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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
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CHAPTER XXIII.

One of that stubborn sort he is,
Who, if they once grow fond of an opinion,
They call it honor, honesty and faith,
And sooner part with life than let it go.
Rowe.

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Passing over Gertrude's parting with Emily, her cordial reception
by Mrs. Sullivan, and her commencement of school duties,
we will look in upon her and record the events of a day in
November, about two months after she left Mr. Graham's.

Rising with the sun, she made her neat toilet in a room so
cold that before it was completed her hands were half-benumbed;
nor did she, in spite of the chilling atmosphere, omit, ere she commenced
the labors of the day, to supplicate Heaven's blessing
upon them. Then, noiselessly entering the adjoining apartment,
where Mrs. Sullivan was still sleeping, she lit a fire, the materials
for which had been carefully prepared the night before, in a small
grate, and, descending the stairs with the same light footstep, performed
a similar service at the cooking-stove, which stood in a
comfortable room, where, now that the weather was cold, the
family took their meals. The table was set, and the preparations
for breakfast nearly completed, when Mrs. Sullivan entered, pale,
thin and feeble in her appearance, and wrapped in a large shawl.

“Gertrude,” said she, “why will you let me sleep so, mornings,
while you are up and at work? I believe it has happened so
every day this week.”

“For the very best reason in the world, auntie; because I
sleep all the early part of the night, and am wide awake at daybreak,
and with you it is just the reverse. Besides, I like to get

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the breakfast, I make such beautiful coffee. Look!” said she,
pouring some into a cup, and then lifting the lid of the coffee-pot
and pouring it back again; “see how clear it is! Don't you long
for some of it, this cold morning?”

Mrs. Sullivan smiled, for, Uncle True having always preferred
tea, Gertrude did not at first know how to make coffee, and had
been obliged to come to her for instructions.

“Now,” said Gertrude, playfully, as she drew a comfortable
chair close to the fire, “I want you to sit down here and watch the
tea-kettle boil, while I run and see if Mr. Cooper is ready to let
me tie up his cue.”

She went, leaving Mrs. Sullivan to think what a good girl she
was; and presently returning with the old man, who was dressed
with perfect neatness, she placed a chair for him, and having waited,
as for a child, while he seated himself, and then pinned a
napkin about his throat, she proceeded to place the breakfast
on the table.

While Mrs. Sullivan poured out the coffee, Gertrude, with a
quiet tact which rendered the action almost unobserved, removed
the skin from a baked potato and the shell from a boiled egg,
and, placing both on the plate destined for Mr. Cooper, handed
him his breakfast in a state of preparation which obviated the
difficulty the old man experienced in performing these tasks for
himself, and spared Mrs. Sullivan the anxiety she always felt at
witnessing his clumsiness and sadly-increasing carelessness on
those points of neatness so sacred in her eyes. Poor Mrs. Sullivan
had no appetite, and it was with difficulty Gertrude persuaded
her to eat anything; a few fried oysters, however, unexpectedly
placed before her, proved such a temptation that she was induced
to taste and finally to eat several, with a degree of relish she
rarely felt, lately, for any article of food. As Gertrude gazed at
her languid face, she realized, more than ever before, the change
which had come over the active, energetic little woman; and, confident
that nothing but positive disease could have effected such
a transformation, she resolved that not another day should pass
without her seeing a physician.

Breakfast over, there were dishes to wash, rooms to be put in

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order, dinner to be decided on and partially prepared; and all
this Gertrude exerted herself and saw accomplished, chiefly
through her own labor, before she went to reärrange her dress,
previous to her departure for the school, where she had now been
some weeks installed as assistant teacher. A quarter before
nine she looked in at the kitchen door, and said, in a cheering tone,
to the old man, who was cowering gloomily over the fire,

“Come, Mr. Cooper, won't you go over and superintend the
new church a little while, this morning? Mr. Miller will be expecting
you; he said yesterday that he depended on your company
when he was at work.”

The old man rose, and taking his great-coat from Gertrude,
put it on with her assistance, and accompanied her in a mechanical
sort of way, that seemed to imply a great degree-of indifference
whether he went or stayed. As they walked in silence down
the street, Gertrude could not but revolve in her mind the singular
coincidence which had thus made her the almost daily companion
of another infirm old man; nor could she fail to draw a comparison
between the genial, warm-hearted Uncle True, and the gloomy,
discontented Paul Cooper, who, never, as we have said, possessing
a genial temperament, now retained, in his state of mental imbecility,
his old characteristics in an exaggerated form. Unfavorable
as the comparison necessarily was to the latter, it did not diminish
the kindness and thoughtfulness of Gertrude towards her present
charge, who was in her eyes an object of sincere compassion.
They soon reached the new church of which Gertrude had spoken,—
a handsome edifice, built on the site of the old building in which
Mr. Cooper had long officiated as sexton. It was not yet finished,
and a number of workmen were at this time engaged in the completion
of the interior.

A man with a hod-full of mortar preceded Gertrude and her
companion up the steps which led to the main entrance, but
stopped inside the porch, on hearing himself addressed by name,
and, laying down his burden, turned to respond to the well-known
voice.

“Good-morning, Miss Flint,” said he. “I hope you're very
well, this fine day. Ah! Mr. Cooper, you've come to help me a

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little, I see;—that's right! We can't go on very well without
you—you're so used to the place. Here, sir, if you'll come
with me, I'll show you what has been done since you were here
last; I want to know how you think we get along.”

So saying, he was walking away with the old sexton; but Gertrude
followed, and detained him a moment, to ask if he would do
her the favor to see Mr. Cooper safe home when he passed Mrs.
Sullivan's house on his way to dinner.

“Certainly, Miss Flint,” replied the man, “with all the pleasure
in the world; he has usually gone with me pretty readily, when
you have left him in my care.”

Having obtained this promise, Gertrude hastened towards the
school, rejoicing in the certainty that Mr. Cooper would be safe
and well amused during the morning, and that Mrs. Sullivan,
freed from all responsibility concerning him, would be left to the
rest and quiet she so much needed.

This cordial coadjutor in Gertrude's plan of diverting and
occupying the old man's mind was a respectable mason, who had
often been in Mr. Graham's employ, and whose good-will and
gratitude Gertrude had won by the kindness and attention she
had shown his family during the previous winter, when they were
sick and afflicted. In her daily walk past the church, she had
frequently seen Mr. Miller at his work, and it occurred to her
that, if she could awaken in Mr. Cooper's mind an interest in the
new structure, he might find amusement in coming there and
watching the workmen. She had some difficulty in persuading
him to visit a building to the erection of which he had been vehemently
opposed, not only because it was inimical to his interests,
but on account of the strong attachment he had for the old place
of worship. Once there, however, he became interested in the
work, and, as Mr. Miller took pains to make him comfortable,
and even awakened in him the belief that he was useful, he gradually
acquired a habit of passing the greater part of every morning
in watching the men engaged in their various branches of industry.
Sometimes Gertrude called for him on her return from school; and
sometimes, as on the present occasion, Mr. Miller undertook to
accompany him home.

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Since Gertrude had been at Mrs. Sullivan's there was a very
perceptible alteration in Mr. Cooper. He was much more manageable,
looked better contented, and manifested far less irritability
than he had previously done; and this favorable change, together
with the cheering influence of Gertrude's society, had for a time produced
a proportionately beneficial effect upon Mrs. Sullivan; but,
within the last few days, her increased debility, and one or two
sudden attacks of faintness, had awakened all, and more than all,
of Gertrude's former fears. She had left home with the determination,
as soon as she should be released from her school duties, to
seek Dr. Jeremy and request his attendance; and it was in order
to secure leisure for that purpose that she had solicited Mr. Miller's
superintending care for Mr. Cooper.

Of Gertrude's school-duties we shall say nothing, save that
she was found by Mr. W. fully competent to the performance
of them, and that she met with those trials and discouragements
only to which all teachers are more or less subjected, from the
idleness, obstinacy, or stupidity of their pupils. On this day,
however, she was, from various causes, detained to a later hour
than usual, and the clock struck two at the very moment
that she was ringing Dr. Jeremy's door-bell. The girl who
opened the door knew Gertrude by sight, having often seen her at
her master's house; and, telling her that, though the doctor was
just going to dinner, she thought he would see her, asked her into
the office, where he stood, with his back to the fire, eating an
apple, as it was his invariable custom to do before dinner. He
laid it down, however, and advanced to meet Gertrude, holding out
both his hands. “Gertrude Flint, I declare!” exclaimed he.
“Why, I'm glad to see you, my girl. Why haven't you been
here before, I should like to know?”

Gertrude explained that she was living with friends, one of
whom was very old, the other an invalid; and that so much of her
time was occupied in school that she had no opportunity for
visiting.

“Poor excuse!” said the doctor; “poor excuse! But, now
we've got you here, we shan't let you go very soon;” and, going
to the foot of the staircase, he called, in the loudest possible tone

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of voice, “Mrs. Jerry! Mrs. Jerry! come!—come down to dinner
as quick as you can, and put on your best cap,—we 've got
company.—Poor soul!” added he, in a lower tone, addressing
himself to Gertrude, and smiling good-naturedly, “she can't hurry,
can she, Gerty?—she's fat.”

Gertrude now protested against staying to dinner, declaring she
must hasten home, and announcing Mrs. Sullivan's illness and the
object of her visit.

“An hour can't make much difference in such a case,” insisted
the doctor. “You must stay and dine with me, and then I'll go
wherever you wish, and take you with me in the buggy.”

Gertrude hesitated the sky had clouded over, and a few flakes
of snow were falling; she should have an uncomfortable walk;
and, moreover, it would be better for her to accompany the doctor,
as the street in which she lived was principally composed of new
houses, not yet numbered, and he might, if he were alone, have
some difficulty in finding the right tenement.

At this stage of her reflections, Mrs. Jeremy entered. Fat she
certainly was, very uncommonly fat, and flushed too with her
unwonted haste, and the excitement of anticipating the company
of a stranger. She kissed Gertrude in the kindest manner, and
then, looking round and seeing that there was no one else present,
exclaimed, glancing reproachfully at the doctor,

“Why, Dr. Jerry!—an't you ashamed of yourself? I never
will believe you again; you made me think there was some great
stranger here.”

“And, pray, Mrs. Jerry, who's a greater stranger in this house
than Gerty Flint?”

“Sure enough!” said Mrs. Jeremy. “Gertrude is a stranger,
and I've got a scolding in store for her on that very account; but,
you know, Dr. Jerry, I shouldn't have put on my lilac-and-pink
for Gertrude to see; she likes me just as well in my old yellow, if
she did tell me, when I bought it, the saucy girl, that I'd selected
the ugliest cap in Boston. Do you remember that, Gerty?”

Gerty laughed heartify at the recollection of a very amusing
scene that took place at the millner's when she went shopping
with Mrs. Jeremy. “But, come, Gerty,” continued that lady,

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“dinner's ready; take off your cloak and bonnet, and come into
the dining-room; the doctor has got a great deal to say, and has
been wanting dreadfully to see you.”

They had been sitting some minutes without a word's having
been spoken, beyond the usual civilities of the table, when the doctor,
suddenly laying down his knife and fork, commenced laughing,
and laughed till the tears came into his eyes. Gertrude
looked at him inquiringly, and Mrs. Jeremy said, “There, Gertrude!—
for one whole week he had just such a laughing-fit, two
or three times a day. I was as much astonished at first as you
are; and, I confess, I don't quite understand now what could
have happened between him and Mr. Graham that was so very
funny.”

“Come, wife,” said the doctor, checking himself in his merriment;
“don't you forestall my communication. I want to tell
the story myself. I don't suppose,” continued he, turning towards
Gertrude, “you've lived five years at Mr. Graham's, without
finding out what a cantankerous, opinionative, obstinate old hulk
he is?”

“Doctor!” said Mrs. Jeremy, reprovingly, and shaking her
head at him.

“I don't care for winking or head-shaking, wife; I speak my
mind, and that's the conclusion I've come to with regard to Mr.
Graham; and Gertrude, here, has done the same, I have n't a particle
of doubt, only she's a good girl, and won't say so.”

“I never saw anything that looked like it,” said Mrs. Jeremy,
“and I've seen as much of him as most folks. I meet him in
the street almost every day, and he looks as smiling as a basket
of chips, and makes a beautiful bow.”

“I daresay,” said the doctor; “Gertrude and I know what
gentlemanly manners he has when one does not walk in the very
teeth of his opinions,—eh, Gertrude?—but when one does—”

“In talking politics, for instance,” suggested Mrs. Jeremy.
“It's your differences with him on politics that have set you
against him so.”

“No, it is n't,” replied the doctor. “A man may get angry
talking politics, and be a pretty good-natured man too, in the

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main. I get angry myself on politics, but that is n't the sort of
thing I have reference to at all. It's Graham's wanting to lay
down the law to everybody that comes within ten miles of him
that I can't endure; his dictatorial way of acting, as if he were
the Grand Mogul of Cochin China. I thought he'd improved of
late years; he had a serious lesson enough in that sad affair of poor
Philip Amory's; but, fact, I believe he's been trying the old
game again. Ha! ha! ha!” shouted the good doctor, leaning
forward, and giving Gertrude a light tap on the shoulder,—
“was n't I glad when I found he'd met at last with a reasonable
opposition?—and that, too, where he least expected it!”

Gertrude looked her astonishment at his evident knowledge of
the misunderstanding between herself and Mr. Graham; and in
answer to that look he continued, “You wonder where I picked
up my information, and I'll tell you. It was partly from Graham
himself; and what diverts me is to think how hard the old chap
tried to hide his defeat, and persuade me that he'd had his own
way after all, when I saw through him, and knew as well as he
did that he'd found his match in you.”

“Dr. Jeremy,” interposed Gertrude, “I hope you don't
think—”

“No, my dear, I don't think you a professed pugilist; but I
consider you a girl of sense—one who knows what's right—and
will do what's right, in spite of Mr. Graham, or anybody else;
and when you hear my story you will know the grounds on which
I formed my opinion with regard to the course things had taken,
and the reasons I have for understanding the state of the case
rather better than Graham meant I should. One day,—perhaps it
was about two months ago—you may remember the exact time
better than I do,—I was summoned to go and see one of Mr.
W.'s children, who had an attack of croup. Mr. W. was talking
with me, when he was called away to see a visitor; and, on his
return, he mentioned that he had just secured your services in his
school. I was not surprised, for I knew Emily intended you for
a teacher, and I was thankful you had got so good a situation. I
had hardly left Mr. W.'s door, however, before I encountered Mr.
Graham, and he entertained me, as we went down the street, with

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an account of his plans for the winter. `But Gertrude Flint is
not going with you,' said I.—`Gertrude!' said he; `certainly she
is.'—`Are you sure of that?' I asked. `Have you invited her?'—
`Invited her!—No,' was his answer; `but, of course, I know she
will go, and be glad enough of the opportunity; it is n't every
girl in her situation that is so fortunate.' Now, Gerty, I felt a
little provoked at his way of speaking, and I answered, in nearly
as confident a tone as his own, `I doubt, myself, whether she will
accept the invitation.' Upon that, Mr. Dignity straightened up,
and such a speech as he made! I never can recall it without
being amused, especially when I think of the come-down that followed
so soon after. I can't repeat it; but, goodness, Gertrude!
one would have thought, to hear him, that it was not only impossible
you should oppose his wishes, but actual treason in me to
suggest such a thing. Of course, I knew better than to tell what
I had just heard from Mr. W., but I never felt a greater curiosity
about anything than I did to know how the matter would end.
Two or three times I planned to drive out with my wife, see Emily,
and hear the result; but a doctor never can call a day his own,
and I got prevented. At last, one Sunday, I heard Mrs. Prime's
voice in the kitchen (her niece lives here), and down I went to
make my inquiries. That woman is a friend of yours, Gertrude,
and pretty sharp where you are concerned. She told me the truth,
I rather think; though not, perhaps, all the particulars. It was
not more than a day or two after that before I saw Graham.
`Ah!' said I; `when do you start?'—`To-morrow,' replied he.—
`Really,' I exclaimed `then I shan't see your ladies again. Will
you take a little package from me to Gertrude?'—`I know nothing
about Gertrude!' said he, stiffly.—`What!' rejoined I, affecting the
greatest surprise, `has Gertrude left you?'—`She has,' answered
he.—`And dared,' continued I, quoting his own words, `to treat
you with such disrespect,—to trifle so with your dignity?'—`Dr.
Jeremy!' exclaimed he, `I don't wish to hear that young person
mentioned; she has behaved as ungratefully as she has unwisely.'—
`Why, about the gratitude, Graham,' said I, `I believe you said
it would only be an additional favor on your part if you took her
with you, and I can't say but what I think it is wisdom in her to

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make herself independent at home. But I really am sorry for you
and Emily; you will miss her so much.'—`We can dispense with
your sympathy, sir,' answered he, `for that which is no loss.'—
`Ah! really!' I replied; `now, I was thinking Gertrude's society
would be quite a loss.'—`Mrs. Ellis goes with us,' said he, with a
marked emphasis, that seemed to say she was a person whose company
compensated for all deficiencies.—`Ah!' said I, `charming
woman, Mrs. Ellis!' Graham looked annoyed, for he is aware
that Mrs. Ellis is my antipathy.

“Well, you ought to have known better, Dr. Jerry,” said
his kind-hearted wife, “than to have attacked a man so on his
weak point; it was only exciting his temper for nothing.”

“I was taking up the cudgels for Gertrude, wife.”

“And I don't believe Gertrude wants you to take up the cudgels
for her. I have no manner of doubt that she has the kindest
of feelings towards Mr. Graham, this blessed minute.”

“I have, indeed, Mrs. Jeremy,” said Gertrude; “he has been
a most generous and indulgent friend to me.”

“Except when you wanted to have your own way,” suggested
the doctor.

“Which I seldom did, when it was in opposition to his
wishes.”

“And what if it were?”

“I always considered it my duty to submit to him, until, at last,
a higher duty compelled me to do otherwise.”

“And then, my dear,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “I daresay it pained
you to displease him; and that is a right woman's feeling, and
one that Dr. Jerry, in his own heart, can't but approve of, though
one would think, to hear him talk, that he considered it pretty in a
young girl to take satisfaction in browbeating an old gentleman.
But, don't let us talk any more about it; he has had his say,
and now it's my turn. I want to hear how you are situated,
Gerty, where you live, and how you like teaching.”

Gertrude answered all these questions; and the doctor, who had
heard Mrs. Sullivan spoken of as a friend of True's and Gerty's,
at the time when he attended the former, made many inquiries
concerning the state of her health. It was by this time

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beginning to snow fast, and Gertrude's anxiety to return home in
good season being very manifest to her kind host and hostess,
they urged no further delay, and, after she had given many a
promise to repeat her visit on the earliest opportunity, she drove
away with the doctor.

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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
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