 | CHAPTER XI. The lamplighter |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
To life and hope from desolation start.
Hemans.
The next Sabbath afternoon found Gerty seated on a cricket,
in front of a pleasant little wood-fire in Emily's own room. Her
large eyes were fixed upon Emily's face, which always seemed, in
some unaccountable way, to fascinate the little girl; so attentively
did she watch the play of the features in a countenance
the charm of which many an older person than Gerty had felt,
but tried in vain to describe. It was not beauty,—at least, not
brilliant beauty,—for that Emily had not possessed, even when
her face was illumined, as it had once been, by beautiful hazel
eyes; nor was it the effect of what is usually termed fascination
of manner, for Emily's manner and voice were both so soft and
unassuming that they never took the fancy by storm. It was not
compassion for her blindness, though so great a misfortune might
well, and always did, excite the warmest sympathy. But it was
hard to realize that Emily was blind. It was a fact never forced
upon her friends' recollection by any repining or selfish indulgence
on the part of the sufferer; and, as there was nothing
painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed
as they were by her long and heavy eyelashes, it was not unusual
for those immediately about her to converse upon things which
could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her
attention to one object and another, quite forgetting, for the
moment, her sad deprivation; and Emily never sighed, never
seemed hurt at their want of consideration, or showed any lack
of interest in objects thus shut from her gaze; but, apparently
quite satisfied with the descriptions she heard, or the pictures
which she formed in her imagination, would take pleasantly and
playfully upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her companions.
world, and they loved to watch its ever-varying expression.
Some said her chief attraction lay in a small dimple in her right
cheek; others (and these were young girls who wanted to be
charming themselves) remarked that if they thought they could
make their hair wave like Emily's, they'd braid it up every night:
it was so becoming! But the chosen few, who were capable, through
their own spirituality, of understanding and appreciating Emily's
character,—the few, the very few, who had known her struggles,
and had witnessed her triumphs,—had they undertaken to express
their belief concerning the source whence she derived that power
by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and
old, and won their love and admiration, they would have said, as
Gerty did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at Emily on the
very Sunday afternoon of which we speak, “Miss Emily, I know
you've been with God.”
Gerty was certainly a strange child. All untaught as she was,
she had felt Emily's entire superiority to any being she had ever
seen before; and, yielding to that belief in her belonging to an
order above humanity, she reposed implicit confidence in what
she told her, allowed herself to be guided and influenced by one
whom she felt loved her and sought only her good; and, as she
sat at her feet and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her
her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong,
Emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face that
was looking up at her, knew, by the earnest attention she had
gained, by the child's perfect stillness, and, still more, by the
little hand which had sought hers, and now held it tight, that
one great point was won.
Gerty had not been to school since the day of her battle with
the great girls. All True's persuasions had failed, and she would
not go. But Emily understood the child's nature so much better
than True did, and urged upon her so much more forcible motives
than the old man had thought of emplyoing, that she succeeded
where he had failed. Gerty considered that her old friend had
been insulted, and that was the chief cause of indignation with
her; but Emily placed the matter in a different light, and, convincing
it much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish
anger, she finally obtained Gerty's promise that she would go to
school the next morning. She also advised her how to conduct
herself towards the scholars whom she so much disliked, and
gave her some simple directions with regard to her behavior the
next day; telling her that perhaps Mr. Flint would go with her,
make suitable apologies to the teacher for her absence, and that,
in such case, she would have no further trouble.
The next morning True, much pleased that Gerty's repugnance
to the school was at last overcome, went with her, and, inquiring
for the teacher at the door, stated the case to her in his blunt,
honest way, and then left Gerty in her special charge.
Miss Browne, who was a young woman of good sense and good
feelings, saw the matter in the right light; and, taking an opportunity
to speak privately to the girls who had excited Gerty's
temper by their rudeness, made them feel so ashamed of their
conduct, that they no longer molested the child; and, as Gerty
soon after made friends with one or two quiet children of her
own age, with whom she played in recess, she got into no more
such difficulties.
The winter passed away. The pleasant, sunny spring days
came, days when Gerty could sit at open windows, or on the
door-step, when birds sang in the morning among the branches of
an old locust-tree that grew in the narrow yard, and the sun at
evening threw bright rays across True's great room, and Gerty
could see to read almost until bed-time. She had been to school
steadily all winter, and had improved as rapidly as most intelligent
children do, who are first given the opportunity to learn at
an age when, full of ambition, the mind is most fertile and
capable of progress. She was looking healthy and well; her
clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked
by Emily, and the care of it superintended by Mrs. Sullivan.
She was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so
joyously and lightly, that True declared his birdie knew not what
it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on the tips
of her toes.
The old man could not have loved the little adopted one better
had she been his own child; and, as he sat by her side on the
wide settle, which, when the warm weather came, was moved
outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she
read aloud to him story after story, of little girls who never told
lies, boys who always obeyed their parents, or, more frequently
still, of the child who knew how to keep her temper, they seemed,
as indeed they were, most suitable companions for each other.
The old man's interest in the story-books, which were provided by
Emily, and read and re-read by Gerty, was as keen and unflagging
as if he had been a child himself; and he would sit with his elbows
on his knees, hearing the simple stories, laughing when Gerty
laughed, sympathizing as fully and heartily as she did in the sorrows
of her little heroines, and rejoicing with her in the final
triumph of truth, obedience and patience.
Emily knew the weight that such tales often carried with them
to the hearts of children, and most carefully and judiciously did
she select books for Gerty. Gerty's life was now as happy and
prosperous as it had once been wretched and miserable. Six
months before, she had felt herself all alone, unloved, uncared-for.
Now she had many friends, and knew what it was to be thought
of, provided for, and caressed. All the days in the week were
joyous; but Saturday and Sunday were marked days with her, as
well as with Mrs. Sullivan; for Saturday brought Willie home
to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh and play, with her. He
had so many pleasant things to tell, he was so full of life and animation,
so ready to enter into all her plans, and in every way
promote her amusement, that on Monday morning she began to
count the days until Saturday would come again. Then, if anything
went wrong or got out of order,—if the old clock stopped, or
her toys got broken, or, worse still, if her lessons troubled, or any
little childish grief oppressed her,—Willie knew how to put
everything right, to help her out of every difficulty. So Willie's
mother looked not more anxiously for his coming than Gerty did.
Sunday afternoon Gerty always spent with Emily, in Emily's
own room, listening to her sweet voice, and, half-unconsciously,
imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. Emily preached no sermons,
Indeed, it did not occur to Gerty that she went there to be taught
anything; but simply and gradually the blind girl imparted light
to the child's dark soul, and the truths that make for virtue, the
lessons that are divine, were implanted in her so naturally, and
yet so forcibly, that she realized not the work that was going on;
but long after,—when goodness had grown strong within her,
and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep
her childish resolves, had matured into deeply-rooted principles,
and confirmed habits of right,—she felt, as she looked back into
the past, that on those blessed Sabbaths, sitting on her cricket at
Emily's knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of
that immortal light that never could be quenched.
Thus her silent prayer was answered. God had chosen an
earthly messenger to lead his child into everlasting peace; a messenger
from whose closed eyes the world's paths were all shut
out, but who had been so long treading the heavenly road, that it
was now familiar ground. Who so fit to guide the little one as
she, who with patience had learned the way? Who so well able
to cast light upon the darkness of another soul as she, to whose
own darkened life God had lent a torch divine?
It was a grievous trial to Gerty, about this time, to learn that
the Grahams were soon going into the country for the summer.
Mr. Graham owned a pleasant residence about six miles from
Boston, to which he invariably resorted as soon as the planting-season
commenced; for, though devoted to business during the
winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation
from his counting-room in the summer; and legers and day-books
were now soon to be supplanted, in his estimation, by the labors
and delights of gardening. Emily promised Gerty, however, that
she should come and pass a day with her when the weather was
fine; a visit which Gerty enjoyed three months in anticipation,
and more than three in retrospection.
It was some compensation for Emily's absence that, as the days
became long, Willie was frequently able to leave the shop and
come home for an hour or two in the evening; and Willie, as we
have said, always knew how to comfort Gerty, whatever the
trouble might be.
| CHAPTER XI. The lamplighter | |