose Cottage, marked, Mrs. Paul Dudley. In October Hannah herself was
coming, to stay one or two months; and perhaps till Gertrude could go
back with her in the spring.

I wish truth allowed me to say that Mr. Dudley grew more tender and
considerate of his wife, the more she needed his loving care. He
had succeeded in gaining the confidence of the public as a business
man, and had as much practice as he could well attend to. He had
given up going into society as frequently as at first, but did not
therefore devote more time to his family. He staid late at his office,
coming home at any hour in the night, greatly to the disturbance of
poor Gerty's rest. He saw that she was often pale and nervous, but
attributed it to any thing else rather that his own neglect; or the
disappointment which, let her strive against it as she might, was
gradually chilling the fervor of her affection for her husband. At
her request he had allowed her a sum for weekly expenses; but often
grumbled at her foolish extravagance; and at his own folly in burdening
himself with the trials of housekeeping.

Occasionally there would be an angry flash in her eye, which reminded
him of the bitter experience of the first months, when she so stoutly
rebelled at being broken into the matrimonial harness, as to his boon
companions, he facetiously called it; and sometimes she retorted in a
bitter tone; but generally the trembling of her lip, a huskiness in her
voice, or a suspicious moisture in her eye, was the only evidence of
the pain his conduct gave her.

To no one except her Saviour did she repeat these grievances. She
would not allow her good Bridget even to sympathize with her about her
husband's unkindness.

"Don't! You mean kindly, I know;—but you hurt me," she would say,
putting her hand upon her heart.

"Perhaps," she said one day to herself when with a burst of tears she
had run to her chamber after a cutting sarcasm, from Paul, "Perhaps, if
he had continued kind and loving as at first, I might not have found a
heavenly Friend;—one who understands the infirmities of his creatures;
and will not try them more than they are able to bear."

A week before Hannah was expected, came the sad intelligence that she
had fallen down stairs and broken her ancle. This disappointment was
greater than poor Gerty could endure with any degree of calmness. Paul
brought home the letter, and when she held it out to him with a cry
of dismay, he made fun of her grief. Her tears flowed fast now as she
realized her desolate condition. She was too deeply anxious to notice
his sneering voice, saying:

"I wouldn't be such a cry baby. Why don't you show a little sense?
There are other nurses beside Hannah." But finding she made no effort
to control herself, he said in a loud voice, shaking her shoulder:

"Stop crying this minute, Gertrude. You act like a child; and you shall
be treated like one." She fell back in a fit of hysterics, crying and
laughing, her hands growing every moment more cold, until he grew
really alarmed.

Bridget wild with excitement flew to the rescue; one moment weeping
over her darling mistress, and kissing the cold hands; the next turning
fiercely upon her master.

"You're the most unnatural husband the world houlds in it," she
exclaimed, confronting him. "Ye've killed her with yer hard words, and
she never letting me lisp a whisper of comfort. An angel out of heaven
couldn't be more meek and condescinding to yer whims than she, poor
crather; and now ye've killed her entirely."

"Do you think there is any danger, Bridget?" he asked, suddenly growing
pale.

"Indade, and there is. If ye had the sinse of a man, let alone a
lawyer, ye'd be off for the doctor at oncet."

Without a word he put on his hat, when she rattled after him:

"If she iver does come back to her sinses, 'twould be the greatest
comfort of her life to see Mrs. Gilbert. That's the truth out of
Bridget McCarty's mouth, and ye may do what ye plaze with it."



CHAPTER XII.

THE TINY ROSE BUD.

THE next morning's mail carried a letter to Mr. Wallingford, announcing
the birth of a tiny girl; and that Gertrude was so prostrated by the
nervous spasms which followed, that fears for her life began to be
entertained. Unfortunately, Edward was absent on business when the
letter arrived; but as it was postmarked "haste," the clerk carried it
at once to Rose Cottage.

The trial of poor Hannah at being confined to her couch, while her dear
child was dying, perhaps for want of her care; may be easier imagined
than described. She worried and chafed until she brought on a fever
which did not abate until a second letter was received from Chicago,
saying Gerty's symptoms were decidedly more favorable.

She had roused from her lethargy, enough to call for her babe; and
when once she had it in her arms, could scarcely be prevailed upon to
give it up again. The child, which she had instantly whispered was to
be named, Rose Wallingford, was so feeble and puny, that it could not
probably live many days; and on this slender, delicate prop the young
mother's life seemed to be dependent.

As may well be supposed Mr. Wallingford lost no time in hurrying to the
bedside of his sister.

He found her looking fragile as a lily upon which the wind has blown
too roughly; but with the light of a mother's love beaming from every
feature.

"Isn't she a darling?" she murmured as he bent over the tiny form. "I
am so happy. If God will only spare her to me, I will try to make her
like our mother." The tears filled her eyes as he repeated some of
Hannah's many messages.

"If crawling on my hands, and knees, darling, would have taken me to
you in time. I would have been glad to go."

"Dear Hannah," Gerty faltered. "It has been a keen sorrow to both of
us; but we know it was ordered by a friend who can tell what is best."

"Now," added Edward, "she is beginning to plan for the winter; for
she insists you are to spend it in Rose Cottage. Little Rose is to be
fatted up on cream from her best Alderney; and all the fowls on the
farm are put on good behavior, being expected to lay a certain number
of eggs per diem or forfeit their corn."

"If papa will let us, you and I will go and see Hannah; wont we little
one," murmured the young mother pressing the infant to her breast—"you
and I and Bridget."

Contrary to the expectations of all, little Rose lingered until she
was three months old. Gertrude had gained her strength and scarcely
had a thought outside her nursery. The infant was so feeble that the
journey to New York had been postponed from time to time, greatly to
Hannah's disappointment. The Doctor had told Mr. Dudley that his child
could not linger many weeks longer; hinting that he had better break
the intelligence gradually to the mother as the effect on her sensitive
heart might be alarming; but Paul did not relish scenes as he said to
himself, and thought there was time enough yet.

[Illustration: "It's getting to be an angel, ma'am."]

The affection of Gertrude for her child was beautiful to witness. Every
morning Marion Gilbert's feet tripped over the frozen ground, between
her father's house and Gerty's, entering Mr. Dudley's by the side door,
where Bridget was putting her kitchen in order, and inquiring:

"How's the baby?"

At this Bridget's apron would go up to her eyes.

"It's getting to be an angel, ma'am. Every day I see it."

In the neat nursery, Marion always found the two children, Gerty and
Rose; for the mother since her illness allowed her hair to curl in
her neck as formerly, and would easily be mistaken for a child just
entering her teens.

The favorite seat of the mother was a low rocking chair lent her by
Mrs. Gilbert; and which had been efficacious in rocking all the young
Gilberts to sleep. Here in front of the cheerful coal fire, she sat,
with her little blossom cradled in her arms, singing a low lullaby; or
if the deep blue eyes of baby were closed, there was a Bible close at
hand, from which a few words might be read.

Gertrude had given up all her studies now, except that of the Holy
Book. Marion often thought, as she saw her storing her mind with its
precious truths that by them her Father in heaven meant to fortify her
heart in view of the separation which it was apparent to every one must
soon come.

"Father," the young girl exclaimed one day, "Do go, and tell that poor
child her baby's wings are growing and it will soon fly away to its
home in the skies."

And Dr. Gilbert went; his heart oppressed with sorrow for the youthful
mourner. He found his warning was not needed.

In the nursery Mr. Dudley sat, his countenance paler and more serious
than his pastor had ever seen it. As the gentleman stood one moment
in the hall waiting to receive an answer to his low knock, he heard
Gerty's voice talking to her husband.

"I've always known she was only lent to me for a little while. At first
I prayed a great deal that God would let her stay to help me be good."

"She, help you, Gerty?"

"Yes, Paul; and if you could be with her and see how patiently she
bears all her pain,—if you realized how soon she is to be in the
presence of the Saviour,—to rest in his bosom; you would find how easy
it is to put away all unkind thoughts; to bear all the little vexations
of life if we may grow meek and quiet like her. You remember Christ
said to his disciples, that they must become like little children; and
I've just been reading, 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.'"

Dr. Gilbert's repeated knocks at last were answered by Mr. Dudley
himself, who seemed greatly relieved when he saw who the visitor was.

"Come in, sir," he said, cordially extending his hand. "Gerty, here is
a gentleman who can comfort you much better than I can. She thinks her
baby not quite so well to-day, and wants me to stay at home and help
her watch it."

An expression of pain, for one instant, clouded the mother's fair
countenance, but was instantly succeeded by a look of resignation, so
elevated, so holy, that the pastor paused to gaze.

"I'll hurry home, Gerty; and perhaps I'll find time to run in at noon,"
said Mr. Dudley, making a little bustle to hide his embarrassment. He
feared Dr. Gilbert would offer to pray for the child before he should
be out of the house.

"Precious babe," faltered the clergyman, bending over her. "We cannot
mourn for you, who will so soon be free from pain and sorrow. No,
sweet and unwearied as your mother's care has been, the tender love
of your Saviour, who shed his blood for you, will be more sweet, more
unwearied; but babes are God's precious gifts, and it is hard to part
with them."

"God will give strength to bear the chastisement he sends," faltered
Gerty, without raising her eyes from the infant's face. "He knows how I
love her, and he would not take her away unless he saw it was best."

"'A bruised reed shall he not break,'" repeated the clergyman.

"It is sweet to feel that he does not take her from me in anger," was
the faint rejoinder.

"God chastens those whom he loves, my child, for their own growth in
every Christian grace. By this affliction he intends to bring you
nearer to himself."

"He has already done so," she added, her whole face beaming. "I never
felt so sure that he has forgiven my self-will; my disregard of all
authority; my many sins against his long-suffering kindness, until I
have sat here day after day and watched my little Rose, growing to be
an angel, as Bridget says. I could never have borne it without his
help. You have lost three babies Dr. Gilbert, and you know how easy it
would be for me to give up every comfort I have in the world if I might
keep her; but by his help I can say, 'She is thine dear Father, thine
for life or death.'"

Dr. Gilbert kneeled to offer up a petition for continued support to the
mother, and prayed that the suffering so meekly endured by the little
one, might be blessed to her infantile advancement in divine grace; and
then went home to tell his wife that her fears for their young friend
were needless; that he had learned a lesson from her which he hoped
never to forget.

He had scarcely concluded his relation of Gerty's faith in God's love;
and her sweet submission to his will, though it was to take from her
the dearest object she had in life, when a hurried ring announced the
family physician.

"I have just come," he exclaimed, with a suspicious moisture in his
eye, "from the house of Mr. Dudley. Will you, Mrs. Gilbert, be a mother
to that poor child in her sorrow. Her babe is dying and Bridget is
wailing over it in frantic grief. I shall ride to Mr. Dudley's office
on my way back, and send him home. Nothing but the recollection of her
mute sorrow keeps me from calling him some hard names."

"Come, mother," said Marion tearfully, "let's go at once."

When they reached the chamber of death, little Rose had plumed her
wings and was taking her flight from earth to her home in the skies.
The Doctor had persuaded Gerty to lay her on the couch; and she knelt
by the side, one finger closely clasped in the tiny fingers; while the
violet eyes, so wishful and wondering, were fastened on the dear face
upon which they had never seen a frown.

"It was the most affecting sight I ever witnessed," wrote Marion
afterwards to Mr. Wallingford, "to see Gerty smiling on her treasured
one, that it might not be frightened by her tears, when her heart
was nigh to breaking. This passage of Scripture, 'Thou wilt keep him
in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee,' came home to me with
greater force than I had ever felt it before."

Just as the child ceased to breathe. Mr. Dudley rung the bell with
a loud, quick jerk and hurriedly mounted the stairs. Gertrude did
not seem to hear him. Her tearless eyes were fixed on the marble
countenance; her hand still grasped in the stiffening fingers.

"Good by, darling," she whispered, bending over and imprinting a long,
long kiss on the cold, pale lip.

Mrs. Gilbert saw a shudder run through her frame; and took hold of her
to persuade her away. She saw that the shock had been too great for the
overtasked nerves; and was almost glad when with a stagger the bereaved
mother fell back insensible into her arms.

Motioning to Mr. Dudley, he carried his wife from the chamber, and
laid her on a bed in what she called Edward's room, where Mrs. Gilbert
watched by her side, while Paul, in a fever of remorse, by turns walked
the floor, and passionately kissed the cold lips of his unconscious
wife.

Gerry's swoon was of so long continuance that when she revived,
Marion's loving hands had prepared the body of little Rose for its
final resting place. When the tiny fingers were folded, Bridget, with
a fresh burst of grief, begged Miss Gilbert to place within them an
exquisite rose bud, which she had expended one quarter of her week's
earnings to purchase at the stall opposite.

"It's the last poor Bridget can do for ye," she sobbed, rushing from
the room.

"I'd give a year of my poor life in a minute," she exclaimed afterward
to Mrs. Gilbert, "if the precious angel could have been spared to her
mother for a little while. Then they would both have gone together; for
any one must be blind not to see the Father is preparing to take her
home to himself."



CHAPTER XIII.

UNAPPRECIATED.

BUT God had work on earth for Gertrude to do on earth. Some weeks after
the funeral, (the body having been placed in a receiving tomb until the
weather permitted its removal to Rose Cottage) Edward wrote, begging
his sister and her friend to come East, for the remainder of the
winter, promising to go for them if Paul could not leave.

For a moment the bright color flashed over the wan cheek at the
prospect of returning to scenes so dear; but after some reflection, she
concluded not to accept the invitation at present.

"I am sure Paul would miss me," she explained to her friend. "He has
been so loving and kind since our little Rose went to her Saviour.
Perhaps if I let him see how God sustains me, he himself will ask for
support. I know my duty is here now."

She thought by Marion's silence that she was disappointed, and
presently added:

"You will go home with me in the spring, dear; and we will take the
baby and lay her to rest under the linden trees, where the first
violets grow; and the robins sing their earliest songs."

"Yes," murmured Marion, "I will go then."

One day Mrs. Gilbert was surprised by a sight of Gerty's pale face
peeping out from her close mourning hat walking into the pastor's study.

"I am going to work again," she said earnestly. "I thought it all over
last night, while I was waiting for my husband to come home. It will
not make me think less of Rose, if I return to my books. My heart is
full of her all the time; and I might be more useful to somebody if I
had more knowledge."

"You shall do just as you please, my child," returned Dr. Gilbert,
thinking in his heart that God had granted her a knowledge of himself
given to but few.

"Don't you think, sir, I'd better take up that course of history I was
reading. I had only just commenced."

"Yes, child, with the abstract I recommended. This will fix the
principal facts in your memory; and give you power of condensing in
style."

So the daily lessons, of which Paul had not even a suspicion, commenced
again, Gertrude at first finding it a wearisome task to abstract her
mind from reveries of the one loved and gone before; and to fix it
upon her page; but at last, out of gratitude to the kind friends,
who had taken such an interest in her progress, she accomplished her
self-imposed task and gradually her interest in her studies returned.

Before spring opened she had read a large number of the best histories
of different nations, and was well advanced in the rudiments of French.
She was timid about pronunciation and often longed to ask her husband
to help her, knowing he was a thorough French scholar. For some time
she had been wondering whether it would not be best to confide her
plans for self-culture to him; and one day when she had been puzzled
over a French irregular verb, she determined to do so.

She was particularly unfortunate in the time chosen for this. Paul had
lost a case and was very irritable.

"You had better adhere to your worsted work," he said sharply.

"But I'm trying to make myself a better companion for you."

"Oh, well!" he answered, with a contemptuous laugh; "you may study as
much as you please, only don't bother me with it."

He regretted that he had spoken so sharply, when he saw how
disappointed she looked, and added more pleasantly:

"You're a dear little soul; but I don't think learning is your forte.
If you ever accomplish a letter decently, it will be all that is
necessary. Don't you think so?" patting her cheek.

He had no suspicion of the long weekly letters she wrote to New York,
which Edward proudly exhibited to her guardian, as a proof of her
persevering application, but was rather surprised at her serious reply:

"We ought to improve the talents God has given us."

"Just so," he said somewhat piqued at her implied reproof; "but where
little is given, little will be required."

She had seldom been so wounded as now. Her breast heaved convulsively;
and it was with difficulty she commanded herself to restrain her tears.
She rose presently and left the room; and her closet witnessed a burst
of grief such as she had not experienced for months.

"I cannot live so," she repeated again, and again. "How can I win my
husband's respect?"

A thought of Miss Richmond flashed through her mind. Paul spoke
frequently of her splendid abilities; of her accomplishments which
rendered her society sought after. "I admired her ease and perfect
self-possession," soliloquized the grieved wife, "and used to wonder
how she dared converse with gentlemen so freely upon politics and
professional life; but there is something about her I wouldn't like to
imitate. I think it is her boldness; not of feeling, I dare say, but of
manner. Marion is equally well educated; and to me she appears far more
attractive; while she is so modest the veriest trifle will call a blush
to her cheek. I feel that God has given me powers; and I will make the
most of them. Some time Paul may regret that he has classed me with the
lowest."

This hope gave a fresh impetus to her studies. Marion wondered at the
rapidity with which her mind was unfolding; and so did Edward, who
encouraged her to write freely on every subject which interested her.
It had become her habit of late to send him themes, or abstracts of
what she read; and occasionally she surprised him with a few verses of
poetry, very original thoughts, gracefully expressed and in correct
measure and rhythm.

Her mourning prevented the necessity for going into general society.
A few times she met a circle of agreeable friends at Dr. Gilbert's,
and gained not a little confidence in herself, when she found she too
could converse on subjects of general interest in a manner to gain the
respect of her companions.

Once, only, Paul accompanied her there; and then staid but a short
time, excusing himself on the plea of a pressing engagement.

Gertrude happened to be standing by a table chatting with a gentleman
about some engravings which lay upon it. There was one picture of
Abbotsford; and as she had just been reading the life of Sir Walter
Scott, in connection with English Literature, she felt a good deal of
enthusiasm on the subject. In her artless way she was pointing out the
beauties of the situation, narrating facts in regard to them, when her
husband passed and gave her a glance of warning, which sent a crimson
tide to her fair cheek. The look was not lost on the gentleman, who
wondered what it could mean. The young wife knew that her husband
feared she would disgrace him by her ignorance.

Paul soon took his leave, after saying he would call for her at eleven.

On their way home he said more kindly than usual:

"You are improving in self-confidence, Gerty, and looked uncommonly
pretty to-night. I had no idea black would become you so well; but you
had better be careful not to venture beyond your depth. It is easy to
acquire the habit of listening as if you understood."

"Marion ventures to converse as well as to listen," faltered the poor
child, resolved to say a word in self-defence.

He laughed, as he answered, "I only spoke for your good. Marion has
been a close student in her day, while you—"

"Accepted the love so earnestly proffered," she added, interrupting
him. "In that I confess I showed my weakness. I ought to have been sent
to my room for a naughty girl; and have been made to learn an extra
column from the spelling book."

"Well done, Gertrude," he exclaimed, making the night air ring with his
loud laugh. "You are really growing smart. I must have my wits about me
when I measure lances with you."

"Weapons of war require skill and strength as well as sharp wits," was
her quiet answer; at which reply he was so much amazed he said not one
word.

In July Edward came on for another visit, accompanied by Hannah, who
declared that she had no idea the United States contained so much land,
as lay between New York and Chicago. Nothing but her longing to see her
dear Gerty would have tempted her to come so far; and now she dreaded
the journey back.

"Perhaps Paul will let me go with you," urged Gerty glancing in her
husband's face. "Only think it will be two years next Christmas since I
saw my dear home."

"I suppose I may as well tell you my plans now, as any time," remarked
Paul, addressing himself to Edward. "I expect to sail fur France in
September; to look up evidence in a patent case."

"Ah! I'm glad of it; the trip will do Gerty good."

The husband looked terribly embarrassed. "I had not thought of taking
her with me," he said. "In fact it would be impossible. My expenses
are paid by my client who accompanies me. It is a very important case;
because there is a precedent to be established, you know."

No one spoke. Gerty had walked to the window; and was trying to keep
down the fluttering at her heart.

"September is the month we have fixed upon," Mr. Dudley went on; "but
it may be later."

"Where do you intend to leave your wife?" inquired Hannah in the driest
tone. "She has the house here at her disposal; but I suppose she would
rather not have the care of housekeeping."

"We'll gladly receive her at Rose Cottage," remarked her brother
firmly; "but how long shall you be away?"

"That is uncertain, as it depends on circumstances beyond my control.
My client, Mr. Curtis, who is a man of wealth, expects some delay in
Paris; and has invited me to make a trip to Rome."

Mr. Wallingford remained two days longer than he intended that Hannah
might return with him, their plans being entirely changed by Paul's new
project. The New York lawyer resolved, if it were in his power, not
to be outdone in shrewdness by the Chicago one. He learned, through
Bridget, that a lady had been to hire the house furnished, for one
year; with liberty to renew the lease; and keeping this knowledge in
his own breast, he went to Paul's office for a quiet talk.

"I have been thinking what is best to be done," he began at once. "Of
course we shall be delighted to have Gertrude at home; and as your stay
is uncertain, why not allow me to rent the house I gave her, which with
her furniture will support her in comfort till your return."

Paul started. This was taking his business out of his hands with a
vengeance; but his brother-in-law went on:

"I know what you would say. You wish to do more for your wife than
merely give her the use of what is her own. I have heard you repeat a
hundred times that you should wish your wife to be dependent entirely
on you. I acknowledge it is a noble sentiment; but you must remember
that travelling is expensive; and though your client pays fare, etc.,
there will be occasions when you will need all the money you can raise."

"Just so," faltered Paul. "Just so; but if I should return in six
months."

"Leave Gerty at Rose Cottage through the summer and board at one of
your hotels. Just say the word, or rather give me power to do it; and
I'll have the business all arranged for you before I go back." He drew
a sheet of paper toward him, wrote rapidly over the page and then
passed it to his brother-in-law to sign.

It was all so sudden that Paul could form no excuse; and presently Mr.
Wallingford left, the office with a power of attorney in his hands to
manage his sister's property, during the absence of her husband.

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Marion Gilbert, entering the next
morning while they were at the breakfast table, and pointing to an
advertisement in the paper.

Edward glanced toward his brother-in-law to explain.

"Only this, Miss Gilbert. My business calls me across the ocean; and it
is better not to have a house stand empty."

"Oh, Gerty, how can I spare you?" exclaimed Marion in real distress.

"I'm not going to Europe," murmured the young wife. "Mr. Dudley's is a
hurried trip on business; but as he and Edward think it will be best to
rent the house; and it can't be leased for less than a year, I shall
probably remain that length of time at Rose Cottage."

"I shall not consent to such a monopoly," urged the warm-hearted girl.
"We shall claim you part of the time. I read this in the paper which
I generally skim over for papa while he eats his breakfast; and I
couldn't wait one minute till I learned what it meant."

"Paul don't leave for two months yet," explained his wife.

"In that case I shall have time to offer all my inducements to keep you
in Chicago," rejoined Marion smiling; "and as I left papa and mamma
almost as anxious as I was, I'll hurry back and enlighten them."

The advertisement was answered at once by a lady, whose daughter was
intending to be married immediately. The couple had been disappointed
in a house they expected to hire, and the mother of the lady was so
pleased with this, that she brought her daughter and fiancée at once to
decide.

Before Edward left the next day, the lease was drawn and signed, a
check for the money to be forwarded to him in New York quarterly;
and nothing remained but for Gertrude to look over with the lady an
inventory of every article left in the house.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE SEPARATION.

I MUST pass rapidly over the succeeding months. The first of October
found Gertrude in her old home renewing her acquaintance with every
nook and corner of the farm, caressing the old house dog, coaxing the
draught horse to let her mount for a ride, and winning anew the hearts
of the neighbors by her evident sympathy with all that concerned them.

Bridget was there too, having accompanied her master and mistress to
New York at Edward's special request. He could see that Hannah's lame
ancle made it painful for her to be on her feet from morning till
night, as had been her custom; though she would acknowledge nothing
of the kind, the young lawyer was sure Bridget's faithful service
would turn to good account on the farm, when once initiated into the
mysteries of butter and cheese making, raising Jersey calves and rare
kinds of fowls.

Paul sailed from New York the last week in September, remaining in the
city only three days. He was astonished to find that his brother-in-law
had gathered a lucrative practice; for the gentleman had been very
reticent concerning his own affairs, and was surprised into the remark:

"I've been thinking for some time that I made a mistake in going to
Chicago; and perhaps if I don't succeed in making a good thing of this
patent business I shall never go back."

It only needed this, to confirm Edward in his opinion of Paul. He was
wanting in perseverance. "'Unstable as water thou shalt not excel,'"
his father had frequently quoted to him, when he wished to leave
college to go into mercantile business, or any where that he saw a
prospect of rapidly accumulating a fortune.

During his visits to Chicago, Mr. Wallingford had learned that his
brother-in-law was not considered as established in that city;—that
he talked openly of going to Rochester or some place farther East. He
bid Paul adieu at the wharf with a belief that it was the lawyer's
intention to abandon his wife for some years.

In January Gertrude went to New York city, where her brother had
engaged board for her and Marion who had promised to pass the rest
of the winter with her friend. Here the best teachers were provided
for the ardent scholar; who was bent on improving every hour of her
husband's absence in fitting herself to ensure his respect. Constant
employment was necessary to her happiness, else memory carried her back
to the parting with Paul, so cool and careless on his part;—while she
wept and clung to him as if she were never to see him again.

Once a month he had promised she should have a letter from him
informing her where to direct to him.

For three months he kept his word. His letters were short, and one was
addressed to Edward, requesting him to forward some documents necessary
to his success; but they were more kind than his wife had looked for,
and her spirits rose accordingly. She gained both strength and color in
these quiet days; reminding Marion when she came on, of the bride when
she first saw her.

In the third letter Paul told her to direct next to Paris, where he
should remain till the first of the year; after that he should be
travelling, and she must not be worried if she heard nothing for some
months. He omitted in his haste to mention that Mr. Curtis and himself
had joined a party of Americans and were intending to travel with them
for the rest of the winter; and that Mr. Jackson, (who with his wife,
and a younger sister were members of the party) having turned out a
mere fortune hunter, found it very convenient to have some one to play
the agreeable to his wife; and relieve him from a duty already become
irksome.

This was the last they heard of the travellers for many months; and
knew not therefore where to direct letters.

In May there was news for him; for on the first of the month when the
fields were expected to be green, and the flowers in profusion, all of
which the lateness of the season prevented, a second little blossom
came to gladden Gertrude's anxious heart.

This was a boy, strong and resolute, who bid fair to fight his way in
the world. Without a moment's hesitation his mother called him Paul,
thereby proving, that however her husband regarded her, the affection
she had professed for him remained in all its force.

Bridget's faculties were now brought into full play. She lived but for
her darling; and proved herself so faithful a nurse that Gertrude still
found many hours every day which she could devote to her books. She
was now wanting six months of being nineteen, an age when many young
ladies are leaving school, fancying their education complete; but when
Gertrude was just awaking to the delight of gaining knowledge. Her
thirst for it seemed almost unquenchable. She applied her acquisitions
to a practical use, keeping all the farm, as well as the family
accounts; and greatly amusing Marion, who had staid on from time to
time, because her friend would not part from her, by sending for a
book and studying the diseases of cattle; and finding cures for their
various ills.

If Gertrude could have been relieved of anxiety concerning her husband,
she would now have been perfectly happy. She was not only a pet but a
companion to her brother, who confided to her his most important cases;
and told her the course of argument he intended to pursue.

For his sake she interested herself in polities; and often surprised
him and Marion by her shrewd remarks.

July was ushered in by a terrific thunder storm. Marion had insisted
that she must leave directly after the fourth; and they were all
congratulating her that she was not already in the cars. Edward who
came up every night did not appear till an hour later than usual; and
then looked so very stern and forbidding that Gertrude gazed at him in
wonder, and profound astonishment.

By this time Marion seemed indeed like a sister, and was treated, both
by Mr. Wallingford and Mrs. Dudley, with the frankness due to that
relation. Gertrude was not at all surprised, therefore, to hear her
brother ask the young girl to walk with him on the piazza.

She went to her room to undress little Paul, a delightful task, never
delegated to another. On this occasion she lingered longer than usual,
for the wide awake child was not readily soothed to sleep. At last
dropping the lace netting around his crib, she descended the stairs
leaving Bridget, with her sewing, within hearing.

Edward and Marion were sitting on the piazza; and she was about to join
them, when she heard an exclamation:

"Disgraceful! He is a villain! I am surprised though I always
distrusted him! And so lovely as she is; worthy the affection of a
noble heart?"

Gertrude paused trembling from head to foot. Could it be Paul, her
husband, of whom her dear friend was saying such hard things. Then he
was alive; and one great throb of joy quickened her whole being; but
presently came a resolve to hear the worst and stepping quickly forward
she said:

"What is it, Edward? What bad news have you heard. If it concerns me, I
can bear almost any thing better than to be kept in suspense."

"Come with me," said her brother, leading her into the parlor, when he
shut the door.

"I have seen a gentleman to-day," he began, leading her to a seat, "who
is acquainted with Paul. He parted from him the first of June. Your
husband was aware he was coming direct to New York; and yet he sent no
message."

He waited to see how she bore this; but as her countenance remained
unchanged and she sat as erect as ever, he went on:

"Gertrude, darling sister, your affections were misplaced. Paul Dudley
is unworthy of your love. You must forget him."

She found her voice now. Her eyes sparkled with indignation.

"Edward Wallingford," she began, "is it you who counsel me to break my
vows; who tells a wife to forget the husband of her choice, the father
of her babes? I cannot believe you are in earnest in what you say. I
married too young, brother. I have always regretted that I did not
listen to your advice, and wait till I had completed my education; but
I never regretted that I chose Paul Dudley. I don't pretend that he has
no faults. None of us are perfect; but whoever says I ought not to love
and respect him, gives me wrong counsel and I reject it."

She drew up her form to its full height, her nostrils dilating; and her
whole face expressing derision. The gazer thought he had never seen a
finer, grander model of beauty.

"Gertrude," he urged tenderly, "do you think I would have taken up a
mere rumor and brought it to you? The gentleman I saw was a stranger to
me; and gave his evidence unbiased."

"What evidence?" She asked the question proudly.

"That Paul gained his case in March, and made a large sum of money by
it. That Mr. Curtis was so much pleased he offered to make Dudley a
sort of partner in the profits; that is he was to stay abroad and have
a royalty on every article sold under their patent. It will be a year
more, my informant tells me, before it is necessary for Paul to be
there; but he is wasting his time while—"

"No, Edward; don't draw inferences which you may regret. He is
travelling as he proposed to do. Why he doesn't write I don't pretend
to explain. He may have written frequently and the letters be still
delayed. You have told me nothing as yet which is disgraceful; unworthy
an honorable man. (You see I overheard Marion's expressions.) Nothing
to lead me even to a desire to forget the words, 'I promise to love,
honor and obey Paul Dudley; to cling to him till death us do part.' You
are prejudiced, Edward; Paul observed the change and mourned it. You
will live to regret you suspected him. The year is not out. You know he
is not aware he has a son; and you will see that he will either return
or send for me to join him, and I shall go."



CHAPTER XV.

SALE OF THE ROCKS.

SHE was turning to leave the room, when he placed his hand on hers.

"Wait one minute, sister. I have not yet done; but I am more proud of
you than I ever was in my life. If I thought any one would ever love
me with such disinterested affection, I should be very happy. You have
proved yourself strong to endure, and I will tell you all."

For one instant she turned pale and putting up her hand murmured:

"Wait," but presently with a flashing eye, added:

"Well, what more did you hear?"

"That my brother-in-law has fallen into bad habits; that he has been
seen in the lowest company, especially since Mr. Curtis left him;—that
the party who travelled with him have excluded him from their circle.
Is not that enough?"

"I do not believe one word of it; and I shall tell him so. Will you
have the goodness to ascertain from your friend where a letter will
reach my husband?"

"Yes, I'll do it; though I don't approve your writing. But Gerty,
promise me one thing. If you ascertain that his habits are corrupt,
that he, is staying abroad with the intention of abandoning you, will
you allow me to procure a divorce?"

"Never, until I have Bible authority for such a course. Until I am
convinced that he has been unfaithful to his marriage vows, I shall
cling to him and him alone; hoping to win back the affection he once
pledged me." Her voice trembled a little at last. She returned his kiss
and only adding:

"Excuse me to Marion," went to her own chamber. The next hour was
passed in prayer for the wanderer. If a doubt of his worthiness crossed
her mind, she would not entertain it a moment. She did not sleep until
she had covered eight pages with assurances of her affection. She said
nothing of what she had heard; but begged him to hurry home to her and
their dear little Paul.

Once more Marion's departure was delayed. Edward urged that his sister
would be obliged to yield to the evidence of her husband's crimes,
and would need the sympathy of a loving friend; but not once had the
long-suffering wife alluded to the subject of their conversation. She
often spoke of her husband; and sometimes cast a quick glance around,
as if she feared to meet looks of scorn; but she talked with baby of
dear papa, "poor papa, way off, all alone," till Hannah could not keep
back her tears.

September came and passed, and still no tidings of the absent one.
Marion had returned to Chicago; and at last Gertrude made no effort to
detain her. A terrible fear that she was forsaken began to make her
nights wakeful and her pillow moist with tears. She thought it would be
a luxury to be alone with her grief, with no loving eyes watching her
every motion. Marion had promised to send her Mr. Curtis' full address;
and as soon as she received it, she requested Edward to copy a letter
she had written to the gentleman. It was briefly asking him to impart
confidentially to the writer any facts he knew concerning Mr. Dudley.

Mr. Curtis' answer was extremely guarded. He spoke of Paul as a good
business man, who had done him great service, etc., etc., without
coming to the point at all.

"Will you give him up now?" inquired her brother, tenderly. "I would
give half I am worth to be able to say, 'His enemies have slandered
him without a cause;' but I heard only last week that his character
is vile; and when I remember how coolly he parted from you; how
deliberately he was planning to defraud you of your little fortune, I
am forced to the conclusion that when he went, he did not intend to
return."

Gertrude sank on a chair and burst into tears. For a long time she had
not allowed herself such a luxury; and now she could not immediately
regain self-command.

"Wait six months longer," she urged at last, trying to control her
voice. "Something will certainly happen in that time."

When the spring came and Paul was a year old, she plead again. "Wait
till fall."

Two years from the hour she parted from her husband, the law had set
her free. Paul Dudley was no longer her husband, and even his parents,
whom Edward had visited in Philadelphia, confessed she had borne more
than could be expected. Alas, they knew their son had fallen! that
their fond hopes were blasted, and learned too late the truth of the
inspired words; "'The rod and reproof give wisdom; but a child left to
himself, bringeth his mother to shame.'"

Through all these weary days and these trying scenes, Gertrude, hopeful
and faithful Gertrude, quieted the anguish of her heart by the thought:

"God is my Father and friend. He knows all things from the beginning;
and has some wise purpose to accomplish by all these trials."

Still there were hours when her grief could not be controlled; when
poor weak human nature cried out, "It is more than I can endure. Has it
come to this, that I am abandoned, forsaken?—that I shall never again
see one to whom my heart clings, notwithstanding all that has passed?"

Mr. Wallingford sent the journal containing a notice of the divorce to
Paul; and then tried to forget, and lead others to forget his existence.

When he gave the paper to his sister, pointing out the paragraph, she
gave way to a burst of emotion. Pressing her baby to her breast she
sobbed over him, faltering:

"Oh, my poor boy! my poor, fatherless boy!"

"I pledge myself, Gertrude," said her brother, greatly moved, "with the
help of God, to be a father to him; to watch over him and care for his
interests as if he were my own child." From that very hour he began to
teach little Paul to call him papa, and soon grew into the feeling that
he was a father in reality.

The fall and winter months glided away unmarked by any event, except
that Edward heard through Paul's sister that he had received notice
of the legal proceedings taken against him; and expressed himself
satisfied with the result; being decided not to return to the United
States, and feeling unable to support a family abroad.

Gertrude came gradually to mingle in society, frequently visiting New
York for a few days, leaving her babe who was uncommonly healthy, with
Bridget under Hannah's supervision. All who knew her, found themselves
equally delighted and surprised at the noble development of her
character. It was indeed true that the afflictions through which she
had passed had refined her, as silver is refined in the furnace. Her
piety had deepened and matured till it could easily be seen, that her
chastisement had "'yielded the peaceable fruits of righteousness.'"

She was now approaching her twenty-first birth day; a season always
saddened by the associations; and her guardian laughingly assured her
he should be ready to give up the care of her property. She was aware
that her few thousands had been lying at interest; and was delighted
that she should be enabled to educate her boy for a broad field of
usefulness. Her great desire was that he should be a clergyman; but
this was at present confined to her own breast.

Between herself and her brother the most entire confidence usually
existed; but of late she had noticed that he was reserved, and
unusually occupied. Early in the morning he started off for New York
without consulting with his farmer as had been the case since the early
spring; and when he returned late at night sat absorbed in thought or
smiling to himself.

One day, however, he returned before dinner, and meeting Bridget
dragging her boy in his fancy carriage along the avenue, seized him and
mounted him in triumph on his shoulder.

"Gerty!" he shouted, at the foot of the staircase, "Gerty, come here a
moment."

She ran down, wondering what had happened.

"I wish you joy, Mrs. Wallingford," he began. (She had taken her old
name.) "I have the pleasure of announcing to you that I have this
morning completed the sale of our rocks in the upper part of the city,
where the new park is being laid out; and shall be able to put down to
your share, one quarter of a million of dollars." She gazed in his face
with an incredulous smile but when he added:

"Our grandfather's speculation has resulted exactly as he expected. New
York city can be enlarged only in one direction. He foresaw the result;
land would rise in the upper part of the city,—he purchased those few
acres of rocks for a small sum; convinced it was a safe investment; now
after forty years it has yielded a profit almost fabulous."

"Oh, Edward, if Paul were only here to share it with me!" was Gerty's
exclamation.

"My little Paul will be heir to my portion," the lawyer went on.

"You ought to marry, Edward," said Gertrude, earnestly.

"Not till I can find a wife who will love me in spite of my faults,
as my deluded sister did a most unworthy man," he answered with a
heightened color.

"I know of one who would do all that," was her arch reply; "and now
that you will have more money than you will know what to do with, I
advise you to make a visit to Chicago at once."

"Time enough for that. You know I don't approve of marrying too young.
But now to business! Mr. Van Husen has been a rare guardian, faithful
to your interests in every particular. He is getting old to be sure,
and intends to give up some of his business; but you would find no one
so useful as he, to manage your estate. He has been figuring for this
sale ever since your marriage, and is immensely pleased that it took
place before he resigned your property into your own hands, with so
large an increase."

"You must manage for me, Edward. If you think it best I shall consent
of course. I know one thing I shall do."

"What?"

"Have a church and pastor here, in our village. Wouldn't it be splendid
if we could persuade Dr. Gilbert to come?"

"I claim the right to pay half the expenses in such a project," was the
lawyer's reply; "but I must run back to New York, if Hannah will give
me a lunch. I shall engage Mr. Van Husen to assist me in investing my
share of money and will carry your request too."

"Yes, and say he must pay himself well; for I may prove a troublesome
client, always wanting a draft; for Edward, we must remember God has
only made us stewards for him; and we must render an account for every
dollar we spend. Think in New York city alone, how much good may be
done!"



CHAPTER XVI.

THE TRAVELLERS.

ANY one who had only seen Mrs. Wallingford on her marriage, would
scarcely have recognized her, when at the age of twenty-four she stood
on board the deck of the good steamer Asia about to sail for Liverpool.
Near her, with a huge shawl wrapped around him, sat her brother Edward;
and just opposite their dearly loved pastor Dr. Gilbert, and Marion.

The wishes of Gertrude had been fulfilled. By the judicious use of
money, backed by the lady's strong will and energy, a beautiful spire
now pointed the inhabitants of the village to the skies; and Rose
Cottage was blessed with a most faithful pastor.

But there must be some alloy in the pleasures of time, that we may be
the more willing to exchange it for eternity. While every effort of
Gertrude's succeeded almost beyond her expectations, she was pained
to see the gradual decline of her brother's health. A few months
before this time, he had a slight hemorrhage of the lungs accompanied
by a cough. His business engagements were pressing; and his clients
were uneasy lest he should employ another lawyer. He was tempted to
imprudence, which resulted in a second and more alarming attack of
bleeding.

The winter and early spring were passed at Rose Cottage, amid alternate
hopes and fears; and then the Doctor advised his patient to try the
effect of a sea voyage. Without a moment's hesitation Gertrude resolved
to accompany him, leaving her son, now in his fifth year, in the care
of Hannah and Bridget, with dear aunt Marion to continue the lessons
his mamma had commenced.

The parting adieus were spoken at last, and the party to go on shore
were turning away, when the invalid seized the hand of Marion, and said
in a low voice:

"If I never live to return, remember you are my first earthly object of
regard. You have led me to accept my Saviour; and if I might have had
you by my side I should ask nothing else."

"Why do you tell me this now, Mr. Wallingford?" she asked, struggling
to retain self-command. "Let me go or I shall be too late."

"One word of love to carry across the ocean would be so much comfort. I
did not tell you before, because I could not get courage to ask you to
unite yourself to a man on the verge of the grave."

"Marion! Marion! the boat is starting," called her father, excitedly.

The young girl's color came and went, but suddenly stooping toward him
she whispered, "I shall pray daily that you may return. I loved you at
first for Gerty's sake. Now I love you for your own."

"God be praised!" was his fervent reply as she bounded away; and
throwing herself into the corner of the close carriage sobbed as if her
heart would break.

During the voyage, the feebleness of the pale invalid;—the watchful
tenderness of the lady accompanying him;—the evident refinement
and cultivation of both, rendered them of great interest to their
fellow passengers. Indeed, few could watch the noble carriage of
Mrs. Wallingford;—the well-formed head so gracefully poised on the
shoulders;—the clear dark eye;—the open brow;—the peaceful calm resting
on every feature;—the elastic step, without wishing to know more of the
stranger.

One of the gentlemen had ascertained from the captain's books that the
names of the couple were Wallingford. It was natural to suppose that
they were man and wife; and in this relation they were regarded through
the voyage.

On reaching Liverpool, Gertrude lost no time in starting for the south
of France where they proposed to pass the month of May.

So far the effect of the journey had been beneficial; and Gertrude's
first letter home was full of encouragement. Marion had engaged to keep
a journal, in which every saying of Master Paul should be recorded. As
Gertrude was closing her letter to her friend she turned to her brother
with the inquiry:

"Do you wish to send a message?"

"Enclose this," he answered, giving her a sealed envelope addressed to
Dr. Gilbert.

Without a suspicion that her brother had at last gained courage to ask
for the hand of her friend, in case his health should be restored,
Gertrude answered, "I thought you settled all business with him the
week before we left."

Remaining in Paris only one week in order to receive letters forwarded
there; they proceeded to Nice, where they soon found the salubrious
air was restoring vigor to the enfeebled frame. With her usual energy
Gertrude devoted herself to the care of her brother. She walked with
him; drove him in the easy carriage she had hired; sung his favorite
songs; read the books he loved best; more than all, talked by the hour
of home and Marion.

How rejoiced she was during all these days that the tie of Christian
love rendered their natural relationship more enduring. Even though
this change of climate, from which they hoped so much, should end in
disappointment, she rested her hopes for him on the Saviour's promise,
"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"

She knew her brother had learned to pray; and she believed that his
consecration of himself and all that he had to his crucified Redeemer
had been accepted. Nothing short of this would have supported him in
the prospect of death, and given him such acquiescence in the will of
his heavenly Father.

Now that she knew the state of his affection toward Marion, she
sometimes regretted that the marriage had not taken place at once;
and then the wife could have accompanied him abroad; but she did not
think it wise to produce useless regret in her brother's mind by such a
suggestion.

In June they went to Switzerland; and Edward had so far regained his
health as to join a party, who were intending to ascend some heights in
the Alps.

News from home came regularly to hand, through their banker in Paris;
and news from the travellers gladdened many hearts in the quiet village.

October found them settled in Rome for the winter. Edward who was now
quite able to relieve his sister of care, hired a beautiful villa,
on the banks of the Tiber; and every fine day a little pleasure boat
could be seen shooting out from the tiny wharf, carrying the elegant
Americans.

They had been in Rome almost a month; had received calls from many
distinguished countrymen and countrywomen; and were beginning to feel
quite at home, when one morning Gertrude accompanied her brother to
the studio of an American artist, who had some pictures on exhibition
before they were sent to New York.

There was quite a crowd in the room, and Gertrude, leaning on the arm
of her brother lingered outside the door quietly awaiting her turn,
when she was startled by the sound of a familiar voice.

She turned quickly, but not before Edward who had also heard it, had
stepped where he could intercept her view.

He took her hand, drew it into his arm and as at this moment several
persons left the studio, pressed his way inside the door.

Every particle of color had vanished from her face, and he could feel
her form tremble as she leaned heavily against him for support.

"I can't stay," she urged, "Let me go."

A lady near thought her fainting, and offered her vinaigrette, which
was politely accepted by Edward.

After the most cursory examination of the famous pictures, they gladly
left; and hailing a carriage at the door, rode swiftly home.

"It was Paul's voice. I am sure of it," murmured the poor wife. "Paul
Dudley, my husband. I must see him."

"You forget," urged her brother, "that he has forfeited that holy tie.
I caught a glimpse of his face; and I assure you, I should never have
recognized it as belonging to one, once so familiar to me."

She was weeping bitterly, while he stood by, wondering what he could
say to comfort her.

"Oh, I wish my boy were here!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands
convulsively. "Our boy. I would send him to his father. You couldn't
deny him a sight of his own child."

"Gertrude, you are beside yourself. You must be aware that Paul, the
father, has a right to his son;—that he can take him from you at any
moment. He may use this power; or by it he may extort from you every
cent of your fortune."

She shuddered visibly; and at length exclaimed:

"Oh, Edward, be merciful! You separated us. I feel this moment that I
could forgive every thing if he will only take me again. Perhaps God
would help me win him back to virtue."

Mr. Wallingford was greatly shocked at her words. He turned from her
with such a distressed countenance that her fears for him were at once
aroused.

"Forgive me," she plead, grasping his hand. "I am indeed ungrateful
when I say such words to you. Forgive me; and I will promise to be
governed by your wishes. Only think of Marion; and ask yourself whether
you could ever turn from her."

"Paul forsook you," he murmured, seating himself on a couch and putting
his hand to his head. "Let us talk of this no more to-day. We are
unfit; at least I am to decide what is best. I will take the earliest
opportunity to inquire what character he bears in the city. After all
we must be governed by that."



CHAPTER XVII.

THE WINTER IN ROME.

BUT day after day passed and every inquiry proved unavailing. No one
knew any thing of a man by that name. Mr. Wallingford then engaged the
police to continue the search, which was equally unsuccessful; and they
were forced to the conclusion that Mr. Dudley was not a resident in
Rome.

"But may he not have taken another name?" suggested Gertrude.

"I have thought of that; but what good will it do you to see him? What
object is there in hunting for one who when found very likely will
cause you fresh grief. You were forgetting him; and I consider it very
unfortunate that he ever came in your path."

"I have never forgotten to pray for him one day since we parted,"
faltered Gertrude, turning to leave the room.

Mr. Wallingford did, indeed, consider it a misfortune, when he
witnessed the effect of this incident on his sister. She grew nervous
and excitable; restless when in doors; and when out, continually on the
watch for one who never came.

November was half through, when late one night a boy came to the villa,
asking a servant to let him see the mistress. Gertrude sat alone in
her chamber, having removed her dress, and wrapped herself in a rich
cashmere robe. She directed the servant, in an indifferent tone, to
send the boy to her door.

He addressed her in Italian; "I was to give you this," putting a soiled
paper in her hand.

She took it in the ends of her fingers, went toward the light,
supposing it to be an application for alms; but no sooner did her eye
fall on the signature, than her whole being seemed changed.

She rang the bell repeatedly, sending one servant to her brother's room
to ask him to come to her immediately; another, she directed to call a
carriage, while a third was despatched for all the luxuries the house
could afford.

Then locking the door of her room she threw herself on her knees.

"My God, I thank thee," she murmured. "Give me this soul in answer to
my earnest prayers. Help me to forgive my poor, erring husband, even as
my Saviour has forgiven me."

A knock at the door interrupted her, and presently she put the paper
into Edward's hands.

"Read that," she exclaimed. "Read it and come with me to the bed of a
dying man."

She was fearfully excited, more than he had ever seen her. He put his
hand on her shoulder saying, firmly:

"Gertrude, you must be more calm. I will not allow you to go, until you
promise to control yourself."

There was a flash in her eye which reminded him of former years.

"You cannot prevent me. You have no right to keep me from my husband."

"He is not your husband, Gerty. You do not know but he may have married
again."

She gasped for breath, throwing up her hands in horror. "I never
thought that possible," she murmured faintly.

He left her for a moment; and then returned to find her making a great
effort to control herself.

"The carriage has come," he said, "and I am prepared to accompany you
to the poor sufferer as I would to any distressed countryman; but,
Gerty, for the sake of the respect you owe yourself, do not allow him
to suspect that your affection for him has survived his neglect."

She bowed her head without speaking; and they went to the carriage, the
boy who brought the letter mounting on the box with the driver.

Not a word was said during the drive. Both were too absorbed for
speech; and at length the messenger called out:

"This is the house."

Gertrude jumped from the carriage and gave a searching glance around
the locality, as if to judge by it, what Paul's associations had been.
Taking Edward's arm, she followed the lad up a flight of creaking
stairs. The door of the room was ajar; and as they stopped a moment,
Gerty heard a feeble voice ask eagerly:

"Did you find the lady? Will she come?"

"She is here."

Turning his head Paul Dudley saw Gertrude standing at the entrance.

He was lying on a low couch against the wall propped up with every
article that could be turned to such a use. By his side was an
unpainted bench holding a bowl of drink, and a common earthen plate
with a piece of hard bread.

When he saw her whom he had won in her girlhood, the recollection of
all he had made her suffer rushed to his mind. He gasped out:

"Go away again! I can't endure that you should see my disgrace." But
she did not go. She advanced to the side of the bed, and stood looking
down upon him with such an expression of sorrow that he hid his face.

"I have come at your bidding," she said in a voice so calm that Edward,
who remembered how he had found her almost frantic with excitement,
gazed at her in wonder.

"I couldn't die till I had seen you once more."

"How long have you been ill?"

"Ever since the day I met you at the studio. For years I had been
trying to forget. In one moment the labor was undone."

"Have you had medical advice?"

He laughed bitterly; "I, had advice! Why for weeks together I have not
owned a dollar."

"How have you lived? I mean what has kept you from starving?"

"It is a long story," he answered, "and I am very weak."

She turned to her brother, who gave a whispered message to the lad,
sending him from the room.

"Is that Edward Wallingford?" murmured the sick man. "I did not send
for him."

"This is not a place for a lady to be seen alone," was Edward's reply;
"but that is not the only reason I came. I heard you were in distress;
and I came to relieve you if possible."

"Nobody can do that. I have thrown away the best chance for happiness
a man ever had. You know what I might have been. And you," turning to
Gertrude, "know how wickedly I broke my vows to you. This is what sin
has brought me to."

"We are all sinners," said Gertrude earnestly, "and Christ came to save
those who feel themselves to be lost without his aid. Cannot you throw
yourself upon his mercy, his infinite love?"

"No, no. I've no hope of happiness in this world or the next. I only
wanted to see you once more. You can go away now."

"I would not leave a stranger to die alone in a strange land; and I
will not leave you till some one comes to your assistance."

Her voice, from the effort she was making to keep calm, sounded cold
and constrained. "I have brought food," she added, "Will you have some?"

He immediately stretched out his bony hand eagerly.

Ina few moments steps were heard on the stairs; and Edward went hastily
forward, detaining the physician for whom he had sent, to explain
that a countryman had called for aid, and that he would pay for every
attention shown him.

It was a late hour before Gertrude could be persuaded to leave,
and then only to take a few hours rest, before she made hurried
preparations for the sick man to be removed to her villa. The physician
had told her, Paul had but a few weeks to live; and she had persuaded
her brother to allow him to die under their own roof.

One sight of that haggard face, upon which vice and poverty had left
their mark, had dissipated forever all hope of a reunion in this life,
though she earnestly prayed they might spend an eternity together in
heaven. But she felt that God had given her a work to do; and in order
to accomplish it she must have the dying man where she could readily
gain access to him. "My dream is over," she said to her brother. "The
first shock was when you suggested that he might have married again; an
idea which never had occurred to me. Then when I saw the seal crime had
stamped on his once handsome face, I realized that he is not the Paul
to whom I had given my heart. But he has a precious soul to be saved;
and for that I must labor while he has life."

"You shall have all the help that I can give," was his reply, more
relieved by her words than she could well imagine; "and may God bless
our endeavors."

Early in the forenoon Edward went out to make arrangements for Paul's
removal. It was three hours before he returned, and Gertrude had grown
very impatient. When the carriage stopped at the door, she started to
go forward; but her brother motioned her back, saying:

"The exertion has been too much for the poor fellow; and he has
fainted. You must wait till he has had time to rest."

The physician had accompanied his patient, wishing every sick foreigner
might find such friends. He prescribed perfect quiet for the rest of
the day, adding, "Mr. Dudley is so weak the least excitement may prove
fatal."

This was very trying to Mrs. Wallingford, who yearned to commence her
work. She comforted herself by returning to her closet and besieging
the throne of grace in his behalf.

The next morning Edward reported that the medicine, proper food and
quiet, had produced a most happy result. He had enjoyed some hours of
refreshing sleep; and was now partaking of a bountiful breakfast his
nurse had prepared.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE EFFECTS OF CRIME.

GERTRUDE opened the door and walked quietly to the bed. There was
a great change in Paul's appearance since the previous day. In
dress and appurtenances he was a gentleman once more; and when the
visitor remembered how fastidious he had formerly been in all matters
pertaining to his person, she could well realize how much this would
add to his comfort.

Pedro, a young Italian, was removing the small silver tray upon which
the exquisite dishes of china had been placed; and Paul, hurriedly
taking his napkin from his neck turned to the lady with a pleading
earnestness which deeply moved her.

"I am glad to hear you are more comfortable," she said, smiling.

"Yes, I slept well." He kept his eyes on her face as if fascinated; not
seeming to notice that the earnestness of his gaze brought the eloquent
blood to her cheeks.

"What shall I call you?" he asked, softly. "I mean, have you changed
your name?"

"Yes, I am Mrs. Wallingford now."

He sighed repeatedly, burying his emaciated features in his more
emaciated hands.

"We will both forget the past," she said seriously. "You are a
countryman; a stranger in a strange land; and we are friends, anxious
to do you good."

"It's no use. I've given up trying long ago. The first temptation that
came I was overcome."

"Does it tire you to talk?" she asked, with lively interest.

"Not so much as it comforts me to feel I have one friend near."

She motioned to Pedro, who was leaving the room, to remain, and drawing
a chair to the bed, said tenderly:

"You have one Friend, Paul, who has never left you. It is He who caused
our paths to cross; and who ordered this meeting. Have you never felt
anxious to secure the blessings he can give you?"

She was astonished to witness the emotions this question excited. The
poor man's breast heaved and fell; his face became agitated, till his
features were almost convulsed.

"I thought my heart was dead long ago," he gasped, "dead and buried.
It's no use to revive that old grief; I've tried hard enough to forget
it."

"What do you mean? You say you gave up trying to do right. Did you
rely on your own strength? Don't you remember how Dr. Gilbert used to
tell us to seek help from above? There is a fountain from which we are
allowed to draw freely."

"I'm too weak to talk much," was the weary answer. "I wish I could lie
here forever and look out on the fleecy clouds."

"Would it tire you for me to read?"

"No; but you'll get the Bible; and it's no use. I'm past that long ago."

She took a small testament from the table, and turning to Luke xv, 7;
read this verse, "I say unto you that, likewise, joy shall be in heaven
over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just
persons which need no repentance."

Then turning to Pedro, she said in Italian; "See that your master has
every attention. If he has any friend whom he wishes to see, send for
him."

When she saw her brother she related what had passed, adding; "I wish I
knew how his life had been spent during all these years. He refers to
temptation and crime with a shudder, from which I hope conscience is
not dead."

"I can tell you the general outline," was Mr. Wallingford's reply. "I
passed an hour with him this morning, while Pedro was preparing his
food; and he seemed relieved at being allowed to confess the depths of
sin into which he had plunged."

"Has he formed any other tie?" she asked in some confusion.

"No, he says he could not legally. By our laws, though you are released
from him, he is still bound to you."

"Edward. Is this true?" She shook from head to foot.

"A short time before he received the paper I forwarded," continued
the gentleman; "he met a lady from New York who had frequently seen
you in that city. Knowing nothing of the relation existing between
you, she was enthusiastic in her praise, commenting warmly on your
brilliancy in conversation, etc., etc.; adding that your beauty, grace,
and accomplishments made you the centre of attraction wherever you
went. Finding him greatly interested she went on to say that there
were circumstances in your life connected with a lady, Miss Gilbert,
who accompanied you into society which reflected greatly to your
credit,—stating that you married when a mere child, but regretting your
want of education had spent every possible moment in making up your
deficiencies in the hope of keeping the respect, as well as affection
of your husband, who was a professional man."

"Paul says when he heard all this, the scales fell from his eyes.
When once they were opened, he wondered at his blindness; and nothing
but the recollection of the shameful life he had led, kept him from
returning to New York, throwing himself at your feet, confessing his
crimes, and begging your forgiveness. While pride and affection, which
had revived in full force, were struggling in his breast, he heard,
first, by the printed report; and, afterwards through his sister Anna,
that the law had made you free."

"This was the most terrible disappointment he ever experienced. It was
followed by a sickness which carried him to the borders of the grave;
and when he recovered, he plunged into every kind of vice, drinking and
gambling until he often was on the verge of starvation. Do you remember
rising from your couch one night soon after the death of dear little
Rose, and kneeling by the bed when you thought your husband asleep, to
pray for him? He could never forget those petitions; they haunted him
whenever he attempted to sleep. He says he had treated you in the most
cruel manner through all that trying scene; and that you bore it like a
saint, never complaining, though often gazing mournfully in his face,
but rendering good for evil continually. He told me your face, just as
it looked the morning Rose died, was so continually before him that
when he caught one glimpse of you at the door of the studio, he thought
at first it was the vision in another form."

"The sight of us there so affected him, that he could scarcely stagger
to the wretched garret he called home. He found out where we lived; and
while we were searching in every part of the city for Paul Dudley, he,
by the name of John Hastings, was lingering near our villa, waiting
hours in the hope of one glance in your familiar face. He says you and
I have passed him again and again, as he was seated near the gate, and
that once he heard you say:

"Edward, there's that poor man again. I must throw him some money."

"Oh, brother what a terrible retribution for him! Since he remembered
the prayer so well, did it do him any good?"

"I should think it only harrowed up his soul with remorse. Poor Paul;
his has been a sad instance of total recklessness, resulting from want
of religious principle."

"Did he seem pleased to come to us?"

"Not at all. At first he absolutely refused. 'I'm dying,' he said; 'and
I'd rather end my days in quiet.' But when I insisted that I would not
leave any countryman in such a state of destitution, he hesitated; and
I took advantage of his weakness to send for a barber, and tailor and
have him made ready to be moved."

"Will you please come with me?" inquired Pedro, knocking at the door.

Gertrude rose instantly, and followed the servant to his master's side.

His eyes looked wild; and he turned to his visitor almost fiercely.

"Are you alive?" he asked. "What makes you haunt me so? You and your
dead baby; I can't bear it, and I wont."

"Paul," she murmured softly; for the first time putting her hand on his
head.

He clutched eagerly at it; and was carrying it to his lips, when with a
shriek he let it fall, gasping out:

"I forgot! I forgot!!"

The deep humility of his voice and tone touched her as nothing else had
done.

Her eyes filled with tears of compassion as she gazed at his haggard
countenance; when suddenly taking his hand from his eyes he observed
traces of her emotion.

"May I ask one question?" he inquired.

"Certainly."

"When I am dead and buried will you forgive me?"

"I will forgive you now. I forgave you long ago, freely and fully, as I
hope my Saviour has forgiven me."

"Say it again," said he, gasping. "It seems too strange to be real."

She repeated her words, adding; "God will forgive you, if you humbly
ask him for the sake of his Son."

"No, you don't understand. Your brother will tell you I've lost all
chance of being saved."

"'The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'
If you had not sinned you would not have been under the law. Now
you confess yourself a sinner too vile to enter heaven by your own
merits. Christ offers to make atonement for you. He says, 'I have died
the death of the cross to satisfy divine justice and reconcile you
to your offended God. I have taken your sins, and now offer you my
righteousness' Can you refuse such an offer?"

"If you knew how I'd spent these last years, you'd say it was
impossible. But you've promised to forgive me; and I never knew you to
say what you didn't mean. I never shall forgive myself. I never can.
I'd give my right hand; both my hands, if I could forget how I broke
all my promises to you; and after taking you away from your pleasant
home trying to break your heart."

"I thought we were to forget all the past. I can truly say all is
forgiven and forgotten. My only desire is to do you good. If you really
wish to give me greater happiness than any thing else can give, submit
yourself, with all your sins, to your Saviour. He will take care of
you. His promise is sure. He says, I came not to call the righteous
but sinners to repentance!' You confess that remorse for the past has
made your life very bitter. Pray God now to give you true penitence,
'that godly sorrow,' not for the consequences of your sin, but for sin
itself, because it is displeasing to a holy God,—'which is not to be
repented of.'"

She placed the Bible within his reach, repeated her command to Pedro to
order whatever his master fancied in the way of food; and left the room.



CHAPTER XIX.

GOOD FOR EVIL.

FOR some days, the sick man continued in a convalescent condition.
He enjoyed his food, partaking heartily of whatever was brought him;
coughed but little, and was evidently much stronger than when they
found him, in his wretched garret. Every morning Gertrude went in to
read to him and had once sung the beautiful hymn commencing:

  "Just as I am, without one plea,
   But that thy blood was shed for me,
   And that thou bid'st me come to thee,
     O Lamb of God, I come!"

This sentiment of the author deeply affected the invalid, who did not
speak for some time after her voice ceased. Gertrude longed to ask him
why he delayed to throw himself upon the mercy of Christ; but she saw
the Holy Spirit was working on his heart; and she trembled lest an
untimely word should do harm.

Edward, also, was unwearied in his attention to his old classmate;
though each of them had, as if by tacit consent, avoided all reference
to their former intimacy.

When they were alone Paul could not refrain from speaking of Gertrude,
though every word seemed to rend his heart asunder.

"She says she forgives me; but how can she? You saw how I neglected
her for others, whose attractions were nothing in comparison to hers,
but you never suspected one half the torture to which I subjected her.
Not that such was my intention; but I had been taught at home that all
women were inferiors. Mother and sisters always yielded to me. I was
moody and irritable, often giving her a harsh word, when I ought to
have been most considerate and kind."

One day when the sick man seemed unusually feeble, Gertrude brought in
a glass of wine and smilingly told him the physician had ordered it.

"Take it away!" he exclaimed with a shudder. "The love of stimulating
drinks has been my ruin."

"Mrs. Wallingford," he went on, for the first time addressing her
by this title, "did you never suspect what it was that made me so
irritable, so unjust; so much more like a fiend than like the tender
husband I had promised to be?"

"Yes, Paul, I knew that you loved wine, and drank more than was good
for you."

"I did. I learned to drink a glass or two at our club, before you came
to Chicago. It did not affect me as it does many. I never staggered,
or lost my consciousness; but I thought it quickened my intellectual
powers. If I were going to plead a case I took an extra quantity.
Many called my pleading a brilliant success. I knew that it was the
excitement of liquor. The secondary effect was on my temper; and
as I dared not vent my irritability on others, I tortured my poor
long-suffering wife."

"It was this; and the consciousness that some of my clients began
to class me with intemperate men that led me to accept Mr. Curtis'
proposition to accompany him to Europe."

"No, no, I will never touch my lips to the wineglass. When I think what
I have lost by it, I loathe and abhor it as I loathe and abhor myself.
I might have been the happiest husband and father in the world; but I
was blind! I was blind!"

As he had never made the most distant allusion to her letter announcing
the birth of little Paul, she had been urged by her brother to make no
mention of the child. Indeed, she was not sure she could control her
own emotions if the subject were introduced.

Once a fortnight, a letter from Marion, filled with news of the little
fellow, came to gladden the mother's heart. His sayings and doings,
even the most trivial, were treasured up by her. In the last letter
there had come a photograph of the boy, dressed in his winter outfit,
in which he looked so bright and beautiful, that she could scarce
refrain from rushing into Paul's chamber to exhibit it; but Edward's
entreaties, and her own reflections prevailed. So far, the sick man had
never in direct terms told her that his affection for her was stronger
than it was during the days of their first acquaintance; but should
she lessen the dignity and reserve of manner which she had carefully
maintained in all their intercourse, she could readily perceive it
would be far more difficult for him to conceal the feelings which were
growing too strong for him.

Paul learned from Pedro that every evening the parlors were crowded
with visitors; often mentioning persons of distinction, with whom he
himself had never aspired to associate. From his physician he heard of
the estimation in which his benefactors were held. Mrs. Wallingford
was considered the most elegant, highly educated and attractive
American who had visited Rome for years; and her brother the model of a
gentleman.

"There is a certain English nobleman," he added, without a suspicion of
the eagerness with which his patient hung on his words, "who is greatly
enamoured. At first, Mrs. Wallingford was supposed to be a wife,
instead of sister to the gentleman; and his delight may be imagined
when the relationship became known."

"Is he a man of wealth and influence?" inquired Paul, trying in vain to
keep his voice from trembling.

"He is the owner of that, elegant villa on the Tiber," was the reply;
"and I am told is very prominent in the House of Lords."

The sick man groaned aloud; but presently inquired:

"Have you heard whether she favors his suit?"

"I think he would be better pleased if she would exhibit less dignity
and self-possession. I hope he will be successful."

"Pedro," said his master, one day, "I am afraid my being here so long,
will be a great expense."

"Mr. Wallingford is very rich," was the answer. "Money plenty; poor
people coming from morning till night and none sent away hungry."

The listener wondered much at this; and the next time Edward visited
him said with some confusion:

"I am here too long. I am an expense to you which I have no means to
pay."

"Don't give yourself uneasiness on that account, Paul. My sister and I
have enough to enable us to enjoy the luxury of giving to our friends.
You look surprised; did you never hear that we inherited half a million
between us?"

"Never; but I rejoice to hear it. Ger—I mean your sister," coughing
in great confusion, "will enjoy having money to do good with. I am
heartily glad; and shall feel more at ease. I have already lived much
longer than I expected; and I began to feel I ought to go away and
relieve you from the burden you so generously assumed."

"Mrs. Wallingford will give you due notice when she wishes you to
change your quarters," the brother answered, smiling:

"I have not seen her to-day."

"She left a message for you, which I might have forgotten. She has gone
with an English nobleman we have met here, to see some ancient ruins,
and is intending to read to you on her return."

When she entered the chamber he was alone; and she instantly rang the
bell for Pedro, who was sunning himself on the portico.

The occurrence was significant to the sick man; but with a sigh, trying
to put aside all useless regrets he held up the Testament she had left
him; and pointing to the page, said eagerly:

"I have found the rule which actuates you," reading aloud. "'Be not
overcome of evil; but overcome evil with good.' 'Recompense to no man
evil for evil.'"

"And this too is what you have done! 'Not rendering evil for evil, or
railing for railing, but contrariwise blessing; knowing that ye are
thereunto called that ye should inherit a blessing.'"

There was something in his expression as he glanced from the book with
a smile which carried her back so forcibly to other days, that for a
moment she was overcome. Covering her face the tears flowed freely down
her cheeks.

He was seated on a large couch or divan, and timidly laid his fingers
on hers, trying to remove them from her face.

"I didn't mean to pain you," he said humbly. "I have been reading the
book you lent me; and when I found that passage, I said to myself, that
exactly describes my—Mrs. Wallingford. I have treated her evil and she
has recompensed evil with good!"

"Paul, do you wish to know how you can reward me?"

"Yes, yes," his eyes sparkling.

"Love my Saviour. Let my poor words be the instrument of bringing you
to him, that I may have one jewel in my crown of rejoicing."

She was hurrying from the room to hide her tears, when he called softly:

"Gertrude. May I call you so once, just once? I would go to Christ;
but I don't know how. I tried last night to pray, and I repeated over
and over the words you used for me so long ago. 'Blessed Jesus, save
him from the corruption of his own heart; lead him to the foot of the
cross. May he find peace in believing on thee.' I need peace, my soul
is all adrift. Can't you tell me once more how to go to him?"

She took the Bible from his hands; and read the beautiful parable of
the prodigal son.

When she came to the words, "I will arise and go to my father," he
waved his hand for her to stop, and repeated them, after her slowly and
impressively.

She placed the book near him, hesitating whether to say more, when he
began:

"I know I don't deserve it. Perhaps you wont be willing; but if you
would pray with me once more."

She complied, without a word, kneeling by his side; and was much
affected to see that he rose slowly, and assumed the same position.

It was to her one of the most solemn moments of her life. Paul, once
related to her by the most endearing ties, just about to launch into
eternity, hesitating whether to accept or reject his Saviour. Her full
heart found vent in words. She went to her Father in heaven as a child
would address an earthly father, whom she knew loved her; and was ready
to grant her request. She heard her companion by her side, sobbing
aloud; and this inspired her to greater fervor. She wrestled for his
soul, like Jacob with the angel of the covenant, saying, "'I will not
let thee go unless thou bless me.'"

Then she arose and went softly from the room.



CHAPTER XX.

SALVATION BY CHRIST.

THE rest of the day was spent in retirement; and the following morning
found her suffering from a severe headache, in consequence of the
intense excitement of feeling through which she had passed. She sent a
servant to inquire after Paul, and tried to find relief in sleep.

In the afternoon, her brother knocked at her door, and found her just
about to leave her room. His face denoted unusual agitation and he said
at once:

"I passed the entire morning in Paul's chamber. If he were to die
before I see him again, I should hope he had found the mercy he needs
in order to enter heaven."

"God be praised!" was her fervent ejaculation.

"I found him," Mr. Wallingford went on, "propped up on his couch,
reading the fifty-first Psalm, large tears coursing down his cheeks.

"He looked up as I entered and holding out the blessed book, exclaimed:

"See, what I have found! Why have I never seen it before? It was
written for me. No other man ever needed such words so much as I.
Every syllable; every letter expresses my wants. Just hear what a
plea this is. 'Have mercy upon me, according to thy loving kindness.'
His kindness is infinite, else I should have been long ago cut off,
'therefore, according to thy infinite love and tenderness to the most
vile and hardened of all thy creatures, so let thy mercy abound.'"

"Then here again. 'Hide thy face from my sins.' The thought that a holy
God, who abhors sin to such a degree that he allowed his only Son to
die on the cross to win men from its corrupt paths; has witnessed all
the crimes of my whole life, has made me tremble before him. Yes, with
my whole heart I can say, 'hide thy face from my sins.' 'Let not thine
eyes of purity rest upon them;' and 'blot out all mine iniquities.'"

"When I came to that verse I asked myself, 'But how can a wise ruler do
this? If the law is set aside, anarchy is at once established.' At this
moment the mission of Christ as a mediator rushed into my mind with
the vividness of a flash of lightning. He is the being, part human,
part divine, who can mediate between the offended Judge, and his guilty
subjects. With the name of this Mediator on our lips we can even dare
to make a plea so bold! 'Cast me not away from thy presence, take not
thine Holy Spirit from me?' 'Create in me a new heart,' this wicked
heart which has been in all manner of uncleanness I loathe, I abhor.
Create a new one, with holy desires, with pure affections, and renew a
right spirit within me."

"I can scarcely give you an idea," continued the gentleman, after
watching for an instant the gush of joyful tears which streamed down
his sister's cheeks; "of Paul's fervor in repeating these petitions.
'Why, oh, why, did I never see that the way of salvation is so clear?
I was blind indeed not to find it. Oh, the matchless love, and wisdom
that formed the wondrous plan!'"

"He grew so pale at last that I thought he would faint, and called
Pedro to give him medicine. 'You must sleep,' I said, 'and when you are
rested I will come again.'"

Just at dusk Gertrude was hesitating whether to go to Paul's room lest
he had already talked too much, when he sent a request to see her.

His chair was drawn near the western window, where the gorgeous rays of
the setting sun were illuminating the entire horizon.

He pointed to a divan near him, and began at once:

"You will rejoice with me, dear friend. I begin to see things once
invisible. I know what the name of Jesus means. I understand now what
you meant when you prayed so long ago. 'Blessed Jesus, save him from
the corruption of his own heart.' I have pondered on those words for
hours; but they had little meaning to me. Now I realize his wondrous
power. In his own body he carried my sins to the cross. He made
atonement by his precious blood, one drop of which would have been
enough to save me."

"And here I have been doubting his ability to wash me clean."

He looked in her face with a smile so full of heavenly joy, her assumed
composure was overcome, and burying her head in her hands she wept
freely.

"I knew you would rejoice," he went on, gazing tenderly at her bowed
form. "You would not leave me to perish. You dragged me out of my pit
and brought me where the light of heaven has shone upon me. You held up
my Saviour and made me look upon him whom I had pierced."

At this moment the physician came in. He had not seen his patient for
some days, and looked in wonder at the new expression on his once
gloomy countenance.

Paul held out his hand with a smile. "You may count the beats in my
pulse," he said; "and if you tell me this is my last night on earth,
they will not vary in the least. I acknowledge my crimes and throw
myself on the mercy of the Judge of all the earth. I have an Advocate
who has promised to save me, one whose word has never failed."

"What does he mean?" queried the Doctor, wonderingly.

"It means, that whereas I was once blind, now I see. Whereas, I once
loved sin and rolled it as a sweet morsel under my tongue, now I hate
it and long to escape from it. In heaven I shall be free, and I long to
be there."

"Your wish will soon be realized," murmured the Doctor, putting his ear
down to the sick man's breast. "A week at farthest and you will have
done with time."

"And eternity will have commenced," Paul added, clasping his hands.

But the physician's prophecy was not fulfilled. The very next day, Paul
was so much worse, his kind friends gathered around his bed to bid him
farewell. For the first time since their reunion he held Gertrude's
hand in his, saying feebly, as he grasped it:

"Only this once;" then thanked her for all her forbearance and
kindness. He earnestly reiterated his request for forgiveness,
pleading; "The words are so sweet, so sweet."

Then he repeated the inspired command; "'Be not overcome of evil but
overcome evil with good.' That is what you have done; what Christ has
helped you to do; what he himself has done for me; good for evil;
blessing for cursing."

Suddenly he requested all but Mr. and Mrs. Wallingford to leave the
room, and pointing to a small box, asked Gertrude to take from, it a
letter. Enclosed in a soiled, worn envelope, was the epistle she had
written him, announcing the birth of a son, whom she had named Paul,
for his father; and in which she plead with him to come home to a wife
who loved and trusted him as well as ever.

"I did not receive it till after I got the paper from Edward," he
explained, gasping. "I want you to keep it. It is the only treasure
I have in the world; and if you are willing, tell our boy his father
repented of his sins and trusted in the mercy of God through Christ.
Tell him to make up to his mother for all the sorrow I have caused her.
I shalt want to see him in heaven."

After awhile his distress became so great, Gertrude was wholly
unnerved, and her brother led her from the room.

"He's just gone," the physician said, hearing the ominous rattle in his
throat; but at this moment, the crisis came. A large ulcer, which had
been forming on his lungs broke; and for a few moments he seemed to be
suffocating. Then he fell back completely prostrated, and for an hour
there was scarcely any sign of life.

But God's time had not yet come. Paul gradually rallied from this
attack and enjoyed several months of comparative comfort, during
which he gave good evidence of a radical change in heart and life.
He remained with his friends until February, when they started for
England; having made every arrangement for him to follow in June, if
his life should be spared till that time.

The voyage he was well aware would be attended with great risk and
fatigue; but there were objects and desires he yearned after. His
parents for years had mourned him with a more bitter sorrow than if he
had been laid beneath the sod. With his whole soul he longed to see
them once more, and urge them to accept the only support which would
comfort them when on the bed of death.

There was another wish, growing stronger every day, which he never
had gained courage to mention; and which a consciousness of his past
misdeeds reminded him that he did not deserve. But this he felt must be
left with Him who ordereth all events for the best good of his children.



CHAPTER XXI.

CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.

THE letters from Rose Cottage had been highly satisfactory until the
last. In that, Marion wrote that Hannah was slowly recovering from an
attack of fever which had much prostrated her strength.

"Paul," she said, "I brought home with me; and he has been my special
care ever since. Bridget has proved herself a wonderful nurse; and at
the same time has superintended the dairy work, so that all has gone on
as orderly as usual. We hope Hannah will be entirely recovered in a few
weeks."

"In the mean tithe papa and mamma have become so much attached to my
boy, as I proudly call him, that it will be difficult to separate them
when it is time for him to go back to Rose Cottage. Indeed, if I did
not take him in for a call every day, neither Hannah nor Bridget could
be pacified. He grows more beautiful every hour; and what you will
care for more than all the rest, he grows so conscientious. Papa has a
large book of engravings of which he is very choice. Once or twice I
have shown them to Paul, explaining the scenes they were intended to
represent; but the child had been told not to take the volume from the
shelf as it is too large for him to handle without injury."

"I went out on an errand for mamma a few days ago, not taking my usual
companion on account of the rain. Mamma was busy in her chamber, and
papa out on parish duty. I gave Paul a game of dissected pictures
to keep him employed; and left him in the study. When I returned, I
noticed he looked uneasy, his face flushed, and his eye avoiding mine.
I glanced around the room fearing he had been trying to write, as he
loves to do; and had spilled the ink; but I saw no marks of disorder,
and concluded not to urge him to tell me what ailed him."

"I took a book into the bow window, and he sat near me sighing
repeatedly. At last his lip began to quiver, and with an exclamation:"

"'I want my mamma to come home quick,' the poor little fellow burst
into tears."

"I caught him in my arms where he sobbed a long time before he could
explain."

"'I've been naughty, aunt Marion. I took that nice book of pictures
down from the shelf.'"

"'Oh, I'm sorry, darling!'" I said. "'Did you enjoy seeing them?'"

"'No, I didn't. I was afraid somebody would come; and then I knew God
could see right through the sky. I'm so sorry now.'"

"How could I utter one word of reproof? The gentle monitor in his
breast had done that. I only reminded him how ready God is to forgive
us when we have sinned; and we knelt down together to ask him to have
compassion for the sake of his Son Jesus Christ."

"He jumped up from his low chair, with such a bright face, and asked
quickly:"

"'Has he forgiven me, aunt Marion?'"

"'Yes, dear, I think he has; and you will not touch the book again.'"

"'No, I wont till you show it to me. That is the way I like to see it
best. Now I feel glad.'"

"I longed for you to see him then. His eyes sparkled with happiness,
and a heart at ease; his cheeks were mantled with roses; and his cherry
lips were dimpled with smiles. Do you wonder we all love him so dearly?"

Mr. Wallingford's health was now confirmed. A regular correspondence
had been kept up between him and Marion, in which they had learned to
understand each other well. There seemed to be a peculiar harmony in
their views, as well as in the principles which actuated their conduct.

The travellers' return was fixed for June, when it was arranged that
a certain ceremony at the parsonage should be followed by a tour to
Canada, the lakes, Chicago, and home by the Southern route; via,
Washington, Philadelphia and New York.

It had never been Mr. Wallingford's intention to give up the practice
of law. He believed it better for every man to have some regular
business; and to endeavor to excel in it. Early in the spring,
therefore, he had written Mr. Van Husen, requesting that gentleman to
purchase him a handsome residence in a pleasant and healthy location.
This was to be their winter home, where Gertrude and her boy would
always be welcomed as part of the family. A wing, thrown out on the
West side of Rose Cottage, would give ample accommodations to the two
families in summer.

Under these circumstances, it is not strange that the lawyer should
feel drawn toward his native land; nor that he should consider the
caution of his medical adviser, to remain abroad until June, entirely
needless.

The last days of February found them slowly making their way, in
company with Mr. Radcliffe, the English nobleman, above mentioned,
through France, pausing for a few days at Nice, where they had made
some agreeable friends; and then crossing that country to England.

Reaching London the middle of March, they passed a month in making
the tour of Great Britain, by which time Mr. Wallingford assured his
sister, it was quite safe for him to embark for home. So without
waiting to announce to their friends that they were about to anticipate
the time of sailing, they took passage in the Steamship China, the last
week in April, instead of waiting till the first of June.

There was one circumstance which decided Mrs. Wallingford not to oppose
her brother leaving England sooner than the date they had written
home. But in order to explain this, I must go back a little to their
residence in Rome.

Sir Jones Radcliffe, from his first introduction to Gertrude, was
charmed with the sweet gentleness of her manners; and the enthusiasm
with which she conversed on literary and religious subjects. At that
time he supposed her to be the wife of Mr. Wallingford; and remarked
frankly to a friend who had often joked him upon his fastidiousness
with regard to ladies:

"At last I have met one who is my beau ideal of what a wife should
be; with beauty, accomplishments, and a mind enriched by culture; all
softened by the pearl of meekness, and Christian principle."

Soon after he heard her address Edward as her brother; and the violent
beating of his heart, showed him how easy it would be to surrender
it to her keeping. From this hour, by the most constant, delicate
attentions, he sought to win her affections; and nothing but her
increasing reserve of manner, when she suspected his object, deterred
him from making proposals for her hand.

When about to leave Rome she was rather annoyed to find that her
brother had consented to the wish of Sir Jones, and allowed him to
join their party to England. He proved a most agreeable travelling
companion; and now that his whole heart was enlisted in her favor, he
tried his utmost to excel in the powers of conversation for which he
had long been distinguished. In the freedom of their intercourse he
discovered that Gertrude had a son nearly six years of age; and that
his image was scarcely ever absent from the mother's memory. This fact
he turned to good account, leading her on to talk of his infantile
ways, to tell of his wise sayings, and at last even to read from
Marion's letters some of his childish messages. Before this Sir Jones
thought he could not love her more than he did; but now he found his
mistake. When talking of little Paul, the mother-light that beamed
from her eyes and dimpled her mouth so enhanced his affection, that he
determined to risk all, by a confession.

At home Gertrude had received proposals of marriage from several
gentlemen of worth and distinction in her native state; but she had
always shrunk from a new tie as an impossibility as long as Paul was
alive. Now that she had seen him, who had once been her husband, under
circumstances so affecting, she was more resolute in her former opinion
than before.

One morning Sir Jones invited her to accompany him in a visit to a
castle, famous for its historic associations; and supposing her brother
was to be of the party she gladly consented. When it was too late to
recede, she found Mr. Radcliffe had engaged only two horses; and that
her brother was otherwise occupied. She could do nothing but resign
herself to the arrangement in the best manner she was able.

He began to talk of Paul, telling her how the bright face of the little
fellow had haunted him ever since she had shown him the picture. How
it happened she never could recollect, but somehow his kindness and
sympathy led her on, until she told him of the brief life of her little
Rose, every word breathing such a sweet trust in the wisdom of her
heavenly Father in taking the babe to its home in the skies, that he
had no words to express his admiration.

Through all their intercourse he had noticed that she never had
mentioned the name of her husband; now without a suspicion that he
could be alive, he said, tenderly:

"Paul must have been a great comfort to you when his sister was taken
away."

He was surprised and deeply pained by the burst of tears which
accompanied her answer.

"Precious little Rose was my first born! I was just past my seventeenth
birthday when that dream of happiness was over. Poor Paul has never
seen his father."

"Let me be his father," he began; and once released from the violent
restraint in which he had kept back expressions of his affection, he
poured out his heart before her.

In vain she tried to check him, urging:

"It is impossible."

He had now lost self-command; and the tide of love would not be longer
dammed up.

[Illustration: "Paul must have been a great comfort to you."]

"Believe me, Mr. Radcliffe," she urged, still weeping. "I would have
spared you this refusal. I will not deny that before we left Rome, I
began to suspect the nature of your sentiments; and assumed a coldness
foreign to my feelings in order that you might understand that, however
much I admired you as a Christian gentleman, nothing farther could take
place."

"But why? If there are obstacles, I can overcome them. I am at the age
when men desire a home and family; but having found the only one I ever
desired to marry, I am willing to wait if you think it too soon after
your husband's death."

She shuddered. "You are mistaken, Sir Jones," she faltered, every
particle of color vanishing from her face and lips. "In justice to
you I ought to confess that had circumstances been different I might
have yielded to your wishes; but the man who once called me wife still
lives, though just sinking into the grave. Nearly four years ago the
law sundered the tie; and when I tell you that I have just come from
his death-bed, the death-bed of an humble penitent, clinging for pardon
to the cross of his Saviour, you will not wonder that I have no desire
to speak of past trials."

"Is it possible," exclaimed the gentleman, "that the invalid for whom
you have denied yourself the society and admiration of the most eminent
persons in Rome, ever bore such a relation to you? I understand your
character well enough to be sure no trivial reasons would gain your
consent to a divorce; and you have treated him as if he were your best
friend."

"Did not our Saviour, whom we propose to take for an example, do this?
Did he not return blessing for cursing; kindness for unkindness; and
shall not we, with far less provocation, endeavor to do likewise? But
indeed you are giving me too much credit. Surely no one would see
a fellow countryman suffering from disease and privation, without
hastening to his relief; and I have been rewarded," she continued,
turning her humid eyes, beaming with holy fervor, on his, "by
witnessing the most remarkable display of divine grace, that has ever
come to my knowledge."

"With my whole heart I sympathize with your joy," he responded, warmly.
"Will the gentleman remain in Rome?"

"If he lives till June, which I consider doubtful, he will return to
the United States, where his parents reside. I shall probably never see
him more."

Possibly the gentleman made his own inference from the fact that she
had left the invalid, when he might live for months. At any rate his
spirits rose; and she thought he had never been more brilliant in
conversation, than during their return home.

A long private conversation with Mr. Wallingford, resulted in an
earnest invitation for the travellers to make their headquarters at his
country seat, while in Great Britain. But this, though urged by her
brother to accept, Gertrude steadily declined. All she would do was to
spend one day in the beautiful retreat so exactly to her taste, before
she hurried Edward away to London.

When the time for sailing came, she acknowledged to herself, it was
none too early, for her own happiness, to bid Sir Jones adieu. A few
more weeks passed in his society would make it difficult for her to
adhere to a decision which in her case she knew to be right.

Contrary to her expectations, when she went on board the steamer for
New York, she found Mr. Radcliffe awaiting them; and when she expressed
her surprise at finding him there, a merry glance thrown at her
brother, convinced her it was not an accident. She wondered a little at
his manner of bidding her adieu, not at all as if he considered it, as
she did, a final parting; but when he said in her ear, with a hopeful
smile:

"Another year and I intend to be speeding over the waters," the vivid
blushes that dyed her cheeks, proved to her lover that she was aware he
had not abandoned his design.



CHAPTER XXII.

FATHER AND SON.

THE wedding of Mr. Wallingford and Miss Gilbert was over; and the happy
couple were on their wedding tour. They were to be absent till August;
and Gertrude was both busy and happy in superintending the enlargement
of Rose Cottage. Little Paul, at first almost frantic in his joy at
seeing her once more, now followed her lovingly about, only fearful
lest she should again depart.

One morning, on opening her letters, she found an envelope, post
marked, "Philadelphia." She had wondered for a week why she heard
nothing; for it was time Mr. Dudley should arrive, if he sailed at the
time he expected; but now her heart almost ceased to beat. Seizing her
boy by the hand she flew to her chamber, shut and fastened the door and
sat down to read.

The address was in the chirography of his sister Anna, now Mrs. Ridley;
but the letter was traced by a feeble hand and contained these words:

"Through the favor of the Friend who has promised to lead me safely
to the end of my journey, I reached home two weeks ago; but I have
been too much exhausted to notify you of my arrival according to your
request."

"Later. My strength fails so fast I must hasten to make of you one last
request. Do not gratify me unless you think it best; or, if it will
pain you too much. I am near my end, and with my whole heart I yearn
over the child I have never seen. Will you bring him to me, and at
once, before it is too late?"

The closing sentence was written by his sister. She went on, "Dear Mrs.
Wallingford. If you are willing to gratify my poor brother and bring
little Paul to his father's death-bed, you will convey one more lasting
obligation on hearts that owe you already more than they can express.
Our dear, distressed invalid fainted after writing the above; and I
have taken it upon myself to forward this to you. He has often since
his return told us your motto in regard to him has been, 'Good for
evil.' Acting upon this will you not come to Philadelphia at once?"

"Evening. I had written so far, when I was summoned to my brother's
bed, where it was thought he was dying. He motioned me to his side, and
gasping with every word, he said faintly:"

"'Tell her, if the blessing of an humble penitent is worth any thing,
I leave mine for her and our boy. Tell her, Christ has made himself
known, the One above all others; matchless in love and grace.—Tell
her I shall shine as a star in her crown.—Tell her, Christ is all my
salvation and all my desire. If he will save such a sinner as I am, the
very chief, there is no need for any to despair of mercy.—Tell her, to
go on doing good to all around, and train her little Paul to follow his
Saviour's steps. Farewell.'"

"I cannot stop to narrate the paroxysms of pain with which these
disjointed sentences were uttered. He has now fallen asleep under the
influence of opiates. Our physician still thinks he may survive two or
three days longer."

"In the deepest affliction,"

"ANNA D. RIDLEY."

In less than an hour from her receipt of the letter, Gertrude with her
boy and accompanied by her faithful Bridget, were on their way to the
landing to be in season for the twelve o'clock boat.

If she were prospered she hoped to be in Philadelphia by seven o'clock
at latest; and her whole soul went up to God in earnest prayer, that
she might be in season.

"Will she come?" This question had been repeated many times during the
day; and now as twilight approached it was evident to all, that before
the sun, whose rays were gilding the western horizon, should rise
again, the soul of the sufferer would have fled away from earth, to his
mansion in the skies.

Suddenly a carriage is heard dashing through the street. It stops at
the door, and a lady hurriedly alights, after directing the driver to
ring the bell. Then a servant more leisurely follows, holding by the
hand a lovely boy.

"She has come," murmured Mrs. Dudley, bending over her dying son.

"God be praised. I have nothing more to ask. Will you leave us alone?"

The door softly opened and gentle steps advanced to the side of the bed.

"Papa," said a sweet, childish voice, "I'm your little Paul. Mamma told
me you were sick; and I wanted to come right off and see you."

The father held the small, dimpled hand, and tried to articulate one
word; but the emotions had been too much for his feeble frame, and for
a few moments his paroxysms of distress were terrible to witness. But
he did not lose his consciousness; and seemed so fearful Gertrude would
take Paul from the room, that she bent over him, murmuring:

"I will not leave you. It is hard not to be able to help you."

He was soon relieved, and said panting:

"It is all right. He," pointing upward, "orders every pang. I shall
soon have a whole eternity to rest in."

"My son," he repeated solemnly, placing his hand on the boy's head, "I
prayed God to allow me to see you, and now I want to say, 'Fear God
and keep his commandments.' This will render you happy in life and
triumphant in death."

He turned his dying eyes upon the weeping figure before him and said
tenderly:

"You will love to remember that you complied with the request of one
who even in his dying hour, mourns over his own blindness, folly and
guilt. Tell our boy to take your motto for his own and learn to render
'good for evil.'"

These were his last words, though he retained his consciousness for an
hour, and when repeatedly asked by Gertrude:

"Is Christ precious? Does he give you peace?" there was a pressure of
her hand.

At a quarter before ten, the same night she arrived, the end came; the
sick man quietly breathing fainter and fainter, like an infant going to
rest.

Standing there, gazing on those wan features, Gertrude's heart arose in
gratitude to God, that out of death, eternal life had begun in the soul
of the penitent believer; and she could almost hear the words of the
Saviour, "'This day thou shalt be with me in paradise.'"






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