University of Virginia Library

22. CHAP. XXII.

During the first year after Colonel Fitzherbert's
death, Lucretia (whom we must now call Gertrude
Wilson) suffered much more acutely than Grace had
ever done. But her superior strength of constitution
and of character resisted the fierce attacks which for a
while threatened to destroy them. The wounds in
youthful hearts heal slowly,—but they will heal. Time
had his usual soothing power; and though Gertrude was
never afterward the same gay, laughing creature, overflowing
with life, and health, and genius, she gradually
became cheerful, and even animated. Her mind was
now like a fine old painting, the dazzling brilliancy of
which had become delightfully mellowed by the touch
of time.

Blessings are frequently wafted to us on the wings of
disappointment; and the hand from which we shrink,
often has healing in its touch. Affliction had done for
Gertrude what the music of Amphion did for Thebes,
when the confused materials of grandeur which lay
scattered about in magnificent profusion, arose at the
voice of his lyre, and formed themselves into one beautiful
and harmonious whole. In early life, she had bowed
too devoutly at the shrine of talents, heedless whether,

or not, it stood on the firm pedestal of virtue; but
experience had taught her that the greatest gifts might
be most shamefully perverted. Genius is the electric
fluid of the soul.—Alas! that the mysterious and erratic
power which purifies the intellectual air, should ever
leave scathe and blackening on the heart.

Wealth, with all its imposing pageantry, and rank with
its embroidered baldrick and blazing star, had been
idols before which her imagination had bowed with
scarcely inferior homage; and she had proved their utter
insufficiency to satisfy the soul in its hour of trial; nay,
she had been driven from their sunny paths, and found
happiness in more shaded and sequestered walks. All
these lessons, severely as they were taught, had produced
a good effect. She now began to estimate men
and things according to their real value,—to appreciate
qualities according to their usefulness, not according to
their lustre.

No one was more pleased with these changes than
Henry Osborne, for no one had watched her singular,
and somewhat dangerous course, with such fearful, anxious
affection. She too, acknowledged herself pleasantly
disappointed in his character. Traits of mind which
she had not supposed to exist, were found, upon intimate
acquaintance, to be like the hues of the rainbow, so
equally blended as to be inconspicuous, until the power
of friendship drew them forth in separate and striking
beauty.

It can readily be imagined what would be the result,
when two young people, never disagreeable to each other,
sympathized in the same griefs, shared the same duties,

read the same books, and frequented the same
walks.

Mr. Osborne had resolved to keep the anniversary of
Grace's death, during his life time. Her portrait was
hung with evergreens,—little mementos of her were
brought forward; and they talked of her as they would
of an absent friend. The twenty-seventh of May returned
for the second time since the dear one had gone
out from among them; and no other change had taken
place in that affectionate household. When Henry entered
the library early in the morning, he found the
ebony writing-desk open, and the work-box by its side,
just as they were wont to be before his lovely sister had
fallen a victim to her ill-judged, but too constant attachment.

His eye glanced from them to Gertrude, as if to thank
her for the arrangement which had so noiselessly called
up visions of the past.

“I like your father's manner of celebrating this day,”
said Gertrude. “She who never gave any of us pain
while living, ought not to have her memory cherished
with sighs and tears.”

“True,” replied Henry; “she is an angel in heaven;
and, if blessed spirits can know sorrow, it is fitter she
should weep for us, than that we should mourn for her.
Yet I can hardly think of her as in another world. When
I look at that vacant chair, in which she used to sit, I
almost fancy that I see her beautiful golden hair hanging
over it. When I gaze on her portrait, it seems to smile
upon me, as she was wont to do, when I uttered your

praises. What a host of recollections these trifles have
called up. Here is a branch of cedar, which the dear
girl gathered at Castle William, the night before the
stamped paper had arrived there. Do you remember
that sail, Gertrude?”

“I do indeed,” replied she; “and, oh, what changes
have taken place since then. How altered are all my
thoughts and feelings

“Do you recollect,” said Henry, “that you once
promised if I would wait a few years, you should learn
to be collected and prudent,—just as calm as the river
in summer's moonlight?”

“Yes, I remember it well,” rejoined Gertrude,
smiling; “and have I not become almost a Quaker,—
Friend, I should say, I suppose?”

“I would have you something more than a friend,”
answered he, with very peculiar emphasis.

“Upon this hint they spake.” Many kind things
were said, and in very tender accents; but it is foolish
to describe such scenes;—volatile as ether, the spirit
evaporates the moment you give it air.

Suffice it to say, that Gertrude's second nuptials, in
every respect so strikingly different from her first, had
a termination as pleasant as those were unfortunate.
Her hopes of happiness were now built on a firm foundation,—that
of strict principles and long-tried affection;
and they were fully realized. Mr. Osborne, his long,
white hair streaming over his shoulders, and his countenance
beaming with calm enjoyment, seemed like a benignant
spirit come down to shed his blessing on an

earthly union. And it was blest,—blest in mutual love,
respect and confidence,—blest too, in the good old age
of a parent so justly dear to them both.

Governor Hutchinson and Miss Sandford, with whom
Gertrude had always kept up a friendly intercourse,
were present at the wedding. The old lady with all
her foibles, had a warm heart; and she kissed the bride
affectionately, as she said, “I told you so. I told you
so. I said you would marry him, that night he gave
you such a lecture at our house.”

Governor Hutchinson was rather more cold, though
very polite in his congratulations. If the truth must be
told, he regarded the daughter of Harry Wilson, a
pirate and a murderer, as quite an unimportant personage,
compared with the rich descendant of the Honourable
Edmund Fitzherbert, of Tudor Lodge. That illfated
politician, forgetting, like too many statesmen, that
“a straight line is the shortest, whether in morals or
mathematics,” daily made himself more unpopular
among his fellow citizens. His projects of personal
aggrandizement were frustrated, and his adherents baffled
in all their schemes.

As the troubles of the Revolution increased, he
thought it prudent to seek quiet and safety in the mother
country. Accordingly, a few years after the period
of which we speak, he sailed for England, accompanied
by his sister-in-law, and a charming family, whom we
have not introduced to our readers, because they had
not the slightest connexion with our story.

As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Percival could arrange their

affairs, they embarked for Great Britain; from whence
they afterward sent many a generous present to their
friend Mrs. Osborne.

They spent their time between Tudor Lodge and
Fitzherbert Hall; and Edward Percival had the satisfaction
of seeing his young wife the blazing star of fashion
and of beauty,—yet as exemplary, as docile, and as
affectionate, as she was when she first left the Convent
of St. Vallier. She often sent to Mrs. Osborne the
most urgent invitations to revisit England; and flattering
letters from the first literary characters, contained
the same earnest request; but Gertrude had now devoted
all the light of her understanding, and all the warmth
of her affections, to the happiness of her excellent husband.
The political horizon soon became more stormy
in its aspect; and Henry could not think of leaving
America, at a time when she needed all the firmness,
the talents, and the courage of her sons. During the
whole of the bloody period which followed, he rendered
important services in the senate and the field; and
when he returned to his anxious family, in 1784, after
a long absence, the elder Mr. Osborne gave him a blessing
warm from the heart of the father and the patriot;
and when Gertrude came, with her group of smiling
cherubs, to welcome him to his happy home, he pressed
them warmly to his heart, as he said, “The bride was
dear; but how much dearer is the wife!”