The Lamplighter Part 26

Whether she was herself aware of this Gertrude had not yet been able to determine. She had never spoken upon the subject, or intimated a conviction of her approaching end; and Gertrude was almost inclined to believe that she was deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery.

All doubt of this was soon removed; for after remaining a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs. Sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon the young attendant, and said, in a calm, distinct voice--"Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again." Gertrude made no reply.

"I wish to write and tell him so myself, or, rather, if you will write for me, I should like to tell you what to say; and I feel that no time is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long have strength enough to do it. It will devolve upon you, my child, to let him know when all is over; but you have had too many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have me prepare him to hear bad news. Will you commence a letter to-day?"

"Certainly, auntie, if you think it best."

"I do, Gerty. What you wrote by the last mail was my father's sickness and death; and there was nothing mentioned likely to alarm him on my account, was there?"

"Nothing at all."

"Then it is time he should be forewarned, poor boy! I do not need Dr.

Jeremy to tell me that I am dying."

"Did he tell you so?" asked Gertrude, as she went to her desk, and began to arrange her writing materials.

"No, Gerty! he was too prudent for that; but I told _him_ and he did not contradict me. You have known it some time, have you not?" inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of Gertrude.

"Some weeks," replied Gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer.

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Why should I, dear auntie?" said Gertrude. "I knew the Lord could never call you at a time when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning."

"Feebly, it burns feebly!" said she.

"Whose, then, is bright," said Gertrude, "if yours be dim! Have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety? Unless it be Emily, auntie, I know of no one who seems so fit for heaven."

"Oh, no, Gerty! I am a sinful creature, full of weakness; much as I long to meet my Saviour, my earthly heart pines with the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one blessing I most craved on earth has been denied me."

"Oh, auntie!" exclaimed Gertrude, "we are all human! Until the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of Willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour! It cannot be a sin--that which is so natural!"

"I do not know, Gerty; perhaps it is not; and, if it be, I trust before I go hence, I shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect submission, to atone for the occasional murmuring of a mother's heart? Read to me, my dear, some holy words of comfort; you always seem to open the good book at the pa.s.sage I most need. It is sinful, indeed, to me, Gertrude, to indulge the least repining, blessed as I am in the love and care of one who is dear to me as a daughter!"

Gertrude took her Bible, and opening it at the Gospel of St. Mark, her eye fell upon the account of Our Saviour's agony in the garden of Gethsemane. She rightly believed that nothing could be more appropriate to Mrs. Sullivan's state of mind than the touching description of the struggle of our Lord's humanity; nothing more likely to sooth her spirit, and reconcile her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature, then the evident contest of the human with the divine so thrillingly narrated by the disciple; and that nothing could be more inspiring than the example of that holy Son of G.o.d, who ever to His thrice-repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pa.s.s from him, added the pious e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, "Thy will, not mine, be done." The words were not without effect; for, when she had finished, she observed that as Mrs. Sullivan lay still upon her couch, her lips seemed to be repeating the Saviour's prayer. Not wishing to disturb her meditations, Gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to Willie, but sat silently, and Mrs. Sullivan fell asleep. It was a gentle slumber, and Gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful happy expression of her features. Darkness had come on before she awoke, and so shrouded the room that Gertrude, who still sat there, was invisible in the gloom. She started on hearing her name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached the couch.

"O, Gertrude!" said Mrs. Sullivan, "I have had such a beautiful dream!

Sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to you; it could not have been more vivid, if it had all been reality:--"

THE DREAM:--"I thought I was sailing rapidly through the air, and for some time I seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright stars. The motion was so gentle that I did not grow weary, though in my journey I travelled over land and sea. At last I saw beneath me a beautiful city, with churches, towers, monuments, and throngs of gay people moving in every direction. As I drew nearer, I could distinguish the faces of these numerous men and women, and among them, in the crowded street, there was one who looked like Willie. I followed him, and soon felt sure it was he. He looked older than when we saw him last, and much as I have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appearance. I followed him through several streets, and at last he turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of the city. I went in also. We pa.s.sed through large halls and beautifully furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-saloon, in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, gla.s.ses, and the remains of a rich desert, such as I never saw before. There was a group of young men round the table, all well-dressed, and some of them fine-looking, so that at first I was quite charmed with their appearance. I seemed, however, to have a strange power of looking into their hearts, and detecting all the evil there was there. One had a very bright, intelligent face, and might have been thought a man of talent--and so he was; but I could see better than people usually can, and I perceived, by a sort of instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant as to be ensnared.

"Another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm of the company; but I could detect marks of intoxication.

"A third was vainly attempting to look happy; but his soul was bared to my searching gaze, and I saw that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table his own and a part of his employer's money, and was tortured with anxiety lest he might not this evening win it back.

"There were many others present, and all, more or less, sunk in dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. Their faces, however, looked gay, and, as Willie glanced from one to another, he seemed pleased and attracted.

"One of them offered him a seat at the table, and all urged him to take it. He did so, and the young man at his right filled a gla.s.s with bright wine, and handed it to him. He hesitated, then took it and raised it to his lips. Just then I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, saw me, and instantly the gla.s.s fell from his hand, and was broken. I beckoned, and he rose and followed me. The gay circle he had left called loudly upon him to return; one of them even laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him; but he would not listen or stay--he shook off the hand, and we went on. Before we had got outside the building, the man whom I had first noticed, and whom I knew to be the most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door, which he had reached by some other direction, and, approaching Willie, whispered in his ear. Willie faltered, turned, and would perhaps have gone back; but I stood in front of him, held up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. He hesitated no longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, and was instantly down the long flight of steps. I seemed to move with great rapidity, and was soon guiding my son through the intricate, crowded streets of the city. Many were the snares we found laid for the unwary.

More than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless boy by my side from some pitfall or danger, into which, without me, he would have fallen.

Occasionally I lost sight of him, and had to turn back; once he was separated from me by the crowd, and missed his way, and once he lingered to witness or join in some sinful amus.e.m.e.nts. Each time, however, he listened to my warning voice, and we went on in safety.

"At last, however, in pa.s.sing through a brilliantly-lighted street--for it was now evening--I suddenly observed that he was absent from my side.

I hunted the streets, and called him by name; but there was no answer. I then unfolded my wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the whole, hoping that in that one glance I might, as I had at first done, detect my boy.

"I was not disappointed. In a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, and filled with a fashionable crowd, I beheld Willie. A brilliant young creature was leaning on his arm, and I saw into her heart, and knew that she was not blind to his beauty or insensible to his attractions. But, oh! I trembled for him now! She was lovely and rich, and also fashionable and admired. But I saw into her soul, and she was proud, cold-hearted, and worldly; and if she loved Willie, it was his beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her--not his n.o.ble nature, which she knew not how to prize. As they promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising, gave all her time and thoughts to him, I, descending in an invisible shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder. He looked around, but, before he could see his mother's face, the siren's voice attracted all his attention. Again and again I endeavoured to win him away; but he heard me not. At length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. I seized the moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and, clasping him in my arms, spread my wings, and soared far, far away, bearing with me the prize I had toiled after and won. As we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, with its soft, silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. Back we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until, on a soft, gra.s.sy slope, under the shade of green trees, I thought I saw my darling Gerty, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when I awoke p.r.o.nouncing your name."

"And now, Gertrude, the bitterness of the cup I am called upon to drink is pa.s.sed away. A blessed angel has ministered unto me. I no longer wish to see my son again on earth, for I am persuaded that my departure is in accordance with the schemes of a merciful Providence. I now believe that Willie's living mother might be powerless to turn him from temptation and evil; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger, a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while on earth. Now, oh, my Father, I can say, from the depths of my heart, 'Thy will, not mine, be done!'"

From this time until her death, which took place about a month afterward, Mrs. Sullivan's mind remained in a state of perfect resignation. The last pang had lost its bitterness. In the letter which she dictated to Willie, she expressed her trust in the goodness and wisdom of Providence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love for the All-wise. She reminded him of the early lessons she had taught him, the piety and self-command, which she had inculcated, and made it her dying prayer that her influence might be increased, rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a continual reality.

After Gertrude had folded the letter, and left for her duties in school, Mrs. Sullivan re-opened the sheet, and, with her feeble hand, recounted the disinterested and loving devotion of Gertrude, thus: "So long, my son, as you cherish in your heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to bestow all the grat.i.tude of which that heart is capable upon one whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray."

So slow and gradual was the decline of Mrs. Sullivan, that her death at last came as an unexpected blow to Gertrude, who, though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realise that a termination must come to their work. In the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and encourage her but the frightened Jane, did she watch the departing spirit of her much-loved friend. "Are you afraid to see me die, Gertrude?" asked Mrs. Sullivan, an hour before her death. On Gertrude's answering that she was not--"Then turn me a little towards you," said she, "that your face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth."

It was done, and, with her hand locked fast in Gertrude's, and a look that spoke the deepest affection, she expired.

CHAPTER XXV.

MORE CHANGES.

Not until her work of love was ended did Gertrude become conscious that her lengthened labours by night and day had worn upon her frame, and exhausted her strength. For a week after Mrs. Sullivan was in her grave, Dr. Jeremy feared a severe illness for Gertrude. But, after struggling with her dangerous symptoms for several days, she rallied; and, though still pale and worn by care and anxiety, was able to resume her school duties, and make arrangements for another home.

Several homes had been offered to her, with a warmth and cordiality which made it difficult to decline their acceptance; but Gertrude, though deeply touched by the kindness thus manifested towards her in her loneliness, preferred to seek a permanent boarding-place, and when the grounds on which she based her decision were understood by her friends, they approved her course.

Mrs. Jeremy at first felt hurt at Gertrude's refusal to live with them for any length of time that she chose; and the doctor was so peremptory with his "Come, Gertrude, come right home with us--don't say a word!"

that she was afraid lest, in her weak state of health, she should be carried off, without a _chance_ to remonstrate. But, after he had taken upon himself to give Jane orders about packing her clothes and sending them after her, and then locking up the house, he gave Gertrude an opportunity to state her reasons for wishing to decline the generous proposal.

But all her reasoning upon general principles proved insufficient to convince the warm-hearted couple. "It was all nonsense about independent position. She would be perfectly independent with them, and her company would be such a pleasure that she need feel no hesitation in accepting their offer, and might be sure she would be conferring a favour, instead of being the party obliged." At last she was compelled to make use of an argument which had greatly influenced her own mind, and would, she felt sure, carry no little weight with it in the doctor's own estimation.

"Dr. Jeremy," said she, "I hope you will not condemn in me a motive which has strengthened my firmness in this matter. I should be unwilling to mention it if I did not know that you are so far acquainted with the state of affairs between Mr. Graham and myself as to understand and sympathize with my feelings. You know that he was opposed to my leaving them and remaining here this winter, and must suspect that, when we parted, there was not a perfectly good understanding between us. He hinted that I should never be able to support myself, and should be driven to a life of dependence; and, since the salary which I receive from Mr. W. is sufficient for all my wants, I wish to be so situated on Mr. Graham's return that he will perceive that my a.s.surance that I could earn my own living was not without foundation."

"So Graham thought that, without his sustaining power, you would soon come to beggary--did he? With your talents, too? that's just like him!"

"Oh, no, no!" replied Gertrude, "I did not say that; but I seemed to him a mere child, and he did not realise that in giving me an education he had paid my expenses in advance. It was very natural he should distrust my capacity--he had never seen me compelled to exert myself."

"I understand--I understand," said the doctor. "He thought you would be glad enough to come back to them; yes, yes, just like him!"

"Well, now," said Mrs. Jeremy, "I don't believe he thought any such thing. He was provoked, and didn't mind what he said. Ten to one he will never think of it again, and it seems to me it is only a kind of pride in Gertrude to care anything about it."

"I don't know that, wife," said the doctor. "If it _is_ pride, it's an honourable pride that I like; and I am not sure but, if I were in Gertrude's place, I should feel just as she does; so I shan't urge her to do any other ways than she proposes. She can have a boarding-place, and yet spend much of her time with us."

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Jeremy; "and, if you feel set about it, Gerty, dear, I am sure I shall want you to do whatever pleases you best; but one thing I do insist on, and that is, that you leave this house, which must look very dreary, this very day, go home with me, and stay until you get recruited."