Читать книгу The Lamplighter - Maria S. Cummins - Страница 18

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"Father," said Mrs. Sullivan, one afternoon, as he was preparing to take a number of articles which he wanted for his Saturday's work in the church, "why don't you get little Gerty to go with you, and carry some of your things? You can't take them all at once; and she'd like to go, I know."

"She'd only be in the way," said Mr. Cooper; "I can take them myself."

But when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal hod on one arm, taken a little hatchet and a basket of chips in his hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer and a large paper of nails. Mrs. Sullivan called Gerty, and asked her to go and help him carry his tools. Gerty was pleased with the proposal, and started off with great alacrity.

When they reached the church the old sexton took them from her hands, and telling her she could play about until he went home, but to be sure and do no mischief, he went into the vestry to commence sweeping, dusting, and building fires. Gerty had ample amusement for some time, to wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine closely what, hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the gallery. Then she ascended the pulpit, and in imagination addressed a large audience. She was growing weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered unseen, commenced playing some low, sweet music; and Gerty, seating herself on the pulpit stairs, listened with the greatest pleasure. He had not played long before the door opened and two visitors entered. One was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, with hair thin and grey, and features rather sharp; but remarkable for his benignant expression of countenance. A young lady, apparently about twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his arm. She was attired with great simplicity, wearing a dark brown cloak, and a bonnet of the same colour, relieved by some light-blue ribbon about the face. She was somewhat below the middle size, but had a good figure. Her features were small and regular; her complexion clear but pale; and her light-brown hair was neatly arranged. She never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly up the aisle.

The two approached the spot where Gerty sat, but without perceiving her. "I am glad you like the organ," said the gentleman; "I am not much of a judge of music, but they say it is a superior instrument, and that Hermann plays it remarkably well."

"Nor is my opinion of any value," said the lady; "for I have little knowledge of music, much as I love it. But that symphony sounds very delightful to me; it is a long time since I have heard such touching strains; or, it may be partly owing to their striking so sweetly on the solemn quiet of the church this afternoon. I love to go into a large church on a week-day. It was very kind of you to call for me this afternoon. How came you to think of it?"

"I thought you would enjoy it, my dear. I knew Hermann would be playing about this time; and, besides, when I saw how pale you were looking I knew the walk would do you good."

"It has done me good. I was not feeling well, and the clear, cold air was just what I needed; I knew it would refresh me; but Mrs. Ellis was busy, and I could not go out alone."

"I thought I should find the sexton here," said the gentleman. "I want to speak to him about the light; the afternoons are so short now, and it is dark so early, I must ask him to open more of the blinds, or I cannot see to read my sermon to-morrow. He may be in the vestry-room; he is always about here on Saturday; I will go and look for him."

Just then Mr. Cooper entered the church, and, seeing the clergyman, came up, and after receiving his directions about the light, requested him to go with him somewhere, for the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young lady, and then said, "I suppose I ought to go to-day; and, as you say you are at leisure, it is a pity I should not; but I don't know——"

Then, turning to the lady, he said, "Emily, Mr. Cooper wants me to go to Mrs. Glass's with him; and I shall be absent some time. Should you mind waiting here until I return? She lives in the next street; but I may be detained, for it's about the library-books being so mischievously defaced, and I am afraid that her oldest boy had something to do with it. It ought to be inquired into before to-morrow."

"Oh, go, by all means," said Emily; "don't mind me; it will be a pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. Mr. Hermann's playing is a great treat to me, and I don't care how long I wait; so do not hurry on my account, Mr. Arnold."

Thus assured, Mr. Arnold led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, and went with Mr. Cooper.

All this time Gerty had been unnoticed, and had remained very quiet on the upper stair, secured from sight by the pulpit. Hardly had the doors closed, however, with a loud bang, when the child got up, and began to descend the stairs. The moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very near, started, and exclaimed, "Who's that?"

Gerty stood still, and made no reply. Strange the lady did not look up, though she must have perceived that the movement was above her head. There was a moment's pause, and then Gerty began again to run down the stairs. The lady sprang up, and, stretching out her hand, said, "Who is it?"

"Me," said Gerty, looking up in the lady's face; "it's only me."

"Will you stop and speak to me?" said the lady.

Gerty not only stopped, but came close up to Emily's chair, irresistibly attracted by the sweetest voice she had ever heard. The lady placed her hand on Gerty's head, and said, "Who are you?"

"Gerty."

"Gerty who?"

"Nothing else but Gerty."

"Have you forgotten your other name?"

"I haven't got any other name."

"How came you here?"

"I came with Mr. Cooper, to help him to bring his things."

"And he's left you here to wait for him, and I'm left too; so we must take care of each other, mustn't we?"

Gerty laughed at this.

"Where were you?—On the stairs?"

"Yes."

"Suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with me a little while: I want to see if we can't find out what your other name is. Where do you say you live?"

"With Uncle True."

"True?"

"Yes. Mr. True Flint I live with now. He took me home to his house one night, when Nan Grant put me out on the side-walk."

"Why, are you that little girl? Then I've heard of you before. Mr. Flint told me all about you."

"Do you know my Uncle True?"

"Yes, very well."

"What's your name?"

"My name is Emily Graham."

"O! I know," said Gerty, springing suddenly up, and clapping her hands together; "I know. You asked him to keep me; he said so—I heard him say so; and you gave me my clothes; and you're beautiful; and you're good; and I love you! O! I love you ever so much!"

As Gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange look passed over Miss Graham's face, a most inquiring and restless look, as if the tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of her memory. She did not speak, but, passing her arm around the child's waist, drew her closer to her. As the peculiar expression passed from her face, and her features assumed their usual calmness, Gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of wonder, exclaimed, "Are you going to sleep?"

"No.—Why?"

"Because your eyes are shut."

"They are always shut, my child."

"Always shut!—What for?"

"I am blind, Gerty; I can see nothing."

"Not see!" said Gerty; "can't you see anything? Can't you see me now?"

"No," said Miss Graham.

"O!" exclaimed Gerty, drawing a long breath, "I'm so glad."

"Glad!" said Miss Graham, in the saddest voice that ever was heard.

"O yes!" said Gerty, "so glad you can't see me!—because now, perhaps, you'll love me."

"And shouldn't I love you if I saw you?" said Emily, passing her hand softly and slowly over the child's features.

"Oh, no!" answered Gerty, "I'm so ugly! I'm glad you can't see how ugly I am."

"But just think, Gerty," said Emily, in the same sad voice, "how would you feel if you could not see the light, could not see anything in the world?"

"Can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the church we're in? Are you in the dark?"

"In the dark all the time—day and night in the dark."

Gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, "It's too bad! it's too bad!"

The child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for years, Emily wept bitterly for her blindness.

It was but for a few moments, however. Quickly recovering herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, "Hush! hush! don't cry; and don't say it's too bad! It's not too bad; I can bear it very well. I'm used to it, and am quite happy."

"I shouldn't be happy in the dark; I should hate to be!" said Gerty. "I an't glad you're blind; I'm really sorry. I wish you could see me and everything. Can't your eyes be opened, any way?"

"No," said Emily; "never; but we won't talk about that any more; we will talk about you. I want to know what makes you think yourself so very ugly."

"Because folks say that I am an ugly child, and that nobody loves ugly children."

"Yes, people do," said Emily, "love ugly children, if they are good."

"But I an't good," said Gerty, "I'm really bad!"

"But you can be good," said Emily, "and then everybody will love you."

"Do you think I can be good?"

"Yes, if you try."

"I will try."

"I hope you will," said Emily. "Mr. Flint thinks a great deal of his little girl, and she must do all she can to please him."

She then asked concerning Gerty's former way of life, and became so interested in the recital of the little girl's early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of the flight of time, and quite unobservant of the departure of the organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument, and gone away.

Gerty was very communicative. The sweet voice and sympathetic tones of Emily went straight to her heart, and though her whole life had been passed among the poorer and lowest classes of people, she felt no awe and constraint on her encountering, for the first time, a lady of polished mind and manners. On the contrary, Gerty clung to Emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa with as much freedom, as if she had herself been born in a palace. Once or twice she took Emily's nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her favourite mode of expressing her warmth of gratitude and admiration. The excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon Miss Graham's feelings. The latter perceived how neglected the little one had been, and the importance of her being educated, lest early abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive to a nature capable of the best attainments. The two were still entertaining each other, when Mr. Arnold entered the church hastily. As he came up the aisle, he called to Emily, saying, "Emily; dear, I fear you thought I had forgotten you. I have been longer than I intended. Were you not tired of waiting?"

"I thought it was but a very little while. I have had company, you see."

"What, little folks," said Mr. Arnold, good-naturedly. "Where did this little body come from?"

"She came to the church this afternoon with Mr. Cooper. Isn't he here for her?"

"Cooper?—No: he went straight home after he left me; he's probably forgotten all about the child. What's to be done?"

"Can't we take her home? Is it far?"

"It is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our way; altogether too far for you to walk."

"Oh, no, it won't tire me; I'm quite strong now, and I would know she was safe home."

If Emily could but have seen Gerty's grateful face that moment, she would indeed have felt repaid for almost any amount of weariness.