"MY DEAR, DEAR FATHER,--If I may dare to believe that you are so, and if not that, my best of friends--how shall I write to you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery? Father!

blessed word. Oh, that my n.o.ble friend were indeed my father! Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas! I feel a sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. I never before remember to have heard the name of Phillip Amory. My sweet, pure, and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the world; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, I trust, to my own.

Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide world, never had, or could have. One might as well war with an angel of heaven as with a creature so holy and lovely as she.

"Nor bid me think of yourself as a man of sin and crime. It cannot be. It would be wronging a n.o.ble nature to believe it, and I say again it cannot be. Gladly would I trust myself to repose on the bosom of such a parent; gladly would I hail the sweet duty of consoling the sorrows of one so self-sacrificing, so kind, so generous; whose life has been so freely offered for me, and for others whose existence was dearer to me than my own. When you took me in your arms and called me your child, your darling child, I fancied that the excitement of that dreadful scene had for the moment disturbed your mind and brain so far as to invest me with a false ident.i.ty--perhaps confound my image with that of some loved and absent one. I now believe that it was no sudden madness, but rather that I have been all along mistaken for another, whose glad office it may perhaps be to cheer a father"s saddened life, while I remain unrecognized, unsought--the fatherless, motherless one, I am accustomed to consider myself. If you have lost a daughter, G.o.d grant she may be restored to you, to love you as I would do, were I so blessed as to be that daughter! And I--consider me not a stranger; let me be your child in heart; let me love, pray, and weep for you; let me pour out my soul in thankfulness for the kind care and sympathy you have already given me. And yet, though I disclaim it all, and dare not, yes, dare not, dwell for a moment on the thought that you are otherwise than deceived in believing me your child, my heart leaps up in spite of me, and I tremble and almost cease to breathe as there flashes upon me the possibility, the blissful G.o.d-given hopes! No, no! I will not think of it, lest I could not bear to have it crushed! Oh, what am I writing? I know not. I cannot endure the suspense long; write quickly, or come to me, my father--for I will call you so once, though perhaps never again.

"GERTRUDE."

Mr. Phillips--or rather Mr. Amory, for we shall call him by his true name--had neglected to mention his address. Gertrude did not observe this circ.u.mstance until she was preparing to direct her letter. She for a moment experienced a severe pang in the thought that her communication would never reach him. But she was rea.s.sured on examining the post-mark, which was evidently New York, to which she addressed her missive; and then, unwilling to trust it to other hands, tied on her bonnet, caught up a veil with which to conceal her agitated face, deposited the letter herself in the village post-office.

Gertrude"s case was a peculiarly trying one. She had been already, for a week past, struggling in suspense which agitated her almost beyond endurance; and now a new cause of mystery had arisen, involving an almost equal amount of self-questioning and torture. It seemed almost beyond the power of so sensitive, and so inexperienced a girl to rally such self-command as would enable her to control her emotions, disguise them from observation, and compel herself to endure alone and in silence this cruel destiny. But she did do it, and bravely too.

CHAPTER XLII.

TIES--NOT OF EARTH.

In a private room of one of those first-cla.s.s hotels in which New York city abounds, Phillip Amory sat alone. It was evening, the curtains were drawn, the gas-lamps burning brightly and giving a cheerful glow to the room, the comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly with the pale countenance and desponding att.i.tude of its solitary inmate, who leaned upon a table in the centre of the apartment. He had thus sat for nearly an hour without once moving or looking up. Suddenly he started up, straightened his commanding figure to its full height, and slowly paced the room. A slight knock at the door arrested his steps; a look of annoyance overspread his countenance; he again flung himself into his chair, and, in reply to the servant"s announcing, "A gentleman, sir,"

was preparing to say, "I cannot be interrupted"--but it was too late; the visitor had advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly closed and repeated.

The new-comer--a young man--stepped quickly and eagerly forward, but checked himself, abashed at the coldness of the reception by his host.

"Excuse me, Mr. Phillips," said William Sullivan, for it was he; "I fear my visit is an intrusion."

"Do not speak of it," replied Mr. Amory. "I beg you to be seated;"

politely handing a chair.

Willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained standing. "You have changed, sir," continued he, "since I last saw you."

"Changed! Yes, I am," said the other, absently.

"Your health, I fear, is not----"

"My health is excellent," said Mr. Amory, interrupting his remark. "It is a long time, sir, since we met. I have not yet forgotten the debt I owe you for your timely interference between me and Ali, that Arab traitor, with his rascally army of Bedouin rogues."

"Do not name it, sir," said Willie. "Our meeting was fortunate; but the benefit was as mutual as the danger to which we were alike exposed."

"I cannot think so. You seemed to have a most excellent understanding with your own party of guides and attendants, Arabs though they were."

"True; I have had some experience in Eastern travel, and know how to manage those inflammable spirits of the desert. But at the time I joined you, I was myself entering the neighbourhood of hostile tribes, and might soon have found our party overawed but for having joined forces with yourself."

"You set but a modest value upon your conciliatory powers, young man. To you, who are so well acquainted with the facts in the case, I can hardly claim the merit of frankness for the acknowledgment that it was only my own hot temper and stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent danger which you were fortunately able to avert. No, no! I must once more express my grat.i.tude for your invaluable aid."

"You are making my visit, sir," said Willie, smiling, "the very reverse of what it was intended to be. I did not come here this evening to receive but to render thanks."

"For what, sir?" asked Mr. Amory, abruptly, almost roughly. "You owe me nothing."

"The friends of Isabella Clinton, sir, owe you a debt of grat.i.tude which it will be impossible for them ever to repay."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Sullivan; I have done nothing which places that young lady"s friends under a particle of obligation to me."

"Did you not save her life?"

"Yes; but nothing was further from my intention."

Willie smiled. "It could have been no accident, I think, which led you to risk your own life to rescue a fellow-pa.s.senger."

"It was no accident which led to Miss Clinton"s safety from destruction.

I am convinced of that. But you must not thank _me_; it is due to another than myself that she does not now sleep in death."

"May I ask to whom you refer?"

"I refer to a dear and n.o.ble girl, to whom I swam in that burning wreck to save. Her veil had been agreed upon as a signal between us. That veil, carefully thrown over the head of Miss Clinton, whom I found clinging to the spot a.s.signed to--to her whom I was seeking, deceived me, and I bore in safety to the sh.o.r.e the burden which I had ignorantly seized from the gaping waters, leaving my own darling, who had offered her life as a sacrifice to----"

"Oh, not to die!" exclaimed Willie.

"No; to be saved by a miracle. Go thank her for Miss Clinton"s life."

"I thank G.o.d," said Willie, with fervour, "that the horrors of such scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like that."

The stern countenance of Mr. Amory softened as he listened to the young man"s enthusiastic outburst of admiration at Gertrude"s n.o.ble self-devotion.

"Who is she? Where is she?" continued Willie.

"Ask me not!" replied Mr. Amory, with a gesture of impatience; "I cannot tell you if I would. I have not seen her since that ill-fated day."

His manner seemed to intimate an unwillingness to enter into further explanation regarding Isabel"s rescue, and Willie, perceiving it, stood for a moment silent and irresolute. Then advancing nearer, he said, "Though you so utterly disclaim, Mr. Phillips, any partic.i.p.ation in Miss Clinton"s escape, I feel that my errand would be but imperfectly fulfilled if I should fail to deliver the message which I bring to one who was the final means if not the original cause of her safety. Mr.

Clinton, the young lady"s father, desired me to tell you that, in saving the life of his only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but herself had an early death, you have prolonged his life, and rendered him grateful to that degree which words on his part are powerless to express; but that, as long as his feeble life is spared, he shall never cease to bless your name and pray to heaven for its choicest gifts upon you and those who dwell next your heart."

There was a slight moisture in the penetrating eye of Mr. Amory, but a courteous smile upon his lip, as he said, "All this from Mr. Clinton!

Very gentlemanly, and equally sincere, I doubt not; but you surely do not mean to thank me wholly in his name, my young friend. Have you nothing to say for your own sake?"

Willie looked surprised, but replied, unhesitatingly, "Certainly, sir; as one of a large circle of acquaintances and friends whom Miss Clinton honours with her regard, my admiration and grat.i.tude for your disinterested exertions are unbounded; and not only on her account, but on that of whom you n.o.bly rescued from a most terrible death."

"Am I to understand that you speak only as a friend of humanity, and that you felt no personal interest in any of my fellow-pa.s.sengers?"

"I was unacquainted with nearly all of them. Miss Clinton was the only one I had known for any greater length of time than during two or three days of Saratoga intercourse; but I should have mourned her death, since I was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her father, my respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who is now much enfeebled in health, could hardly have survived so severe a shock as the loss of an only child, whom he idolises."

"You speak very coolly, Mr. Sullivan. Are you aware that the prevailing belief gives you credit for feeling more than a mere friendly interest in Miss Clinton?" The dilating of Willie"s eyes, as he fixed them inquiringly upon Mr. Amory--the half-scrutinising expression of his face, as he seated himself in the chair, were sufficient evidence of the effect of the question unexpectedly put to him. "Sir," said he, "I either misunderstood you, or the prevailing belief is a most mistaken one."

"Then you never before heard of your own engagement."

"Never, I a.s.sure you. Is it possible that so idle a report has obtained an extensive circulation among Miss Clinton"s friends!"

"Sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of Saratoga life, to hear it whispered from ear to ear, as a fact worthy of credit."

"I am surprised and vexed at what you tell me," said Willie.