Читать книгу The Lamplighter - Maria S. Cummins - Страница 30

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"I wonder," said Miss Peekout, as she leaned on the sill of the front window, and looked up and down the street—"I wonder who that slender girl is that walks by here every morning, with that feeble-looking old man leaning on her arm? I always see them at just about this time, when the weather permits. She's a nice child, and seems to be very fond of the old man—probably her grandfather. I notice she's careful to leave the best side of the walk for him, and she watches every step he takes; she needs to do so, for he totters sadly. Poor little thing! she looks pale and anxious; I wonder if she takes all the care of the old man!" But they are now quite out of sight.

"I wonder," said old Mrs. Grumble, as she sat at her window, a little further down the street, "if I should live to be old and infirm—(Mrs. Grumble was over seventy, but as yet suffered from no infirmity but that of a very irritable temper)—I wonder if anybody would wait upon me, and take care of me as that little girl does of her grandfather! No, I'll warrant not! Who can she be?"

"There, look, Belle!" said one young girl to another, on their way to school; "there's the girl that we meet every day with the old man. How can you say you don't think she's pretty? I admire her looks!"

"You always do manage, Kitty, to admire people that everybody else thinks are horrid-looking."

"Horrid-looking!" replied Kitty; "she's anything but horrid-looking! Do notice, now, Belle, when we meet them, she has the sweetest way of looking up in the old man's face, and talking to him. I wonder what is the matter with him! Do see how his arm shakes—the one that's passed through hers!"

The two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in silence.

"Don't you think that she has an interesting face?" said Kitty, eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing.

"She's got handsome eyes," answered Belle. "I don't see anything else that looks interesting about her. I wonder if she don't hate to walk in the street with that old grandfather; trudging along so slow, with the sun shining in her face, and he leaning on her arm, and shaking so that he can hardly keep on his feet! Catch me doing it."

"Why, Belle!" exclaimed Kitty, "how can you talk so? I'm sure I pity that old man dreadfully."

"Lor!" said Belle, "what's the use of pitying? If you are going to begin to pity, you'll have to do it all the time. Look,"—Belle touched her companion's elbow—"there's Willie Sullivan, father's clerk: an't he a beauty? I want to speak to him."

But before she could address a word to him, Willie, who was walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant "Good morning, Miss Isabel;" and ere she had recovered from the surprise and disappointment, was some rods down the street.

"Polite!" muttered the pretty Isabel.

"Why, Belle! do see," said Kitty, who was looking back over her shoulder, "he's overtaken the old man and my interesting little girl. Look—look! He's put the old man's other arm through his, and they are all three walking off together. Isn't that quite a coincidence?"

"Nothing very remarkable," replied Belle, who seemed a little annoyed. "I suppose they are persons he's acquainted with. Come, make haste; we shall be late at school."

Reader! Do you wonder who they are, the girl and the old man? or have you already conjectured that they are Gerty and Trueman Flint? True is no longer the brave, strong, sturdy protector of the lonely child. True has had a paralytic stroke. His strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. He sits all day in his arm-chair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking with Gerty. The blow suddenly struck down the robust man, and left him feeble as a child. And the little orphan girl who, in her weakness, her loneliness, and her poverty, found in him a father and a mother, she now is all the world to him—his staff, his comfort, and his hope. During four or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has been gaining strength for the time when he should be the leaning, she the sustaining power; and when the time came, she was ready to respond to the call. With the simplicity of a child, but a woman's firmness; with the stature of a child, but a woman's capacity; the earnestness of a child, but a woman's perseverance—from morning till night, the faithful little nurse and housekeeper labours untiringly in the service of her first, her best friend. Ever at his side, ever attending to his wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things which he never sees her do, she seems, indeed, to the fond old man, what he once prophesied she would become—God's embodied blessing to his latter years, cheering his pathway to the grave.

Though disease had robbed True's limbs of their power, the blast had spared his mind, which was clear and tranquil as ever; while his pious heart was fixed in humble trust on that God whose presence and love he had ever acknowledged, and on whom he so fully relied, that even in this bitter trial he was able to say, in perfect submission, "Thy will, not mine, be done!"

Only about two months previous to the morning of which we have been speaking had True been stricken down. He had been in failing health, but had still been able to attend to his duties until one day in June, when Gerty went into his room, and found, to her surprise, that he had not risen, although it was much later than his usual hour. On going to the bedside and speaking to him, she saw that he looked strangely, and had lost the power of speech. Bewildered and frightened, she ran to call Mrs. Sullivan. A physician was summoned, the case pronounced one of paralysis, and for a time it was feared that it would prove fatal. He soon, however, began to amend, recovered his speech, and in a week or two was well enough to walk about with Gerty's assistance.

The doctor had recommended as much gentle exercise as possible, and every pleasant morning, before the day grew warm, Gerty presented herself equipped for those walks, which excited so much observation. At the same time she made such little household purchases as were necessary, that she might not go out again and leave True alone.

On the occasion alluded to, Willie accompanied them as far as the provision shop; and, having seen True comfortably seated, proceeded to the Wharf, while Gerty stepped up to the counter to bargain for the dinner. She purchased a bit of veal suitable for broth, gazed wistfully at some tempting summer vegetables, turned away and sighed. She held in her hand the wallet which contained all their money; it had now been in her keeping for some weeks, and was growing light; it was no use to think about the vegetables; and she sighed, for she remembered how True enjoyed the green peas last year. "How much is the meat?" asked she of the butcher, who named the sum. It was so little that it almost seemed to Gerty as if he had seen into her purse, and her thoughts too, and knew how glad she would be that it did not cost any more. As he handed her the change, he leaned over the counter, and asked, in an undertone, what kind of nourishment Mr. Flint was able to take.

"The doctor said any wholesome food."

"Don't you think he'd relish some green peas? I've got some first-rate ones, fresh from the country; and, if you'd think he'd eat 'em, I should like to send you some. My boy shall take round half-a-peck or so, and I'll put the meat right in the same basket."

"Thank you," said Gerty; "he likes green peas."

"Very well! Then I'll send him some beauties;" and he turned away to wait upon another customer, so quick that Gerty thought he did not see how the colour came into her face and the tears into her eyes. But he did see, and that was the reason he turned away so quickly.

True had an excellent appetite, enjoyed and praised the dinner exceedingly, and, after eating heartily of it, fell asleep in his chair. The moment he awoke, Gerty sprung to his side, exclaiming, "Uncle True, here's Miss Emily!—here's dear Miss Emily come to visit you."

"The Lord bless you, my dear, dear young lady!" said True, trying to rise from his chair and go towards her.

"Don't rise, Mr. Flint; I beg you will not," said Emily, whose quick ear perceived the motion. "From what Gerty tells me, I fear you are not able. Please give me a chair, Gerty, nearer to Mr. Flint."

She drew near, took True's hand, but looked inexpressibly shocked as she observed how tremulous it had become.

"Ah, Miss Emily," said he, "I'm not the same man as when I saw you last; the Lord has given me a warning, and I shan't be here long."

"I am so sorry I did not know of this!" said Emily. "I should have come to see you before, but I never heard of your illness until to-day. George, my father's man, saw you and Gertrude at a shop this morning, and he told me. Gertrude should have sent me word."

Gerty was standing by True's chair, smoothing his grey locks with her slender fingers. As Emily mentioned her name, he turned and looked at her. O what a look of love he gave her! Gerty never forgot it.

"Miss Emily," said he, "'twas no need for anybody to be troubled. The Lord provided for me His own self. All the doctors and nurses in the land couldn't have done half so much for me as this little gal o' mine. It wa'nt at all in my mind, some four or five years gone—when I brought the little barefoot mite of a thing to my home, and when she was sick and e'en a'most dyin' in this very room, and I carried her in my arms night and day—that her turn would come so soon. Ah! I little thought then, Miss Emily, how the Lord would lay me low—how those same feet would run about in my service, how her bit of a hand would come in the dark nights to smooth my pillow, and I'd go about daytimes leaning on her little arm. Truly God's ways are not like our ways, nor his thoughts like our thoughts."

"Oh, Uncle True!" said Gerty, "I don't do much for you, I wish I could do a great deal more. I wish I could make you strong again."

"I dare say you do, my darlin', but that can't be in this world; you've given me what's far better than strength o' body. Yes, Miss Emily," added he, "it's you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. I loved my little birdie; but I was a foolish man, and I should ha' spiled her. You knew better what was for her good, and mine too. You made her what she is now, one of the lambs of Christ, a handmaiden of the Lord. If anybody'd told me, six months ago, that I should become a poor cripple, and sit in my chair all day, and not know who was going to furnish a living for me or birdie either, I should ha' said I never could bear my lot with patience, or keep up any heart at all. But I've learned a lesson from this little one. When I first got so I could speak, after the shock, and tell what was in my mind, I was so troubled a' thinkin' of my sad case, and Gerty with nobody to work or do anything for her, that I said, 'What shall we do now?—what shall we do now?' And then she whispered in my ear, 'God will take care of us, Uncle True!' And when I forgot the sayin', and asked, 'Who will feed and clothe us now!' she said again, 'The Lord will provide.' And, in my deepest distress, when one night I was full of anxiety about my child, I said aloud, 'If I die, who will take care of Gerty?' the little thing that I supposed was sound asleep in her bed, laid her head down beside me, and said, 'Uncle True, when I was turned out into the dark street all alone, and had no friends nor any home, my heavenly Father sent you to me; and now, if He wants you to come to Him, and is not ready to take me too, He will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of my life.' After that, Miss Emily, I gave up worryin' any more. Her words, and the blessed teachin's of the Holy Book that she reads every day, have sunk deep into my heart, and I'm at peace.

"I used to think that, if I lived and had my strength spared me, Gerty would be able to go to school and get a sight o' larnin', for she has a nateral liking for it, and it comes easy to her. She's but a slender child, and I never could bear the thought of her bein' driv to hard work for a livin'; she don't seem made for it, somehow. I hoped, when she grew up, to see her a school-mistress, like Miss Browne, or somethin' in that line; but I've done bein' vexed about it now. I know, as she says, it's all for the best, or it wouldn't be."

Gerty, whose face had been hid against his shoulder, looked up, and said bravely, "Oh, Uncle True, I'm sure I can do almost any kind of work. Mrs. Sullivan says I sew very well, and I can learn to be a milliner or a dressmaker; that isn't hard work."

"Mr. Flint," said Emily, "would you be willing to trust your child with me? If you should die, would you feel as if she were safe in my charge?"

"Miss Emily," said True, "would I think her safe in angel-keepin'? I should believe her in little short o' that, if she could have you to watch over her."

"Oh, do not say that," said Miss Emily, "or I shall fear to undertake so solemn a trust. I know that my want of sight, my ill-health, and my inexperience, almost unfit me for the care of a child like Gerty. But, since you approve of the teaching I have already given her, and are so kind as to think a great deal better of me than I deserve, I know you will at least believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her; and if it will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death I will gladly take Gerty to my home, see that she is well educated, and, as long as I live, provide for and take care of her, you have my solemn assurance (and here she laid her hand on his) that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability I will try to make her happy."

Gerty's first impulse was to rush towards Emily, and fling her arms around her neck; but she was arrested in the act, for she observed that True was weeping like an infant. In an instant his feeble head was resting upon her bosom; her hand was wiping away the great tears that had rushed to his eyes. It was an easy task, for they were tears of joy—of a joy that had quite unnerved him in his present state of prostration and weakness.

The proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoughts or expectations, that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon; and, after a moment's pause, an idea occurring to him which seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the words—"But your father, Miss Emily!—Mr. Graham!—he's partickler, and not over-young now. I'm afeard he wouldn't like a little gal in the house."

"My father if indulgent to me," replied Emily; "he would not object to any plan I had at heart, and I have become so much attached to Gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort to me. I trust, Mr. Flint, that you will recover a portion, at least, of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many a year yet; but, in order that you may in no case feel any anxiety on her account, I take this opportunity to tell you that, if I should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me."

"Ah, Miss Emily!" said the old man, "my time's about out, I feel right sure o' that; and, since you're willin', you'll soon be called to take charge on her. I haven't forgot how tossed I was in my mind the day after I brought her home with me, with thinkin' that p'raps I wasn't fit to undertake the care of such a little thing, and hadn't ways to make her comfortable; and then, Miss Emily, do you remember you said to me, 'You've done quite right; the Lord will bless and reward you?' I've thought many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your words were, what I thought 'em then, a whisper right from heaven! And now you talk o' doing the same thing yourself; and I, that am just goin' home to God, and feel as if I read his ways clearer than ever afore, I tell you, Miss Emily, that you're doin' right, too; and, if the Lord rewards you as he has done me, there'll come a time when this child will pay you back in love and care all you ever do for her.—Gerty?"

"She's not here," said Emily; "I heard her run into her own room."

"Poor birdie!" said True, "she doesn't like to hear o' my leavin' her; I'm sad to think how some day soon she'll almost sob her heart away over her old uncle. Never mind now! I was goin' to bid her be a good child to you; but I think she will, without biddin'; and I can say my say to her another time. Good-bye, my dear young lady;"—for Emily had risen to go, and George, the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her—"if I never see you again, remember that you made an old man so happy that he's nothing in this world left to wish for; and that you carry with you a dyin' man's best blessin', and his prayer that God may grant such perfect peace to your last days as now He does to mine."

That evening, when True had already retired to rest, and Gerty had finished reading aloud in her little Bible, as she always did at bed-time, True called her to him, and asked her, as he had often done of late, to repeat his favourite prayer for the sick. She knelt at his bedside, and with a solemn and touching earnestness fulfilled his request.

"Now, darlin', the prayer for the dyin';—isn't there such a one in your little book?"

Gerty trembled. There was such a prayer, a beautiful one; and the thoughtful child, to whom the idea of death was familiar, knew it by heart—but could she repeat the words? Could she command her voice? Her whole frame shook with agitation; but Uncle True wished to hear it, it would be a comfort to him, and she would try. Concentrating all her energy and self-command, she began; and, gaining strength as she proceeded, went on to the end. Once or twice her voice faltered, but with new effort she succeeded, in spite of the great bunches in her throat; and her voice sounded so clear and calm, that Uncle True's devotional spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl's sufferings; for, fortunately, he could not hear how her heart beat and throbbed, and threatened to burst.

She did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer—she could not—but remained kneeling, her head buried in the bedclothes. For a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room; then the old man laid his hand upon her head.

She looked up.

"You love Miss Emily, don't you, birdie?"

"Yes, indeed."

"You'll be a good child to her when I'm gone?"

"O, Uncle True!" sobbed Gerty, "you mustn't leave me! I can't live without you, dear Uncle True!"

"It is God's will to take me, Gerty; He has always been good to us, and we mustn't doubt Him now. Miss Emily can do more for you than I could, and you'll be very happy with her."

"No, I shan't—I shan't ever be happy again in this world! I never was happy until I came to you; and now, if you die, I wish I could die too!"

"You mustn't wish that, darlin'; you are young, and must try to do good in the world, and bide your time. I'm an old man, and only a trouble now."

"No, no, Uncle True!" said Gerty, earnestly; "you are not a trouble—you never could be a trouble! I wish I'd never been so much trouble to you."

"So far from that, birdie, God knows you've long been my heart's delight! It only pains me now to think that you're a spendin' all your time, and slavin' here at home, instead of goin' to school, as you used to; but, O! we all depend on each other so!—first on God, and then on each other! And that 'minds me, Gerty, of what I was goin' to say. I feel as if the Lord would call me soon, sooner than you think for now; and, at first, you'll cry, and be sore vexed, no doubt; but Miss Emily will take you with her, and she'll tell you blessed things to comfort you;—how we shall all meet again and be happy in that world where there's no partin's; and Willie'll do everything he can to help you in your sorrer; and in time you'll be able to smile again. At first, and p'raps for a long time, Gerty, you'll be a care to Miss Emily, and she'll have to do a deal for you in the way o' schoolin', clothin', and so on; and what I want to tell you is, that Uncle True expects you'll be as good as can be, and do just what Miss Emily says; and, by-and-by, may be, when you're bigger and older, you'll be able to do somethin' for her. She's blind, you know, and you must be eyes for her; and she's not over strong, and you must lend a helpin' hand to her weakness, just as you do to mine; and, if you're good and patient, God will make your heart light at last, while you're only tryin' to make other folks happy; and when you're sad troubled (for everybody is sometimes), then think of old Uncle True, and how he used to say, 'Cheer up, birdie, for I'm of the 'pinion 'twill all come out right at last.' There, don't feel bad about it; go to bed, darlin', and to-morrow we'll have a nice walk—and Willie's goin' with us, you know."

Gerty tried to cheer up, for True's sake, and went to bed. She did not sleep for some hours; but when, at last, she did fall into a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning.

She dreamed that morning was already come; that she and Uncle True and Willie were taking a pleasant walk; that Uncle True was strong and well again—his eye bright, his step firm, and Willie and herself laughing and happy.

And, while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking that her first friend and she should no longer tread life's paths together, the messenger came—a gentle, noiseless messenger—and, in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul of good old True, and carried it home to God!