The Lamplighter Part 15

That evening, when True had already retired to rest, and Gerty had finished reading aloud in her little Bible, as she always did at bed-time, True called her to him, and asked her, as he had often done of late, to repeat his favourite prayer for the sick. She knelt at his bedside, and with a solemn and touching earnestness fulfilled his request.

"Now, darlin', the prayer for the dyin';--isn't there such a one in your little book?"

Gerty trembled. There _was_ such a prayer, a beautiful one; and the thoughtful child, to whom the idea of death was familiar, knew it by heart--but could she repeat the words? Could she command her voice? Her whole frame shook with agitation; but Uncle True wished to hear it, it would be a comfort to him, and she would try. Concentrating all her energy and self-command, she began; and, gaining strength as she proceeded, went on to the end. Once or twice her voice faltered, but with new effort she succeeded, in spite of the great bunches in her throat; and her voice sounded so clear and calm, that Uncle True's devotional spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl's sufferings; for, fortunately, he could not hear how her heart beat and throbbed, and threatened to burst.

She did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer--she could not--but remained kneeling, her head buried in the bedclothes. For a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room; then the old man laid his hand upon her head.

She looked up.

"You love Miss Emily, don't you, birdie?"

"Yes, indeed."

"You'll be a good child to her when I'm gone?"

"O, Uncle True!" sobbed Gerty, "you mustn't leave me! I can't live without you, _dear_ Uncle True!"

"It is G.o.d's will to take me, Gerty; He has always been good to us, and we mustn't doubt Him now. Miss Emily can do more for you than I could, and you'll be very happy with her."

"No, I shan't--I shan't ever be happy again in this world! I never was happy until I came to you; and now, if you die, I wish I could die too!"

"You mustn't wish that, darlin'; you are young, and must try to do good in the world, and bide your time. I'm an old man, and only a trouble now."

"No, no, Uncle True!" said Gerty, earnestly; "you are not a trouble--you never could be a trouble! I wish _I'd_ never been so much trouble to _you_."

"So far from that, birdie, G.o.d knows you've long been my heart's delight! It only pains me now to think that you're a spendin' all your time, and slavin' here at home, instead of goin' to school, as you used to; but, O! we all depend on each other so!--first on G.o.d, and then on each other! And that 'minds me, Gerty, of what I was goin' to say. I feel as if the Lord would call me soon, sooner than you think for now; and, at first, you'll cry, and be sore vexed, no doubt; but Miss Emily will take you with her, and she'll tell you blessed things to comfort you;--how we shall all meet again and be happy in that world where there's no partin's; and Willie'll do everything he can to help you in your sorrer; and in time you'll be able to smile again. At first, and p'raps for a long time, Gerty, you'll be a care to Miss Emily, and she'll have to do a deal for you in the way o' schoolin', clothin', and so on; and what I want to tell you is, that Uncle True expects you'll be as good as can be, and do just what Miss Emily says; and, by-and-by, may be, when you're bigger and older, you'll be able to do somethin' for her. She's blind, you know, and you must be eyes for her; and she's not over strong, and you must lend a helpin' hand to her weakness, just as you do to mine; and, if you're good and patient, G.o.d will make your heart light at last, while you're only tryin' to make other folks happy; and when you're sad troubled (for everybody is sometimes), then think of old Uncle True, and how he used to say, 'Cheer up, birdie, for I'm of the 'pinion 'twill all come out right at last.' There, don't feel bad about it; go to bed, darlin', and to-morrow we'll have a nice walk--and Willie's goin' with us, you know."

Gerty tried to cheer up, for True's sake, and went to bed. She did not sleep for some hours; but when, at last, she did fall into a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning.

She dreamed that morning was already come; that she and Uncle True and Willie were taking a pleasant walk; that Uncle True was strong and well again--his eye bright, his step firm, and Willie and herself laughing and happy.

And, while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking that her first friend and she should no longer tread life's paths together, the messenger came--a gentle, noiseless messenger--and, in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul of good old True, and carried it home to G.o.d!

CHAPTER XV.

A NEW HOME.

Two months have pa.s.sed 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, acquainting her father with her plans concerning the child, she found 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, and would not return until near the 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 she would be a very unfit person to console Gertrude in her time of sorrow.

This thought troubled Emily; and she regretted much that this unusual journey should take place so inopportunely. But there was no help for it; for Mr. Graham's plans were arranged, unless she would make Gertrude's coming, at the very outset, disagreeable. She started for town, therefore, the next morning, quite undecided what course to pursue.

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 saw Mr. Graham's carriage stop at the door. She ran to meet Emily, and guided her into her neat parlour to a comfortable seat, placed in her hand a fan (for the weather was very warm), and then told her 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 touching story was told by Mrs. Sullivan of Gertrude's agony of grief, and the fears she 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 stool, 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, 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 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), and either carries her into some other room, or out in the yard; and he contrives to cheer her wonderfully. He persuades her to eat, and in the evenings, when he comes home from the store, takes long walks with her. Last evening they went over Chelsea Bridge, where it was cool and pleasant; and I suppose he diverted her attention and amused her, for she came home brighter than I've seen her, and quite tired. I got her to go to bed in my room, and she slept soundly all night, so that she really looks like herself to-day. They've gone out again this morning, and, being Sunday, and Willie at home all day, I've no doubt he'll 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 favour to myself, as well as her, that you have taken such excellent care of her. I felt sure you have 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 downhearted."

Mrs. Sullivan now informed Emily that a cousin of hers, a farmer's wife, living about twenty miles from Boston, had invited them all to pa.s.s 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, 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 that Gertrude would be a welcome 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.

Gertrude went into the country, and abundance of novelty, country fare, healthful exercise, and kindness and sympathy, brought the colour into her cheek, and calmness and happiness into her heart. Soon after the Sullivan's return from their excursion, the Grahams removed to the city, and 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 Gertrude's shoulders.

"I mean the stars, dear Miss Emily. Oh, 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 over the church-steeple; it shines into my room every night, and looks me in the face. Miss Emily (and she spoke in 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 your path as if his face were shining down upon you through the 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 angry, and I don't know what I do or say. I did not mean to be impertinent to her to-day, and I wish I hadn't slammed the door; but how could I help it, Miss Emily, when she told me 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 the _Journal_ herself; but Mr. Graham will always think I did it."

"I have no doubt, Gertrude, that you had reason to feel provoked, and I believe you when you say that you were not to blame for the loss of the newspaper. But 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-control.

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 that met her gaze, that Gertrude's proud spirit was subdued. 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 G.o.d. A few years ago I should not have expected you to have been pleasant and amiable towards anyone 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 circ.u.mstances. 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."