CHAPTER IV.
In age, in infancy, from others' aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind:
That Nature's first, last lesson to mankind.
Young.
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Little Gerty had found a friend and a protector; and it was well
she had, for suffering and neglect had well-nigh cut short her sad
existence, and ended all her sorrows. The morning after True
took her home, she woke in a high fever, her head and limbs
aching, and with every symptom of severe illness. She looked
around, and found she was alone in the room; but there was a
good fire, and preparation for some breakfast. For a moment or
two she was puzzled to know where she was, and what had happened
to her; for the room seemed quite strange, now that she
first saw it by daylight. A look of happiness passed over her
little sick face when she recalled the events of the previous
night, and thought of kind old True, and the new home she had
found with him. She got up and went to the window to look
out, though her head was strangely giddy, and she tottered so
that she could hardly walk. The ground was covered with snow,
and it was still stormy without. It seemed as if the snow dazzled
Gerty's eyes; for she suddenly found herself quite blinded,
her head grew dizzy, she staggered and fell.
Trueman came in, a moment after, and was very much frightened
at seeing Gerty stretched upon the floor; but soon found out
the real state of the case, for he had made up his mind during
the night that she was a very sick child, and was not surprised
that she had fainted in endeavoring to walk. He placed her in
bed, and soon succeeded in restoring her to consciousness; but,
for three weeks from that time, she never sat up, except when
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True held her in his arms. True was a rough and clumsy man
about most things; but not so in the care of his little charge.
He knew a good deal about sickness; was something of a doctor
and nurse in his simple way; and, though he had never had much
to do with children, his warm heart was a trusty guide, and
taught him all that was necessary for Gerty's comfort, and far,
far more kindness than she had ever experienced before.
Gerty was very patient. She would sometimes lie awake
whole nights, suffering from pain and extreme weariness at her
long confinement to a sick bed, without uttering a groan, or
making any noise, lest she might waken True, who slept on the
floor beside her, when he could so far forget his anxiety about
her as to sleep at all. Sometimes, when she was in great pain,
True had carried her in his arms for hours; but even then Gerty
would try to appear relieved before she really was so, and even
feign sleep, that he might put her back to bed again, and take
some rest himself. Her little heart was full of love and gratitude
to her kind protector, and she spent much of her time in thinking
what she could ever do for him when she got well, and wondering
whether she were capable of ever learning to do any good thing
at all. True was often obliged to leave her, to attend to his
work; and, during the first week of her sickness, she was much
alone, though everything she could possibly want was put within
her reach, and many a caution given to her to keep still in bed
until his return. At last, however, she grew delirious, and for
some days had no knowledge how she was taken care of. One
day, after a long and quiet sleep, she woke quite restored to sense
and consciousness, and saw a woman sitting by her bedside sewing.
She sprang up in bed to look at the stranger, who had not
observed her open her eyes, but who started the moment she
heard her move, and exclaimed, “O, lie down, my child! lie
down!” at the same time laying her hand gently upon her, to
enforce the injunction.
“I don't know you,” said Gorty; “where's my Uncle True?”
for that was the name by which True had told her to call him.
“He's gone out, dear; he'll be home soon. How do you feel,—
better?”
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“O, yes! much better. Have I been asleep long?”
“Some time; lie down now, and I'll bring you some gruel; it
will be good for you.”
“Does Uncle True know you are here?”
“Yes. I came in to sit with you while he was away.”
“Came in?—From where?”
“From my room. I live in the other part of the house.”
“I think you're very good,” said Gerty. “I like you. I
wonder why I did not see you when you came in.”
“You were too sick, dear, to notice; but I think you'll soon
be better now.”
The woman prepared the gruel, and after Gerty had taken it
reseated herself at her work. Gerty laid down in bed, with her
face towards her new friend, and, fixing her large eyes upon her,
watched her some time while she sat sewing. At last the woman
looked up, and said, “Well, what do you think I'm making?”
“I don't know,” said Gerty; “what are you?”
The woman held up her work, so that Gerty could see that it
was a dark calico frock for a child.
“O! what a nice gown!” said Gerty. “Who is it for?—Your
little girl?”
“No,” said the woman, “I haven't got any little girl; I've
only got one child, my boy, Willie.”
“Willie; that's a pretty name,” said Gerty. “Is he a good
boy?”
“Good?—He's the best boy in the world, and the handsomest!”
answered the woman, her pale, care-worn face lit up with
all a mother's pride.
Gerty turned away, and a look so unnaturally sad for a child
came over her countenance, that the woman, looking up, thought
she was getting tired, and ought to be kept very quiet. She told
her so, and bade her shut up her eyes and go to sleep again.
Gerty obeyed the first injunction, and lay so still that the latter
seemed in a fair way to be fulfilled, when the door opened gently,
and True came in.
“O! Miss Sullivan,” said he, “you're here still! I'm very
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much obleeged to you for stayin'; I hadn't calkerlated to be
gone so long. And how does the child seem to be, marm?”
“Much better, Mr. Flint. She's come to her reason, and I
think, with care, will do very well now.—O! she's awake,” she
added, seeing Gerty open her eyes.
True came up to the bedside, stroked back her hair, now cut
short and neatly arranged, felt of her pulse, and nodded his head
satisfactorily. Gerty caught his great hand between both of hers,
and held it tight. He sat down on the side of the bed, and,
glancing at Mrs. Sullivan's work, said, “I shouldn't be surprised if
she needed her new clothes sooner than we thought for, marm. It's
my 'pinion we'll have her up and about afore many days.”
“So I was thinking,” said Mrs. Sullivan; “but don't be in too
great a hurry. She's had a very severe sickness, and her recovery
must be gradual. Did you see Miss Graham to-day?”
“Yes, I did see her, poor thing! The Lord bless her sweet
face! She axed a sight o' questions about little Gerty here, and
gave me this parcel of arrerroot, I think she called it. She says
it's excellent in sickness. Did you ever fix any, Miss Sullivan,
so that you can jist show me how, if you'll be so good; for I declare
I don't remember, though she took a deal o' pains to tell me.”
“O, yes; it's very easy. I'll come in and prepare some, by and
by. I don't think Gerty'll want any at present; she's just had
some gruel. But father has come home, and I must be seeing
about our tea. I'll come in again, this evening, Mr. Flint.”
“Thank you, marm, thank you; you're very kind.”
During the few following days Mrs. Sullivan came in and sat
with Gerty several times. She was a gentle, subdued sort of
woman, with a placid face, that was very refreshing to a child
that had long lived in fear, and suffered a great deal of abuse.
She always brought her work with her, which was usually some
child's garment that she was making.
One evening, when Gerty had nearly recovered from her tedious
fever, she was sitting in True's lap by the stove fire, carefully
wrapped up in a blanket. She had been talking to him about her
new acquaintance and friend; suddenly looking up in his face,
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she said, “Uncle True, do you know what little girl she's making
a gown for?”
“For a little girl,” said True, “that needs a gown, and a good
many other things; for she hasn't got any clothes, as I know on,
except a few old rags. Do you know any such little girl, Gerty?”
“I guess I do,” said Gerty, with her head a little on one side,
and a very knowing look.
“Well, where is she?”
“An't she in your lap?”
“What, you!—Why, do you think Mrs. Sullivan would spend
her time making clothes for you?”
“Well,” said Gerty, hanging her head, “I shouldn't think she
would; but then you said—”
“Well, what did I say?”
“Something about new clothes for me.”
“So I did,” said True, giving her a rough hug; “and they are for
you;—two whole suits, and shoes and stockings into the bargain.”
Gerty opened her large eyes in amazement, laughed and clapped
her hands. True laughed too; they both seemed very happy.
“Did she buy them, Uncle True? Is she rich?” said Gerty.
“Miss Sullivan?—no, indeed!” said True. “Miss Graham
bought'em, and is going to pay Miss Sullivan for making them.”
“Who is Miss Graham?”
“She's a lady too good for this world—that's sartain. I'll tell
you about her, some time; but I better not now, I guess; it's time
you were abed and asleep.”
One Sabbath, after Gerty was nearly well, she was so much
fatigued with sitting up all day, that she went to bed before dark,
and for two or three hours slept very soundly. On awaking, she
saw that True had company. An old man, much older, she
thought, than True, was sitting on the opposite side of the stove,
smoking a pipe. His dress, though of ancient fashion, and homely
in its materials, was very neat; and his hair, of which he had but
little, and that perfectly white, growing in two long locks just behind
his ears, was nicely combed up, and tied on the top of his
head, which was elsewhere bald and shiny. He had sharp features,
and Gerty thought, from his looks, it must be easy for him
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to say sharp things; indeed, rather hard for him to say anything
pleasant. There was a sarcastic expression about the corners of
his mouth, and a disappointed look in his whole face, which Gerty
observed, though she could not have defined, and from which she
drew her conclusions with regard to his temper. She rightly conjectured
that he was Mrs. Sullivan's father, Mr. Cooper; and in
the opinion she formed of him from her first observation she did
not widely differ from most other people who knew the old churchsexton.
But both his own face and public opinion somewhat
wronged him. It was true his was not a genial nature. Domestic
trials, and the unkindness and fickleness of fortune, had caused
him to look upon the dark side of life,—to dwell upon its sorrows,
and frown upon the bright hopes of the young and the gay, who,
as he was wont to say, with a mysterious shake of his head, knew
but little of the world. The occupation, too, which had of late
years been his, was not calculated to counteract a disposition to
melancholy; his duties in the church were mostly solitary, and,
as he was much withdrawn in his old age from intercourse with
the world at large, he had become severe towards its follies, and
unforgiving towards its crimes. There was much that was good
and benevolent in him, however; and True Flint knew it, and loved
to draw it out. True liked the old man's sincerity and honesty;
and many a Sabbath evening had they sat by that same fireside,
and discussed all those questions of public policy, national institutions,
and individual rights, which every American feels called
upon to take under his especial consideration, besides many matters
of private feeling and interest, without their friendly relations
being once disturbed or endangered; and this was the more
remarkable, inasmuch as Trueman Flint was the very reverse of
old Paul Cooper in disposition and temper, being hopeful and
sanguine, always disposed to look upon the bright side of things,
and, however discouraging they might seem, ever averring that it
was his opinion't would all come out right at last. On the evening
of which we are speaking, they had been talking on several
of their usual topics; but when Gerty awoke she found herself
the subject of conversation. Of course she soon became deeply
interested.
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“Where,” said Mr. Cooper, “did you say you picked her up?”
“At Nan Grant's,” said True. “Don't you remember her?
she's the same woman whose son you were called up to witness
against, at the time the church-windows were broken, the
night afore the 4th of July. You can't have forgotten her at the
trial, Cooper; for she blew you up with a vengeance, and didn't spare
his honor the Judge, either. Well, 't was just such a rage she
was in with this 'ere child, the first time I see her; and the second
time she'd just turned her out o' doors.”
“Ah, yes, I remember the she-bear. I shouldn't suppose she'd
be any too gentle to her own child, much less a stranger's; but
what are you going to do with the foundling, Flint?”
“Do with her?—Keep her, to be sure, and take care on her.”
Cooper laughed rather sarcastically.
“Well, now, I s'pose, neighbor, you think its rather freakish in
me to be adoptin' a child at my time o'life; and p'raps it is; but
I'll explain to you just how 't was. She'd a died that night I
tell yer on, if I hadn't brought her home with me; and a good
many times since, what's more, if I, with the help o' your darter,
hadn't took mighty good care on her. Well, she took on so in
her sleep, the first night ever she came, and cried out to me all as
if she never had a friend afore (and I doubt me she never had),
that I made up my mind then she should stay, at any rate, and
I'd take care on her, and share my last crust with the wee thing,
come what might. The Lord's been very marciful to me, Mr.
Cooper, very marciful. He's raised me up friends in my deep
distress. I knew, when I was a little shaver, what a lonesome
thing it was to be fatherless and motherless; and when I see this
little sufferin' human bein', I felt as if, all friendless as she seemed,
she was more partickerlerly the Lord's, and as if I could not sarve
him more, and ought not to sarve him less, than to share with
her the blessins he has bestowed on me. You look round, neighbor,
as if you thought 't wan't much to share with any one; and'
t an't much there is here, to be sure; but it's a home,—yes, a home;
and that's a great thing to her that never had one. I've got my
hands yet, and a stout heart, and a willin' mind. With God's
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help, I'll be a father to that child; and the time may come when
she'll be God's embodied blessin' to me.”
Mr. Cooper shook his head doubtfully, and muttered something
about children, even one's own, not being apt to prove blessings.
But he had not power to shake Trueman's high faith in the
wisdom, as well as righteousness, of his own proceedings. He
had risen in the earnestness with which he had spoken, and, after
pacing the room hastily and with excitement, he returned to his
seat, and said: “Besides, neighbor Cooper, if I had not made
up my mind the night Gerty came here, I wouldn't have sent her
away after the next day; for the Lord, I think, spoke to me by
the mouth of one of his holy angels, and bade me persevere in
my resolution. You've seen Miss Graham. She goes to your
church regular, with the fine old gentleman, her father. I was
at their house shovelling snow, after the great storm three weeks
since, and she sent for me to come into the kitchen. Well may
I bless her angel face, poor thing!—if the world is dark to her,
she makes it light to other folks. She cannot see Heaven's sunshine
outside; but she's better off than most people, for she's got
it in her, I do believe, and when she smiles it lets the glory out,
and looks like God's rainbow in the clouds. She's done me many
a kindness, since I got hurt so bad in her father's store, now some
five years gone; and she sent for me that day, to ask how I did,
and if there was anything I wanted that she could speak to the
master about. So I told her all about little Gerty; and, I tell you,
she and I both cried 'fore I'd done. She put some money into
my hand, and told me to get Miss Sullivan to make some clothes
for Gerty; more than that, she promised to help me if I got into
trouble with the care of her; and when I was going away, she
said, `I'm sure you've done quite right, True; the Lord will
bless and reward your kindness to that poor child.”'
True was so excited and animated by his subject, that he did
not notice what the sexton had observed, but did not choose to
interrupt. Gerty had risen from her bed and was standing beside
True, her eyes fixed upon his face, breathless with the interest
she felt in his words. She touched his shoulder; he looked
round, saw her, and stretched out his arms. She sprang into
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them, buried her face in his bosom, and, bursting into a paroxysm
of joyful tears, gasped out the words, “Shall I stay with you
always?”
“Yes, just as long as I live,” said True, “you shall be my
child.”
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Cummins, Maria Susanna, 1827-1866 [1854], The lamplighter. (John P. Jewett & Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf532T].
