 | CHAPTER XVI. The lamplighter |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest.
Wordsworth.
Two months have passed since Trueman Flint's death, and
Gertrude has for a week been domesticated in Mr. Graham's
family. It was through the newspaper that Emily first heard of
the little girl's sudden loss, and, immediately acquainting her
father with her wishes and plans concerning the child, she found
she had no opposition to fear from him. He reminded her, however,
of the inconvenience that would attend Gertrude's coming to
them at once, as they were soon to start on a visit to some distant
relatives, from which they would not return until it was nearly
time to remove to the city for the winter. Emily felt the force
of this objection; for, although Mrs. Ellis would be at home
during their absence, she knew that, even were she willing to
undertake the charge of Gertrude, she would be a very unfit
person to console her in her time of sorrow and affliction.
This thought troubled Emily, who now considered herself the
orphan girl's sole protector; and she regretted much that this
unusual journey should take place so inopportunely. There was
no help for it, however, for Mr. Graham's plans were arranged,
and must not be interfered with, unless she would make Gertrude's
coming, at the very outset, unwelcome and disagreeable.
She started for town, therefore, the next morning, quite undecided
what course to pursue, under the circumstances.
The day was Sunday, but Emily's errand was one of charity
and love, and would not admit of delay; and, an hour before the
time for morning service, Mrs. Sullivan, who stood at her open
carryall stop at the door. She ran to meet Emily, and, with the
politeness and kindness always observable in her, waited upon her
into her neat parlor, guided her to a comfortable seat, placed in
her hand a fan (for the weather was excessively warm), and then
proceeded to tell how thankful she was to see her, and how sorry
she felt that Gertrude was not at home. Emily wonderingly
asked where Gertrude was, and learned that she was out walking
with Willie. A succession of inquiries followed, and a long
and touching story was told by Mrs. Sullivan of Gertrude's
agony of grief, the impossibility of comforting her, and the fears
the kind little woman had entertained lest the girl would die of
sorrow.
“I couldn't do anything with her myself,” said she. “There
she sat, day after day, last week, on her little cricket, by Uncle
True's easy-chair, with her head on the cushion, and I couldn't
get her to move or eat a thing. She didn't appear to hear me
when I spoke to her; and, if I tried to move her, she didn't
struggle (for she was very quiet), but she seemed just like a dead
weight in my hands; and I couldn't bear to make her come away
into my room, though I knew it would change the scene, and be
better for her. If it hadn't been for Willie, I don't know what I
should have done, I was getting so worried about the poor child;
but he knows how to manage her a great deal better than I do.
When he is at home, we get along very well; for he takes her
right up in his arms (he's very strong, and she's as light as a
feather, you know), and either carries her into some other room
or out into the yard; and somehow he contrives to cheer her up
wonderfully. He persuades her to eat, and in the evenings, when
he comes home from the store, takes long walks with her. Now,
last evening they went way over Chelsea Bridge, where it was
cool and pleasant, you know; and I suppose he diverted her
attention and amused her, for she came home brighter than I've
seen her at all, and quite tired. I got her to go to bed in my
room, and she slept soundly all night, so that she really looks quite
like herself to-day. They've gone out again this morning, and,
keep her spirits up, if anybody can.”
“Willie shows very good judgment,” said Emily, “in trying
to change the scene for her, and divert her thoughts. I'm thankful
she has had such kind friends. I promised Mr. Flint she
should have a home with me when he was taken away, and, not
knowing of his death until now, I consider it a great favor to myself,
as well as her, that you have taken such excellent care of
her. I felt sure you had been all goodness, or it would have
given me great regret that I had not heard of True's death before.”
“O, Miss Emily!” said Mrs. Sullivan, “Gertrude is so dear
to us, and we have suffered so much in seeing her suffer, that it
was a kindness to ourselves to do all we could to comfort her.
Why, I think she and Willie could not love each other better, if
they were own brother and sister; and Willie and Uncle True
were great friends; indeed, we shall all miss him very much. My
old father doesn't say much about it, but I can see he's very
down-hearted.”
More conversation followed, in the course of which Mrs. Sullivan
informed Emily that a cousin of hers, a farmer's wife, living
in the country, about twenty miles from Boston, had invited
them all to come and pass a week or two with her at the farm,
and, as Willie was now to enjoy his usual summer vacation, they
proposed accepting the invitation.
She spoke of Gertrude's accompanying them as a matter of
course, and enlarged upon the advantage it would be to her to
breathe the country air, and ramble about the fields and woods,
after all the fatigue and confinement she had endured.
Emily, finding from her inquiries that Gertrude would be a
welcome and expected guest, cordially approved of the visit, and
also arranged with Mrs. Sullivan that she should remain under
her care until Mr. Graham removed to Boston for the winter.
She was then obliged to leave, without waiting for Gertrude's return,
though she left many a kind message for her, and placed in
Mrs. Sullivan's hands a sufficient sum of money to provide for
all her wants and expenses.
Gertrude went into the country, and abundance of novelty, of
brought the color into her cheek, and calmness and composure,
if not happiness, into her heart.
Soon after the Sullivans' return from their excursion, the Grahams
removed to the city, and, as we have said before, Gertrude
had now been with them about a week.
“Are you still standing at the window, Gertrude? What
are you doing, dear?”
“I'm watching to see the lamps lit, Miss Emily.”
“But they will not be lit at all. The moon will rise at eight
o'clock, and light the streets sufficiently for the rest of the night.”
“I don't mean the street-lamps.”
“What do you mean, my child?” said Emily, coming towards
the window, and lightly resting a hand on each of Gertrude's
shoulders.
“I mean the stars, dear Miss Emily. O, how I wish you could
see them too!”
“Are they very bright?”
“O, they are beautiful! and there are so many! The sky is
as full as it can be.”
“How well I remember when I used to stand at this very window,
and look at them as you are doing now! It seems to me as
if I saw them this moment, I know so well how they look.”
“I love the stars,—all of them,” said Gertrude; “but my own
star I love the best.”
“Which do you call yours?”
“That splendid one, there, over the church-steeple; it shines
into my room every night, and looks me in the face. Miss Emily
(and here Gertrude lowered her voice to a whisper), it seems to
me as if that star were lit on purpose for me. I think Uncle
True lights it every night. I always feel as if he were smiling
up there, and saying, `See, Gerty, I'm lighting the lamp for
you.' Dear Uncle True! Miss Emily, do you think he loves me
now?”
“I do, indeed, Gertrude; and I think, if you make him an example,
and try to live as good and patient a life as he did, that
he will really be a lamp to your feet, and as bright a light to
star.”
“I was patient and good when I lived with him; at least, I
almost always was; and I'm good when I'm with you; but I
don't like Mrs. Ellis. She tries to plague me, and she makes me
cross, and then I get angry, and don't know what I do or say.
I did not mean to be impertinent to her to-day, and I wish I had n't
slammed the door; but how could I help it, Miss Emily, when
she told me, right before Mr. Graham, that I tore up the last
night's Journal, and I know that I did not? It was an old paper
that she saw me tying your slippers up in, and I am almost sure
that she lit the library fire with that very Journal, herself; but
Mr. Graham will always think I did it.”
“I have no doubt, Gertrude, that you had some reason to feel
provoked, and I believe you when you say that you were not
the person to blame for the loss of the newspaper. But you
must remember, my dear, that there is no merit in being patient
and good-tempered, when there is nothing to irritate you. I want
you to learn to bear even injustice, without losing your self-con-trol.
You know Mrs. Ellis has been here a number of years;
she has had everything her own way, and is not used to young
people. She felt, when you came, that it was bringing new care
and trouble upon her, and it is not strange that when things go
wrong she should sometimes think you in fault. She is a very
faithful woman, very kind and attentive to me, and very important
to my father. It will make me unhappy if I have any reason
to fear that you and she will not live pleasantly together.”
“I do not want to make you unhappy; I do not want to be a
trouble to anybody,” said Gertrude, with some excitement; “I'll
go away! I'll go off somewhere, where you will never see me
again!”
“Gertrude!” said Emily, seriously and sadly. Her hands
were still upon the young girl's shoulders, and, as she spoke, she
turned her round, and brought her face to face with herself.
“Gertrude, do you wish to leave your blind friend? Do you not
love me?”
So touchingly grieved was the expression of the countenance
She threw her arms round Emily's neck, and exclaimed,
“No! dear Miss Emily, I would not leave you for all the world!
I will do just as you wish. I will never be angry with Mrs.
Ellis again, for your sake.”
“Not for my sake, Gertrude,” replied Emily,—“for your own
sake; for the sake of duty and of God. A few years ago I
should not have expected you to be pleasant and amiable towards
any one whom you felt ill-treated you; but, now that you know
so well what is right; now that you are familiar with the life of
that blessed Master, who, when he was reviled, reviled not again;
now that you have learned faithfully to fulfil so many important
duties; I had hoped that you had learned, also, to be forbearing,
under the most trying circumstances. But do not think, Gertrude,
because I remind you when you have done wrong, I despair
of your becoming one day all I wish to see you. What you are
experiencing now being a new trial, you must bring new strength
to bear upon it; and I have such confidence in you as to believe
that, knowing my wishes, you will try to behave properly to Mrs.
Ellis on all occasions.”
“I will, Miss Emily, I will. I'll not answer her back when
she's ugly to me, if I have to bite my lips to keep them together.”
“O, I do not believe it will be so bad as that,” said Emily, smiling.
“Mrs. Ellis' manner is rather rough, but you will get used
to her.”
Just then a voice was heard in the entry,—“To see Miss
Flint! Really! Well, Miss Flint is in Miss Emily's room.
She's going to entertain company, is she?”
Gertrude colored to her temples, for it was Mrs. Ellis' voice,
and the tone in which she spoke was very derisive.
Emily stepped to the door, and opened it.—“Mrs. Ellis!”
“What say, Emily?”
“Is there any one below?”
“Yes; a young man wants to see Gertrude; it's that young
Sullivan, I believe.”
“Willie!” exclaimed Gertrude, starting forward.
“You can go down and see him, Gertrude,” said Emily. “Come
step in and put my room a little in order. I think you will
find plenty of pieces for your rag-bag about the carpet,—Miss
Randolph always scatters so many when she is engaged with her
dress-making.”
Mrs. Ellis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a
couch at the side of the fireplace, with her colored rags in one
hand and the white in the other, commenced speaking of Gertrude.
“What are you going to do with her, Emily?” said she;
“send her to school?”
“Yes. She will go to Mr. W.'s, this winter.”
“Why! Is n't that a very expensive school for a child like
her?”
“It is expensive, certainly; but I wish her to be with the best
teacher I know of, and father makes no objection to the terms.
He thinks, as I do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct
others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. I talked with him
about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and
he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade
at once, than half-educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit
her for anything. He was willing I should manage the matter as
I pleased, and I resolved to send her to Mr. W.'s. So she will
remain with us for the present. I wish to keep her with me as
long as I can, not only because I am fond of the child, but she is
delicate and sensitive, and now that she is so sad about old Mr.
Flint's death, I think we ought to do all we can to make her
happy; don't you, Mrs. Ellis?”
“I always calculate to do my duty,” said Mrs. Ellis, rather
stiffly. “Where is she going to sleep when we get settled?”
“In the little room at the end of the passage.”
“Then where shall I keep the linen press?”
“Can't it stand in the back entry? I should think the space
between the windows would accommodate it.”
“I suppose it's got to,” said Mrs. Ellis, flouncing out of the
room, and muttering to herself,—“everything turned topsy-turvy
for the sake of that little upstart!”
Mrs. Ellis was vexed on more accounts than one. She had
long had her own way in the management of all household matters
at Mr. Graham's, and had consequently become rather
tyrannical. She was capable, methodical and neat; accustomed to
a small family, and now for many years quite unaccustomed to
children; Gertrude was in her eyes an unwarrantable intruder—
one who must of necessity be continually in mischief, continually
deranging her most cherished plans. Then, too, Gertrude had
been reared, as Mrs. Ellis expressed it, among the lower classes;
and the housekeeper, who was not in reality very hard-hearted,
and quite approved of all public and private charities, had a
slight prejudice in favor of high birth. Indeed, though now depressed
in her circumstances, she prided herself on being of a
good family, and considered it an insult to her dignity to expect
that she should feel an interest in providing for the wants of one
so inferior to her in point of station.
More than all this, she saw in the new inmate a formidable rival
to herself in Miss Graham's affections; and Mrs. Ellis could not
brook the idea of being second in the regard of Emily, who,
owing to her peculiar misfortune and to her delicate health, had
long been her especial charge, and for whom she felt as much
tenderness as it was in her nature to feel for any one.
Owing to all these circumstances, Mrs. Ellis was far from
being favorably disposed towards Gertrude; and Gertrude, in
her turn, was not yet prepared to love Mrs. Ellis very cordially.
| CHAPTER XVI. The lamplighter | |