Читать книгу The Lamplighter - Maria S. Cummins - Страница 12

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Here True was interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious opening of the door. "Here, Uncle True, here's your package. You forgot all about it, I guess; and I forgot it, too, till mother saw it on the table, where I'd laid it down. I was so taken up with just coming home, you know."

"Of course—of course!" said True. "Much obleeged to you, Willie, for fetchin' it for me. It's brittle stuff it's made of, and most likely I should have smashed it 'fore I got it home."

"What is it?—I've been wondering."

"Why, it's a little knick-knack I've brought home for Gerty here, that——"

"Willie! Willie!" called Mrs. Sullivan from the opposite room, "have you been to tea, dear?"

"No, indeed, mother; have you?"

"Why, yes; but I'll get you some."

"No, no," said True; "Stay and take tea with us, Willie; take tea here, my boy. My little Gerty is making some famous toast, and I'll have the tea presently."

"So I will," said Willie! "No matter about any supper for me, mother, I'm going to have my tea here with Uncle True. Come, now, let's see what's in the bundle; but first I want to see little Gerty; mother's been telling me about her. Where is she? Has she got well? She's been very sick, hasn't she?"

"Oh, yes, she's nicely now," said True. "Here, Gerty, look here. Why, where is she?"

"There she is, hiding behind the settle," said Willie, laughing. "She ain't afraid of me, is she?"

"Well, I didn't know as she was shy," said True; "you silly little girl," added he, "come out here and see Willie. This is Willie Sullivan."

"I don't want to see him," said Gerty.

"Don't want to see Willie!" said True; "why, you don't know what you're sayin'. Willie's the best boy that ever was; I 'spect you and he'll be great friends by-and-by."

"He won't like me," said Gerty; "I know he won't."

"Why shan't I like you?" said Willie, approaching the corner where Gerty had hid herself. Her face was covered with her hands. "I guess I shall like you first-rate when I see you."

He stooped down, and, taking her hands from her face and holding them in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her, and pleasantly said, "How are you, cousin Gerty—how do you do?"

"I an't your cousin!" said Gerty.

"Yes, you are," said Willie; "Uncle True's your uncle, and mine too!—so we're cousins—don't you see?—and I want to get acquainted."

Gerty could not resist Willie's good-natured words and manner. She suffered him to draw her out of the corner towards the lighter end of the room. As she came near the lamp, she tried to free her hands in order to cover her face up again; but Willie would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened package, he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, and in a few minutes she was quite at her ease.

"There, Uncle True says it's for you," said Willie; "and I can't think what 'tis, can you?"

Gerty felt, and looked wonderingly in True's face.

"Undo it, Willie," said True.

Willie produced a knife, cut the string, took off the paper, and disclosed one of those white plaster images, so familiar to every one, representing the little Samuel in an attitude of devotion.

"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Gerty, full of delight.

"Why didn't I think?" said Willie; "I might have known what 'twas by feeling."

"Why! did you ever see it before?" said Gerty.

"Not this same one; but I've seen lots just like it."

"Have you?" said Gerty. "I never did. I think it's the beautifullest thing that ever was. Uncle True, did you say it was for me? Where did you get it?"

"It was by an accident I got it. A few minutes before I met you, Willie, I was stoppin' at the corner to light my lamp, when I saw one of those furrin boys with a sight o' these things, and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walking with 'em a-top of his head. I was just a wonderin how he kept 'em there, when he hit the board agin my lamp-post, and the first thing I knew, whack they all went! he'd spilt them everyone. Lucky enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the side-walk, and the most of 'em fell into that and wasn't hurt. Some went on to the bricks, and were smashed. Well, I kind o' pitied the feller; for it was late, and I thought like enough he hadn't had much luck sellin' of 'em, to have so many left on his hands——"

"On his head, you mean," said Willie.

"Yes, Master Willie, or on the snow," said True; "any way you've a mind to have it."

"And I know what you did, Uncle True, just as well as if I'd seen you," said Willie; "you set your ladder and lantern right down, and helped him to pick 'em all up—that's just what you'd be sure to do for anybody."

"This feller, Willie, didn't wait for me to get into trouble; he made return right off. When they were all set right, he bowed and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if I'd been the biggest gentleman in the land; talkin,' too, he was, all the time, though I couldn't make out a word of his lingo; and then he insisted on my takin' one o' the figurs. I wasn't agoin' to take it, for I didn't want it; but I happened to think little Gerty might like it."

"Oh, I shall like it!" said Gerty. "I shall like it better than—no, not better, but almost as well as my kitten; not quite as well, because that was alive, and this isn't; but almost. Oh, an't he a cunning boy?"

True, finding that Gerty was wholly taken up with the image, walked away and began to get the tea, leaving the two children to entertain each other.

"You must take care and not break it, Gerty," said Willie. "We had a Samuel once, just like it, in the shop; and I dropped it out of my hand on to the counter, and broke it into a million pieces."

"What did you call it?" asked Gerty.

"A Samuel; they're all Samuels."

"What are Sammles?" inquired Gerty.

"Why, that's the name of the child they're taken for."

"What do you s'pose he's sittin' on his knee for?"

Willie laughed. "Why, don't you know?" said he.

"No," said Gerty; "what is he?"

"He's praying," said Willie.

"Is that what he's got his eyes turned up for, too?"

"Yes, of course; he looks up to heaven when he prays."

"Up to where?"

"To heaven."

Gerty looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the eyes were turned, then at the figure. She seemed very much dissatisfied and puzzled.

"Why, Gerty," said Willie, "I shouldn't think you knew what praying was."

"I don't," said Gerty; "tell me."

"Don't you ever pray—pray to God?"

"No, I don't.—Who is God? Where is God?"

Willie looked inexpressibly shocked at Gerty's ignorance, and answered reverently, "God is in heaven, Gerty."

"I don't know where that is," said Gerty. "I believe I don't know nothin' about it."

"I shouldn't think you did," said Willie. "I believe heaven is up in the sky; but my Sunday-school teacher says, 'Heaven is anywhere where goodness is,' or some such thing," he said.

"Are the stars in heaven?" asked Gerty.

"They look so, don't they?" said Willie. "They're in the sky, where I always used to think heaven was."

"I should like to go to heaven," said Gerty.

"Perhaps, if you're good, you will go some time."

"Can't any but good folks go?"

"No."

"Then I can't ever go," said Gerty, mournfully.

"Why not?" asked Willie; "an't you good."

"Oh no! I'm very bad."

"What a queer child!" said Willie. "What makes you think yourself so very bad?"

"Oh, I am," said Gerty, in a very sad tone; "I'm the worst of all. I'm the worst child in the world."

"Who told you so?"

"Everybody. Nan Grant says so, and she says everybody thinks so; I know it too, myself."

"Is Nan Grant the cross old woman you used to live with?"

"Yes. How did you know she was cross?"

"Oh, my mother's been telling me about her. Well, I want to know if she didn't send you to school, or teach you anything?"

Gerty shook her head.

"Why, what lots you've got to learn! What did you used to do when you lived there?"

"Nothing."

"Never did anything; don't know anything; my gracious!"

"Yes, I do know one thing," said Gerty. "I know how to toast bread;—your mother taught me;—she let me toast some by the fire."

As she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and turned towards the stove; but she was too late—the toast was made, the supper ready, and True was just putting it on the table.

"Oh, Uncle True," said she, "I meant to get the tea."

"I know it," said True, "but it's no matter; you can get it to-morrow."

The tears came into Gerty's eyes; she looked very much disappointed, but said nothing. They all sat down to supper. Willie put the Samuel in the middle of the table for a centre ornament, and told so many funny stories that Gerty laughed heartily, forgot that she did not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, and showed herself, for once, a merry child. After tea, she sat beside Willie on the great settle, and, in her peculiar way, gave him a description of her life at Nan Grant's, winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten.

The two children were in a fair way to become as good friends as True could possibly wish. True sat on the opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe; his elbows on his knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all their conversation. He laughed when they laughed; took long whiffs at his pipe when they talked quietly; ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his knee, and secretly wiping away a tear, when Gerty recounted her childish griefs. He often heard it afterwards, but never without crying.

After Gerty had closed her tale of sorrows, she sat for a moment without speaking, then becoming excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon its wrongs, she burst forth in a very different tone, and began uttering the most bitter invectives against Nan Grant. The child's language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of future revenge. True looked troubled at hearing her talk so angrily. Since he brought her home he had never witnessed such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness and the few weeks subsequent to it. True's own disposition was so amiable and forgiving, that he could not imagine that anyone, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of anger and bitterness. Gerty had shown herself so mild and patient since she had been with him, that it had never occurred to him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. Now, however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling of her little fist as she menaced Nan with her future wrath, he had an undefined, half-formed presentiment of coming trouble in the control of his little charge. For the moment she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet and plaything he had hitherto considered her. He saw in her something which needed a check, and felt himself unfit to apply it.

He was totally unfit to cope with a spirit like Gerty's. It was true he possessed over her one mighty influence—her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt. It was that which made her so submissive and patient in her sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do something in return. It was that love, illumined by a higher light, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet a mere girl, a woman's courage, a woman's strength of heart and self-denial. It was that which cheered the old man's latter years, and shed joy on his dying bed.

Willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abusive language; but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least attention to him. He could not help smiling at her childish wrath, nor could he resist sympathising with her in a degree. But he was conscious that Gerty was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand what made everybody think her so bad.

After Gerty had railed about Nan a little while, she stopped of her own accord; though an unpleasant look remained on her countenance. It soon passed away, however; and when, a little later in the evening, Mrs. Sullivan appeared at the door, Gerty looked bright and happy, listened with evident delight while True uttered warm expressions of thanks for the labour which had been undertaken in his behalf, and, when Willie went away with his mother, said her good night, and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and her eyes looked so bright, that Willie said, as soon as they were out of hearing, "She's a queer little thing, an't she, mother? But I kind o' like her."