The Lamplighter Part 25

"Why, there's our Jane," answered Mrs. Miller; "she's a good-hearted girl as ever lived; she said, right off, she'd give up her room to poor Aunt Nancy, and she'd sleep in with the other children. I don't feel, though, as if we could afford to keep another fire agoing, and so I thought we'd put a bed here for a day or two, and just see how she got along. But she's looked pretty bad to-day; and now, I'm thinking from her actions that she's considerable out of her head."

"She ought to be kept quiet," said Gertrude; "and, if you will have a fire in Jane's room at my expense, and do what you can to make her comfortable, I'll send a physician here to see her." Mrs. Miller was beginning to express the warmest grat.i.tude, but Gertrude interrupted her with saying, "Don't thank me, Mrs. Miller; Nancy is not a stranger to me; I have known her before, and, perhaps, feel more interested in her than you do yourself."

Mrs. Miller looked surprised; but Gertrude could not stop to enter into a further explanation. Anxious to speak to Nan, and a.s.sure her of her friendly intentions, she went up to the side of the bed, in spite of the wild and glaring eyes which were fixed steadily upon her. "Nan," said she, "do you know me?"

"Yes! yes!" replied Nan, in a half-whisper, speaking quickly, and catching her breath; "what have you come for?"

"To do you good, I hope."

But Nan still looked incredulous, and in the same undertone, and with the same nervous accent, inquired, "Have you seen Gerty? Where is she?"

"She is well," answered Gertrude, astonished at the question, for she had supposed herself recognised.

"What did she say about me?"

"She says that she forgives and pities you, and is in hopes to do something to help you and make you well."

"Did she?" said the sick woman; "then you won't kill me?"

"Kill you?--No, indeed. We are in hopes to make you comfortable and cure you."

Mrs. Miller, who had been preparing a cup of tea, now drew near with it in her hand. Gertrude took it and offered it to Nan, who drank eagerly of it, staring at her over the edge of the cup. When she had finished, she threw herself heavily upon the pillow, and began muttering some indistinct sentences, the only distinguishable word being the name of her son Stephen. Finding the current of her thoughts thus apparently diverted, Gertrude now feeling in haste to return and relieve Dr.

Jeremy, who had so kindly agreed to stay with Mrs. Sullivan, moved a little from the bedside, saying as she did so, "Good-bye, I will come and see you again."

"You won't hurt me?" said Nan, starting up.

"Oh, no. I will bring you something you will like."

"Don't bring Gerty here with you! I don't want to see her."

"I will come alone," replied Gertrude.

Nan now laid down, and did not speak again while Gertrude remained in the house, though she watched her steadily until she was outside the door. Mr. Cooper made no objection to accompanying his young guide, and though the severity of the storm was such that they did not escape a thorough wetting, they reached home in safety.

Dr. Jeremy, seated with his feet upon the fender, had the contented appearance of one who is quite at home. He had been talking with Mrs.

Sullivan about the people of a country town where they had both pa.s.sed some time in their childhood, and the timid woman had come to feel so much at her ease in the society of the social and entertaining physician, that, though he had accidentally disclosed his profession, she allowed him to question her upon the state of her health, without any of the alarm she had fancied she should feel at the sight of a doctor. By the time Gertrude returned, he had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared, on Mrs. Sullivan's leaving the room, to provide dry clothes for her father, to report to Gertrude his opinion.

"Gertrude," said he, as soon as the door was shut, "that's a very sick woman."

"Do you think so, Dr. Jeremy?" said Gertrude, much alarmed, and sinking into the nearest chair.

"I do," replied he. "I wish I had seen her six months ago."

"Why, doctor? Do you date her illness so far back as that?"

"Yes, and much farther. She has borne up under the gradual progress of a disease which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of medical treatment."

"Dr. Jeremy," said Gertrude, "you do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die and leave me, and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again, too? Oh, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that!"

"Do not be alarmed, Gertrude," said the doctor. "I did not mean to frighten you;--she may live some time yet. I can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutely _unsafe_ for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours--to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. Has not Mrs. Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic? She tells me she has no one."

"Yes, indeed," answered Gerty; "her son supplies her wants most generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole of the amount he is anxious she should expend."

"Then you must speak to her about getting some one to a.s.sist you at once; for, if you do not, I shall."

"I intend to do it," said Gertrude. "I have seen the necessity for some time past; but she has such a dread of strangers, that I hated to propose it."

"Nonsense," said the doctor; "that's only imagination in her; she would soon get used to being waited upon."

Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account of her unexpected re-encounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy to go the next day and see her. "It will be a visit of charity," said she, "for she is probably penniless; and, though staying with your old patients, the Millers, she is but distantly connected, and has no claim upon them.

That never makes any difference with you, however, I know very well."

"Not a bit, not a bit," answered the doctor. "I'll go and see her to-night, if the case requires it, and to-morrow I shall look in to report how she is, and hear the rest of what Mrs. Sullivan was telling me about her wakeful nights. But, Gertrude, do you go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. I shall have you on my hands next."

Mrs. Sullivan was delighted with Dr. Jeremy. "So different," said she, "from common doctors" (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to have an unaccountable aversion); "so social and friendly! Why, I felt, Gertrude, as if I could talk to him about my sickness as freely as I can to you."

Gertrude joined in the praises bestowed upon her much-valued friend, and it was tea-time before Mrs. Sullivan was weary of the subject. After the evening meal was over, and Mr. Cooper had been persuaded to retire to rest, while Mrs. Sullivan, reclining on the sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour, Gertrude broached the subject recommended by Dr. Jeremy. Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Sullivan no longer objected to the proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. She was convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labour, and was equally opposed to the exertion on Gertrude's part which had, during the last week, been requisite. Gertrude suggested Jane Miller as a girl well suited to their wants, and it was agreed that she should be applied for on the next morning.

One more glance at Gertrude, and we shall have followed her to the conclusion of the day. She is alone. It is ten o'clock, and the house is still. Mr. Cooper is sound asleep. Gertrude has just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. Mrs. Sullivan, under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by Dr. Jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. The little Calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in the window, are nestled side by side on their slender perch, and Gertrude has thrown a warm covering over them, that they might not suffer from the cold night air. She has locked the doors, made all things safe and comfortable, and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. Her trials and cares are multiplying. A great grief stares her in the face, and a great responsibility; but she shrinks not from either. No! on the contrary, she thanks G.o.d that she is here; that she had the resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and in spite of her own weakness and man's wrath, to place herself in the front of life's battle, and bravely wait its issues. She thanks G.o.d that she knows where to look for help. But, though her heart is brave and her faith firm, she has a woman's tender nature; and, as she sits alone she weeps--weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land, is counting the days, the months, and years which shall restore him to a mother he is destined never to see again. But remembering that she is to stand in the place of a child to that parent, and that her hand must soothe the pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the stern necessity of self-control--a necessity to which Gertrude has long since learned to submit--and, rallying all her calmness and fort.i.tude, she wipes away the tears, and commends herself to Him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE VISION.

It was fortunate for Gertrude that the vacation at Mr. W.'s school was approaching, when she would be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied cares. She considered herself favoured in obtaining the services of Jane, who consented to come and help Miss Gertrude. She did not, she said, exactly like living out, but couldn't refuse a young lady who had been so good to them in times past. Gertrude had feared that, with Nan Grant sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give up her eldest daughter; but Mary, a second girl, having returned home unexpectedly, one of them could be spared. Under Gertrude's tuition, Jane was able to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of her household duties, and to leave Gertrude at liberty to visit Nan, whose fever rendered her claim for aid the most imperative. In Gertrude's still vivid recollection of her former sufferings under Nan there was no bitterness, no revenge. If she remembered the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor.

Therefore, night after night found her watching by the bedside of the sick woman, who, still delirious, had entirely lost the dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence. Nan talked much of little Gerty--sometimes in a way that led Gertrude to believe herself recognised, but more frequently as if the child were supposed to be absent; and it was not until a long time after that Gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition, which was, that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by Nan herself, the fevered and conscience-stricken sufferer believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was only the continued a.s.surances of good-will on Gertrude's part, and her unwearied efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led Nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in safety, and was ignorant of the wrongs and unkindness she had endured.

One night--it was the last of Nan's life--Gertrude, who had scarcely left her during the day, and was still watching, heard her own name mingled with those of others in a few rapid sentences. She listened intently, for she was always in hopes, during these ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early life. Her name was not repeated, however, and for some time the muttering of Nan's voice was indistinct. Then, suddenly starting up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted aloud, "Stephie! Stephie! give me back the watch, and tell me what you did with the rings?--They will ask--those folks!--and what shall I tell them?" Then, after a pause, she said, in a more feeble, but equally earnest voice, "No, no, Stephie, I never'll tell--I _never, never_ will!" The moment the words had left her lips, she started, turned, saw Gertrude standing by the bedside, and with a frightful look, shrieked, rather than asked, "Did you hear? Did you hear?--You did," continued she, "and you'll tell! Oh, if you _do_!" She was here preparing to spring from the bed, but overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow. Summoning Mr. and Mrs. Miller, the agitated Gertrude, believing that her own presence was too exciting, left the dying woman to their care, and sought another part of the house.

Learning, about an hour afterwards, from Mrs. Miller, that Nan had become comparatively calm, but seemed near her end, Gertrude thought it best not to enter the room again; and, sitting down by the kitchen fire, pondered over the strange scene she had witnessed. Day was just dawning when Mrs. Miller came to tell her that Nan had breathed her last.

Gerty's work of mercy, forgiveness, and Christian love being thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her strength, and fortify herself for the labour and suffering yet in store for her. In three weeks from Nan Grant's death, Paul Cooper was smitten by the Destroyer's hand, and he, too, was laid to his last rest; and though the deepest feelings of Gertrude's heart were not in either case fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physical endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self-imposed duties caused by each event, and that, too, at a time when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new and more intense grief. Emily's absence was also a sore trial to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and counsel, and in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and submission. Only one letter had been received from the travellers, and that, written by Mrs.

Ellis, contained little that was satisfactory. It was written from Havana, where they were boarding in a house kept by an American lady, and crowded with visitors from Boston, New York, and other northern cities.

"It an't so very pleasant, after all, Gertrude," wrote Mrs. Ellis, "and I wish we were safe home again; and not on my own account either, so much as Emily's. She feels kind of strange here; and no wonder, for it's a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a place. The windows have no gla.s.s about them, but are grated like a prison; and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a fire-place, though sometimes the mornings are cold.

There's a widow here, with a brother and some nieces. The widow is a flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think is either setting her cap for Mr. Graham, or means to make an old fool of him. She is one of your loud-talking women, that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead; and Mr. Graham is silly enough to follow after her party, and go to all sorts of rides and excursions;--it's so _ridiculous_--and he over sixty-five years old! Emily and I have pretty much done going into the parlour, for these gay folks don't take any sort of notice of us. Emily doesn't say a word, or complain a bit, but I know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in Boston; and so should I, if it wasn't for that horrid steamboat. I liked to have died with sea-sickness, Gertrude, coming out; and I dread going home so, that I don't know what to do."

Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily, but, as Miss Graham was dependent upon Mrs. Ellis's eyesight, and the letters must, therefore, be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her innermost thoughts and feelings as she was wont to do in conversation with her sympathising and indulgent friend. Every Indian mail brought news from William Sullivan, who, prosperous in business, and rendered happy even in his exile by the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment of the fruits of his exertions, wrote always in a strain of cheerfulness.

One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper's death, found Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerous post-marks upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence it came. It had that day been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she lay stretched upon the couch, had been listening for the third time to the reading of its contents.

The bright hopes expressed by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him, formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of sadness; while Gertrude, as she glanced at the pa.s.sage in which Willie dilated upon the "joy of once more clasping in his arms the dear mother whom he so longed to see again," and then turned her gaze upon the wasted form and cheek of that mother, felt a chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy's first fears were confirmed, and, her disease still further aggravated by the anxiety which attended her father's sickness and death, Mrs. Sullivan was rapidly pa.s.sing away.