The Lamplighter Part 49

The sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really looked sad to see how little they had eaten. Gertrude drew out her purse, and after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired whom she should pay for the meal.

"Pay, miss!" said the man, grinning. "Bless my stars! de gentleman pays for all!"

"Who? What gentleman?" asked Gertrude, in surprise.

But before he could reply another waiter appeared and beckoned to his fellow-waiter, who s.n.a.t.c.hed up his tray and trotted off, leaving Gertrude and Emily to wonder who the gentleman might be.

"What time is it?" asked she, on awaking.

"Nearly a quarter past three," replied Gertrude, glancing at her watch (a beautiful gift from a cla.s.s of her former pupils).

Emily started up. "We can't be far from New York," said she; "where are we now?"

"I think we must be near the Palisades;" said Gertrude; "stay here, I will go and see." She pa.s.sed across the saloon, and was ascending the staircase, when she was alarmed by a rushing sound, mingled with hurried steps. She kept on, however, and had gained the head of the stairway, when a man rushed past gasping for breath, and shrieking, "Fire! fire!"

A scene of dismay and confusion ensued too terrible for description.

Shrieks rose upon the air, groans and cries of despair burst from hearts that were breaking with fear for others, or maddened at the certainty of their own destruction. Those who had never prayed before poured out their souls in the fervent e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, "Oh, my G.o.d!"

Gertrude gazed around upon every side. Towards the centre of the boat, where the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the vessel, a huge volume of flame was visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts to shrink and crouch in horror. She gave but one glance; then bounded down the stairs to save Emily. But she was arrested at the very onset. One step only had she taken when she was encircled by two powerful arms, and a movement made to rush with her upon deck: while a familiar voice gasped forth, "Gertrude, my child! my own darling! Be quiet--be quiet!--I will save you!"

She was struggling madly. "No, no!" shouted she; "Emily! Emily! Let me die! but I must find Emily!"

"Where is she?" asked Mr. Phillips; for it was he.

"There, there," pointed Gertrude--"in the cabin. Let me go! let me go!"

He cast one look around him; then said, in a firm tone, "Be calm, my child! I can save you both; follow me closely!"

With a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin. In the furthest corner knelt Emily, her hands clasped, and her face like that of an angel.

Gertrude and Mr. Phillips were by her side in an instant. He stooped to lift her in his arms, Gertrude at the same time exclaiming, "Come, Emily, come! He will save us!" But Emily resisted. "Leave me, Gertrude--leave me, and save yourselves! Oh!" said she, imploringly, "leave me, and save my child." But ere the words had left her lips she was borne half way across the saloon; Gertrude followed closely.

"If we can cross to the bows of the boat we are safe!" said Mr.

Phillips, in a husky voice.

To do so, however, proved impossible. The centre of the boat was now one sheet of flame. "Good heavens!" exclaimed he, "we are too late! we must go back!"

With much difficulty they regained the saloon. The boat, as soon as the fire was discovered, had been turned towards the sh.o.r.e, struck upon the rocks, and parted in the middle. Her bows were brought near to the land, near enough to almost ensure the safety of such persons as were at the top part of the vessel. But, alas for those near the stern!

Mr. Phillips' first thought was to beat down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag Emily and Gertrude after him. Some ropes hung upon the guards; he seized one and made it fast to the boat; then turned to Gertrude, who stood firm by his side. "Gertrude," said he, "I shall swim to the sh.o.r.e with Emily. If the fire comes too near, cling to the guards; as a last chance hold on to the rope. Keep your veil flying; I shall return."

"No, no!" cried Emily. "Gertrude, go first."

"Hush, Emily!" exclaimed Gertrude; "we shall both be saved."

"Cling to my shoulder in the water, Emily," said Mr. Phillips, utterly regardless of her protestations. He took her once more in his arms; there was a splash, and they were gone. At the same instant Gertrude was seized from behind. She turned and found herself grasped by Isabel Clinton, who, kneeling upon the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely to her as utterly to disable them both; she shrieked out, "Oh, Gertrude! Gertrude! save me!" But Gertrude thus imprisoned, she was powerless to do anything for her own or Isabel's salvation. She looked forth in the direction Mr. Phillips had taken, and, to her joy, she saw him returning. He had deposited Emily on board a boat, and was now approaching to claim another burden. A volume of flame swept so near the spot where the two alarmed girls were stationed that Gertrude felt the scorching heat, and both were almost suffocated with smoke. An heroic resolution was now displayed by Gertrude. One of them could be saved; for Mr. Phillips was within a few rods of the wreck. It should be Isabel! She had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied! Moreover, Willie loved Isabel. Willie would weep for her loss, and that must not be. He would not weep for Gertrude--at least, not much; and, if one must die, it should be she. "Isabel," said she--"Isabel, do you hear me? Stand up on your feet; do as I tell you, and you shall be saved. Do you hear me, Isabel?"

She heard, shuddered; but did not move. Gertrude stooped down, and wrenching apart the hands which were convulsively clenched, said sternly, "Isabel, if you do as I tell you, you will be on sh.o.r.e in five minutes, safe and well; but if you stay there we shall both be burned to death. For mercy's sake, get up quickly, and listen to me!" Isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon Gertrude's calm, steadfast face, and said, "What must I do? I will try."

"Do you see that person swimming this way?"

"Yes."

"He will come to this spot. Hold fast to that piece of rope, and I will let you gradually down to the water. But, stay!"--and, s.n.a.t.c.hing the deep blue veil from her own head she tied it round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of Isabel. Mr. Phillips was within a rod or two.

"Now, Isabel, now!" exclaimed Gertrude, "or you will be too late!"

Isabel took the rope, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight of the water. One more hot burst of fire gave her renewed courage to brave a mere seeming danger; and aided by Gertrude, who helped her over the guards, she allowed herself to be let down to the water's edge. Mr.

Phillips was just in time to receive her, for she was so utterly exhausted that she could not have clung long to the rope. Gertrude had no opportunity to follow them with her eye; her own situation was now all-engrossing. The flames had reached her. She could hardly breathe.

She could hesitate no longer. She seized the piece of rope, and grasping it with all nor might, leaped over the side of the vessel. How long her strength would have enabled her thus to cling--how long the guards, as yet unapproached by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable--there was no opportunity to test; for, just as her feet touched the cold surface of the water, the huge wheel, which was but a little distance from where she hung, gave one sudden revolution, sounding like a death-dirge through the water, which came foaming and dashing up against the boat, and, as it swept away again, bore with it the light form of Gertrude!

CHAPTER XLI.

SUSPENSE.

Let us now revisit the country seat of Mr. Graham. The old gentleman, wearied with travels and society not congenial to his years, is pacing up and down his garden walks; his countenance denoting plainly enough how glad he is to find himself once more in his cherished homestead. It is supposed that such satisfaction arose from the circ.u.mstance that the repose of his household is rendered complete by the absence of its excitable mistress, whom he has left in New York. This was like the good old times.

Emily and Gertrude, too, are closely a.s.sociated with those good old times; and it adds greatly to the delusion of his fancy to dwell upon the certainty that they are both in the house, and that he shall see them both at dinner. Yes, Gertrude is there, as well as the rest, saved--she hardly knew how--from a watery grave that almost engulfed her, and established once more in the peaceful and endeared spot, now the dearest to her on earth.

When, with some difficulty, restored to consciousness, she was informed that she had been picked up by some humane persons who had pushed a boat from the sh.o.r.e to rescue the sufferers; that she was clinging to the chair, which she had probably grasped when washed away by the sudden rushing of the water, and that her situation was such that, a moment more, and it would have been impossible to save her from the flames, close to which she was drifting. But of all this she had herself no recollection. From the moment when she committed her light weight to the frail tenure of the rope until she opened her eyes in a quiet spot, and saw Emily leaning anxiously over the bed upon which she lay, all had been a blank to her senses. A few hours from the time of the terrible catastrophe brought Mr. Graham to the scene, and the next day restored all three in safety to the old mansion-house in D----. This venerable habitation, and its adjoining grounds, wore nearly the same aspect as when they met the admiring eyes of Gerty on the first visit that she made Miss Graham in her early childhood--that long-expected and keenly-enjoyed visit, which proved a lasting topic for her young mind to dwell upon.

The old house had a look of contentment and repose. The hall door stood wide open. Mr. Graham's arm-chair was in its usual place; Gertrude's birds, of which Mrs. Ellis had taken excellent care, were hopping about on the slender perches of the great Indian cage which hung on the wide piazza. The old house-dog lay stretched in the sun. Plenty of flowers graced the parlour, and all was very comfortable. Mr. Graham thought so as he came up the steps, patted the dog, whistled to the birds, sat down in the arm-chair, and took the morning paper from the hand of the neat housemaid. The dear old place was the dear old place still.

Mr. Graham has been having new experiences; and he is, in many respects, a changed man. Emily is sitting in her own room. She is paler than ever, and her face has an anxious expression. Every time the door opens she starts, trembles, a sudden flush overspreads her face, and twice during the morning she has suddenly burst into tears. Every exertion, even that of dressing, seems a labour to her; she cannot listen to Gertrude's reading, but will constantly interrupt her to ask questions concerning the burning boat, her own and others' rescue, and every circ.u.mstance connected with the late terrible scene of agony and death. Her nervous system is shattered, and Gertrude looks at her and weeps.

Gertrude withdrew, but returned in an hour to help her to dress for dinner--a ceremony which Miss Graham would never omit, her chief desire seeming to be to maintain the appearance of health and happiness in the presence of her father. Gertrude retired to her own room, leaving Emily to bow her head upon her hands, and utter a few hysterical sobs.

Gertrude is followed by Mrs. Ellis, who seats herself, and in her exciting style adds to the poor girl's fear and distress by stating the dreadful effect the recollection of that shocking accident is having upon poor Emily. "She's completely upset, and if she don't begin to mend in a day or two there's no knowing what the consequences may be. Emily is feeble, and not fit to travel; I wish she had stayed at home."

Gertrude is again interrupted. The housemaid brought her a letter! With a trembling hand she receives it, fearing to look at the writing or post-mark. Her first thought is of Willie; but before she could indulge either a hope or a fear on that score the illusion is dispelled, for, though the post-mark is New York, and he might be there, the handwriting is wholly strange. She breaks the seal, and reads:--

"MY DARLING GERTRUDE,--My much-loved child--for such you indeed are, though a father's agony of fear and despair alone wrung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to my heart, and call you mine. A dozen times before had I been seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone; but the voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. Had I seen you happy, gay, and light-hearted, I would not have asked to share your joy, far less would I have cast a shadow on your path; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and your grief unites the tie between us closer than that of kindred, and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for I am a wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others' woe.

"You have a kind and a gentle heart, my child. You have wept once for the stranger's sorrows--will you now refuse to pity, if you cannot love, the solitary parent, who, with a breaking heart and a trembling hand, writes the ill-fated word that dooms him, perhaps, to the hatred and contempt of the only being on earth with whom he can claim the fellowship of a natural tie? Twice before have I striven to utter it, and, laying down my pen, have shrunk from the cruel task. But, hard as it is to speak, I find it harder to still the beating of my restless heart; therefore, listen to me, though it may be for the last time. Is there one being on earth whom you shudder to think of? Is there one a.s.sociated only in your mind with deeds of darkness and of shame? Is there one name which you have from your childhood learned to abhor and hate; and, in proportion as you love your best friend, have you been taught to shrink from and despise her worst enemy? It cannot be otherwise. Ah! I tremble to think how my child will recoil from her father when she learns the secret, so long preserved, so sorrowfully revealed, that he is

"PHILLIP AMORY!"

As Gertrude finished reading this strange and unintelligible letter her countenance expressed complete bewilderment--her eyes glistened with tears, her face was flushed with excitement; but she was evidently at a total loss to account for the meaning of the stranger's words. She sat for an instant wildly gazing into vacancy; then, springing suddenly up, with the letter grasped in one hand, ran to Emily's room, to read the wonderful contents, and ask her opinion of their hidden meaning. She stopped, however, when her hand was on the door-lock. Emily was already ill--it would not do to distress or even disturb her; and, retreating to her own room, Gertrude sat down to re-peruse the singular letter.

That Mr. Phillips and the letter-writer were identical she at once perceived. It was no slight impression that his exclamation and conduct during the time of their imminent danger on board the boat had left upon the mind of Gertrude. During the three days that succeeded the accident the words, "My child! my own darling!" had been continually ringing in her ears, and haunting her imagination. Now the blissful idea would flash upon her, that the n.o.ble, disinterested stranger, who had risked his life in her own and Emily's cause, might indeed be her father; and every fibre of her being had thrilled at the thought, while her head grew dizzy and confused with the strong sensation of hope that almost overwhelmed her brain.

Her first inquiries, on recovering consciousness, had been for the preserver of Emily and Isabel, but he had disappeared; no trace of him could be obtained, and Mr. Graham arriving and hurrying them from the neighbourhood, she had been compelled to abandon the hope of seeing him again. The same motives which induced her not to consult Emily concerning the mysterious epistle had hitherto prevented her from imparting the secret of Mr. Phillips' inexplicable language and manner; but she had dwelt upon them none the less.

The first perusal of the letter served only to excite and alarm her. But as she sat for an hour gazing upon the page, which she read and re-read until it was blistered with the varying expression of her face denoted the emotions that, one after another, possessed her; and which at last, s.n.a.t.c.hing a sheet of paper, she committed to writing with a feverish rapidity that betrayed how she staggered beneath the weight of contending hopes and gloomy fears.