Читать книгу The Lamplighter - Maria S. Cummins - Страница 16

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"Revenge, at first though sweet,

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils."—Milton.

The next day was Sunday. True generally went to church half the day at least, with the sexton's family; but Gerty having no bonnet could not go, and True would not leave her. So they spent the morning wandering round among the wharves and looking at the ships, Gerty wearing her old shawl over her head.

Willie came in the evening to say good-bye before returning to Mr. Bray's. He was in a hurry, for his master had his doors closed early, especially on a Sunday night. But Mr. Cooper made his usual visit; and when he had gone, True, finding Gerty sound asleep on the settle, thought it a pity to wake her, and laid her in bed with her clothes on.

She did not wake until morning; and then, surprised and amused at finding herself dressed, ran out to ask True how it happened. True was making the fire; and Gerty having been told all about it, helped to get the breakfast ready, and to put the room in order. She followed Mrs. Sullivan's instructions, and in a few weeks she learned to make herself useful in many ways, and, as Mrs. Sullivan had prophesied, gave promise of becoming a clever little housekeeper. Her active and willing feet saved True many steps, and she was of essential aid in keeping the rooms neat, that being her especial ambition. Mrs. Sullivan looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her; and nothing made Gerty happier than learning how to do some new thing. She met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. Kate M'Carty thought her the smartest child in the world, and would oft come in and wash the floor, or do some other work which required more strength than Gerty possessed.

One Sunday Gerty, who had a nice little hood, bought by True, was returning with Mr. Cooper, Mr. Flint, and Willie, from the afternoon service at church. The two old men were engaged in discussion, and the children talked earnestly about the church, the minister, the people, and the music, all of which were new to Gerty, and greatly excited her wonder.

As they drew near home, Willie remarked how dark it was growing in the streets; and then, looking down at Gerty, whom he held by the hand, he said, "Gerty, do you ever go out with Uncle True, and see him light the lamps?"

"No, I never did," said Gerty, "since the first night I came. I've wanted, but it's been so cold, he would not let me; he said I'd have the fever again."

"It won't be cold this evening," said Willie; "it'll be a beautiful night; and, if Uncle True's willing, we will go with him. I've often been; you can look into the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting round the fire in their parlours."

"And I like to see him light those great lamps," said Gerty; "they make it look so bright and beautiful all around. I hope he'll let us go; I'll ask him; come," said she, pulling him by the hand.

"No—wait," said Willie; "he's busy talking with grandpa—we can ask him at home."

As soon as they reached the gate she broke away from him, and, rushing up to True, made known her request. He readily consented, and the three soon started on the rounds.

For a time Gerty's attention was so engrossed by the lamplighting that she could see and enjoy nothing else. But when they reached the corner of the street, and came in sight of a large apothecary's shop, her delight knew no bounds. The brilliant colours displayed in the windows captivated her fancy; and when Willie told her that his master's shop was similar she thought it must be a fine place to spend one's life in. Then she wondered why this was open on Sunday, when all the other stores were closed, and Willie, stopping to explain, they found that True was some distance in advance. He hurried Gerty along, telling her that they were now in the finest street they should pass through, and they must haste, for they had nearly reached the house he most wanted her to see. When they came up with True, he was placing his ladder against a post opposite a fine block of buildings. Many of the front windows were shaded, so that the children could not see in; but some had no curtains, or they had not yet been drawn. In one parlour there was a pleasant wood-fire, around which a group were gathered; and here Gerty would fain have lingered. In another, a brilliant chandelier was lit, and though the room was vacant, the furniture was so showy, and the whole so brilliant, that the child clapped her hands in delight, and Willie could not prevail upon her to leave the spot, until he told her that farther down the street was another house, equally attractive, where she would perhaps see some beautiful children.

"How do you know there'll be children there?" said she, as they walked along.

"I don't know, certainly," said Willie; "but I think there will. They used always to be up at the window when I came with Uncle True, last winter."

"How many?" asked Gerty.

"Three, I believe; there was one little girl with such beautiful curls, and such a sweet, cunning little face. She looked like a wax doll, only a great deal prettier."

"Oh, I hope we shall see her!" said Gerty, dancing along on the tops of her toes.

"There they are!" exclaimed Willie; "all three, I declare, just as they used to be!"

"Where?" said Gerty; "where?"

"Over opposite, in the great stone house. Here, let's cross over. It's muddy; I'll carry you."

Willie lifted Gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood in front of the house. True had not yet come up. It was he that the children were watching for. Gerty was not the only child that loved to see the lamps lit.

It was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could not see any one out of doors; but Willie and Gerty had so much better chance to look in. The mansion was a fine one, evidently the home of wealth. A clear coal fire, and a bright lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze. Rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave Gerty her first impressions of luxurious life. There was an air of comfort combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinating to the child of poverty and want. A table was bountifully spread for tea; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plate, above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most inviting look. A gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy chair by the fire; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl's arrangements at the tea-table; and the children of the household, smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, looking out, as we have just narrated.

They were sweet, lovely-looking little creatures; especially a girl, of the same age as Gerty, the eldest of the three. Her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck as white as snow; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little round plump figure. Gerty's admiration and rapture were such, that she could find no expression for them, and directing Willie's notice first to one thing and then another; "Oh, Willie, isn't she a darling? and see what a beautiful fire—what a splendid lady! What is that on the table? I guess it's good! There's a big looking-glass; and oh, Willie! an't they dear, handsome children?"

True now came up, and as his torch-light swept along the side-walk Gerty and Willie became the subjects of notice and conversation. The curly-haired girl saw them, and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. Though Gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like being stared at and talked about; and hiding behind the post, she would not move or look up, though Willie laughed at her, and told her it was now her turn to be looked at. When True moved off, she began to run, so as to escape observation; but Willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone from the window, she ran back to have one more look, and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. Then the servant-girl drew down the window-blinds. Gerty then took Willie's hand, and they tried to overtake True.

"Shouldn't you like to live in such a house as that, Gerty!" said Willie.

"Yes, indeed," said Gerty; "an't it splendid?"

"I wish I had just such a house," said Willie. "I mean one of these days."

"Where will you get it?" exclaimed Gerty, much amazed at so bold a declaration.

"Oh, I shall work, and grow rich, and buy it."

"You can't; it would take a lot o' money!"

"I know it; but I can earn a lot, and I will, too. The gentleman that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he first came to Boston; and why can't one poor boy get rich as well an another?"

"How do you suppose he got so much money?"

"I don't know how he did; there are a great many ways. Some people think it's all luck, but I guess it's as much smartness as anything."

"Are you smart?"

Willie laughed. "An't I?" said he. "If I don't turn out a rich man one of these days, you may say I an't."

"I know what I'd do if I was rich," said Gerty.

"What?" asked Willie.

"First, I'd buy a great nice chair for Uncle True, with cushions all in the inside, and bright flowers on it—just exactly like that one the gentleman was sitting in; and next, I'd have great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so as to make the room as light—as light as it could be!"

"Seems to me you're mighty fond of lights, Gerty," said Willie.

"I be," said the child. "I hate old, dark, black places; I like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and Uncle True's torch——"

"And I like bright eyes!" interrupted Willie; "yours look just like stars, they shine so to-night. An't we having a good time?"

"Yes, real."

And so they went on—Gerty dancing along the side-walk, Willie sharing in her gaiety and joy, and glorying in the responsibility of entertaining and protecting the wild little creature. They talked of how they would spend that future wealth which they both calculated upon one day possessing; for Gerty had caught Willie's spirit, and she, too, meant to work and grow rich. Willie said his mother was to wear a gay cap, like that of the lady they had seen; this made Gerty laugh. She thought that demure little widow would be ridiculous in a flowered headgear. Good taste is inborn, and Gerty had it in her. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan, attired in anything that was not simple, neat, and sober-looking, would altogether lose her identity. Willie had no selfish schemes; the generous boy suggested nothing for his own gratification; it was for the rest he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for his reward. Happy children! What do they want of wealth? What of anything, material or tangible, more than they now possess? They have what is worth more than riches or fame—they are full of childhood's faith and hope. With a fancy and imagination unchecked by disappointment, they are building those same castles that so many thousand children have built before, that children will always be building to the end of time. Far off in the distance they see bright things, and know not what myths they are. Undeceive not the little believers, ye wise ones! Check not that God-given hopefulness, which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety over many a rough spot in life's road. It lasts not long at the best; then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard.

They had reached the last lamp-post in the street, but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps before Gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed any further, pulled hard at Willie's hand, and tried to induce him to retrace his steps.

"What's the matter, Gerty?" said he, "are you tired?"

"No, oh no! but I can't go any further."

"Why not?"

"Oh, because—because—" and here Gerty putting her mouth close to Willie's ear, whispered, "there is Nan Grant's; I see the house! I had forgot Uncle True went there; and I am afraid!"

"Oho!" said Willie, drawing himself up with dignity, "I should like to know what you're afraid of, when I'm with you! Let her touch you if she dares! And Uncle True, too!—I should laugh."

Very kindly did Willie plead with the child, telling her that Nan would not be likely to see them, but they might see her; and that was just what he wanted—nothing he should like better. Gerty's fears were soon allayed. When they stood in front of the house, Gerty was rather hoping than otherwise to catch sight of Nan. Nan was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated dispute with one of her neighbours. Her countenance expressed great anger, and her face was now so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of vixen, virago, or scold.

"Which is she?" said Willie; "the tall one, swinging the coffee-pot in her hand? I guess she'll break the handle off, if she don't look out."

"Yes," said Gerty, "that's Nan."

"What's she doing?"

"Oh, she's fighting with Mrs. Birch; she does always with somebody. She don't see us, does she?"

"No, she's too busy. Come, don't let's stop; she's an ugly-looking woman, just as I knew she was. I've seen enough of her, and I'm sure you have—come."

Gerty lingered. Courageous in the knowledge that she was safe and unseen, she was gazing at Nan, and her eyes glistened, not with the innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of kindled passion—a fire that Nan had kindled long ago, which had not yet gone out, and which the sight of Nan had now revived in full force. Willie, thinking it was time to be at home, and perceiving Mr. Flint and his torch far down the street, left Gerty, and started himself, to draw her on, saying, "Come, Gerty, I can't wait."

Gerty turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning, stooped, and picking up a stone, flung it at the window. There was a crash of broken glass, and an exclamation in Nan's well-known voice; but Gerty was not there to see the result. The instant she heard the crash her fears returned, and flying past Willie, she paused not until she was safe by the side of True.

Willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and then came running up, exclaiming, breathlessly, "Why, Gerty, do you know what you did?—You broke the window!"

Gerty jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid Willie, pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do.

True inquired what window? and Gerty acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on purpose. True and Willie were shocked and silent. Gerty was silent too, for the rest of the walk; there were clouds on her face, and she felt unhappy in her little heart.

Willie bade them good night at the house door, and as usual they saw no more of him for a week.