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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 L.

“Through night to light—in every stage,
From childhood's morn to hoary age,
What shall illume the pilgrimage
By mortals trod?
“There is a pure and heavenly ray,
That brightest shines in darkest day,
When earthly beams are quenched for aye;
'T is lit by God.”

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The sun was casting long shadows, and the sunset hour was
near, when Gertrude and Willie rose to depart. They left the
cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to
that by which Gertrude had entered. Here Willie found the
chaise in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to
loosen the bridle by which he was fastened; had strayed to the
side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, or the place
afforded, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the
road, and, despairing of his master's return, seemed on the point
of taking his departure.

He was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and, as if glad
after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half an
hour to Mr. Graham's door.

As soon as they came in sight of the house, Gertrude, familiar
with the customary ways of the family, perceived that something
unusual was going forward. Lamps were moving about in every
direction; the front-door stood wide open; there was, what she had
never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through
the windows of the best chamber; and, as they drew still nearer,
she observed that the piazza was half covered with trunks.

All these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the

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arrival of Mrs. Graham, and possibly of other company. She
might, perhaps, have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling
lady, at the very moment when she was eager for a quiet opportunity
to present Willie to Emily and her father, and communicate
to them her own happiness; but, if such a thought presented
itself, it vanished in a moment. Her joy was too complete to be
marred by so trifling a disappointment.

“Let us drive up the avenue, Willie,” said she, “to the side-door,
so that George may see us, and take your horse to the
stable.”

“No,” said Willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate; “I
can't come in now—there seems to be a house full of company;
and, besides, I have an appointment in town at eight o'clock, and
promised to be punctual;”—he glanced at his watch as he spoke,
and added, “it is near that already. I did not think of its being
so late; but I shall see you to-morrow morning, may I not?”
She looked her assent, and, with a warm grasp of the hand, as he
helped her from the chaise, and a mutual smile of confidence and
love, they separated.

He drove rapidly towards Boston, and she, opening the gate,
found herself in the arms of Fanny Bruce, who had been impatiently
awaiting the departure of Willie to seize her dear Miss
Gertrude, and, between tears and kisses, pour out her congratulations
and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steamboat;
for this was the first time they had met since the accident.

“Has Mrs. Graham come, Fanny?” asked Gertrude, as, the
first excitement of the meeting over, they walked up to the house
together.

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Graham, and Kitty, and Isabel, and a
little girl, and a sick gentleman,—Mr. Clinton, I believe; and
another gentleman,—but he's gone.”

“Who has gone?”

“O, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes, and a beautiful
face, and hair as white as if he were old,—and he is n't old,
either.”

“And do you say he has gone?”

“Yes; he did n't come with the rest. He was here when I

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came, and he went away about an hour ago. I heard him tell
Miss Emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in Boston, but
perhaps he'd come back this evening. I hope he will, Miss Gertrude;
you ought to see him.”

They had now reached the house, and, through the open door,
Gertrude could plainly distinguish the lond tones of Mrs. Graham's
voice, proceeding from the parlor on the right. She was
talking to her husband and Emily, and was just saying, as Gertrude
entered, “O, it was the most awful thing I ever heard of
in my life! and to think, Emily, of your being on board, and
our Isabel! Poor child! she has n't got her color back yet, after
her fright. And Gertrude Flint, too! By the way, they say
Gertrude behaved very well. Where is the child?”

Turning round, she now saw Gertrude, who was just entering
the room, and, going towards her, she kissed her with considerable
heartiness and sincerity; for Mrs. Graham, though somewhat
coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occasion
was such as to awaken them.

Gertrude's entrance having served to interrupt the stream of
exclamatory remarks in which the excitable lady had been indulging
for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the
necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of
which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging
after her about the floor.

“Well!” exclaimed she, “I suppose I had better follow the
girls' example, and go and get some of the dust off from me!
I'm half buried, I believe! But, there, that's better than coming
on in the horrid steamboat, last night, as my brother Clinton
was so crazy as to propose. Where's Bridget? I want her to
take up some of my things.”

“I will assist you,” said Gertrude, taking up a little carpet-bag,
throwing a scarf which had been stretching across the room
over her arm, and then following Mrs. Graham closely, in order
to support the heavy travelling-shawl which was hanging half
off that lady's shoulders. At the first landing-place, however, she
found herself suddenly encircled in Kitty's warm embrace, and,

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laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to the
hugging and kissing that succeeded.

At the head of the staircase she met Isabel, wrapped in a
dressing-gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most discontented
and dissatisfied expression of countenance. She set the
pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted Gertrude with a good
grace. “I'm glad to see you alive,” said she, “though I can't
look at you without shuddering, it reminds me so of that dreadful
day when we were in such frightful danger. How lucky we were
to be saved, when there were so many drowned! I've wondered,
ever since, Gertrude, how you could be so calm; I'm sure I
should n't have known what to do, if you had n't been there to
suggest. But, O, dear! don't let us speak of it; it's a thing I
can't bear to think of!” and, with a shudder and shrug of the
shoulders, Isabel dismissed the subject, and called somewhat pettishly
to Kitty,—“Kitty, I thought you went to get our pitcher
filled!”

Kitty, who, in obedience to a loud call and demand from her
aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling-bag
which Gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back
quite out of breath, saying, “I did ring the bell, twice. Has n't
anybody come?”

“No!” replied Belle; “and I should like to wash my face
and curl my hair before tea, if I could.”

“Let me take the pitcher,” said Gertrude; “I am going down
stairs, and will send Jane up with the water.”

“Thank you,” said Belle, rather feebly; while Kitty exclaimed,
“No, no, Gertrude; I'll go myself.”

But it was too late; Gertrude had gone.

Gertrude found Mrs. Ellis full of troubles and perplexities.
“Only think,” said the astonished housekeeper, “of their coming,
five of them, without the least warning in the world; and here
I've nothing in the house fit for tea;—not a bit of rich cake, not
a scrap of cold ham! And, of course, they're hungry after their
long journey, and will want something nice!”

“O, if they are very hungry, Mrs. Ellis, they can eat dried
beef, and fresh biscuit, and plain cake; and, if you will give me

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the keys, I will get out the preserves, and the best silver, and see
that the table is set properly.”

Nothing was a trouble to Gertrude, that night. Everything
that she touched went right. Jane caught her spirit, and became
astonishingly active; and when the really bountiful table was
spread, and Mrs. Ellis, after glancing around, and seeing that all
was as it should be, looked into the beaming eyes and observed
the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl, she exclaimed,
in her ignorance, “Good gracious, Gertrude! anybody
would think you were overjoyed to see all these folks back
again!”

It wanted but a few moments to tea-time, and Gertrude was
selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when
Kitty Ray peeped in at the door, and finally entered, leading by
the hand a little girl, neatly dressed in black. Her face was, at
first, full of smiles; but, the moment she attempted to speak, she
burst into tears, and, throwing her arms round Gertrude's neck,
whispered in her ear, “O, Gertrude, I'm so happy! I came to
tell you!”

“Happy?” replied Gertrude; “then you must n't cry.”

Upon this, Kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then
laughed once more, and, in the intervals, explained to Gertrude
that she was engaged,—had been engaged a week, to the best
man in the world,—and that the child she held by the hand was
his orphan niece, and just like a daughter to him. “And, only
think,” continued she, “it's all owing to you!”

“To me?” said the astonished Gertrude.

“Yes; because I was so vain and silly, you know, and liked
folks that were not worth liking, and did n't care much for anybody's
comfort but my own; and, if you had n't taught me to be something
better than that, and set me a good example, which I've
tried to follow ever since, he never would have thought of looking
at me, much less loving me, and believing I should be a fit mother
for little Gracie, here,” and she looked down affectionately at the
child, who was clinging fondly to her. “He is a minister, Gertrude,
and very good. Only think of such a childish creature as
I am being a minister's wife!”

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The sympathy which Kitty came to claim was not denied her,
and Gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured
her of her full participation in her joy.

In the mean time, little Grace, who still clung to Kitty with
one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of Gertrude,
who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the
child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room
at Saratoga.

Kitty was charmed with the coïncidence, and Gertrude, as she
remarked the happy transformation which had already been effected
in the countenance and dress of the little girl who had been
so sadly in want of female superintendence, felt an added conviction
of the wisdom of the young clergyman's choice.

Kitty was eager to give Gertrude a description of her lover,
but a summons to the tea-table compelled her to postpone all further
communications.

Mr. Graham's cheerful parlor had never looked so cheerful as
on that evening. The weather was mild, but a light fire, which
had been kindled on Mr. Clinton's account, did not render the
room too warm. It had, however, driven the young people into
a remote corner, leaving the neighborhood of the fireplace to Mrs.
Graham and Emily, who occupied the sofa, and Mr. Clinton and
Mr. Graham, whose arm-chairs were placed on the opposite side.

This arrangement enabled Mr. Graham to converse freely and
uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest,
while his talkative wife entertained herself and Emily by a recapitulation
of her travels and adventures. On a table, at the further
extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful
engravings, recently purchased and brought home by Mr. Graham,
and representing a series of European views. Gertrude and Kitty
were turning them carefully over; and little Grace, who was sitting
in Kitty's lap, and Fanny, who was leaning over Gertrude's
shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young ladies' explanations
and comments.

Occasionally Isabel, the only restless or unoccupied person
present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of
some familiar spot, and exclaim, “Kitty, there's the shop where I

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bought my blue silk!” or, “Kitty, there's the waterfall that we
visited in company with the Russian officers!”

While the assembled company were thus occupied, the door
opened, and, without any announcement, Mr. Amory and William
Sullivan entered.

Had either made his appearance singly, he would have been
looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company;
but coming, as they did, together, and with an apparently good
understanding existing between them, there was no countenance
present (save the children's) which expressed any emotion but
that of utter surprise.

Mr. and Mrs. Graham, however, were too much accustomed to
society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was
contained in a momentary glance, and, rising, received their visitors
with due politeness and propriety. The former nodded carelessly
to Mr. Amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him
to Mr. Clinton (without, however, mentioning the existing connection
with himself), and was preparing to go through the same ceremony
to Mrs. Graham, but was saved the trouble, as she had not
forgotten the acquaintance formed at Baden-Baden.

Willie's knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of
introduction to all but Emily; and that being accidentally omitted,
he gave an arch glance at Gertrude, and, taking an offered seat
near Isabel, entered into conversation with her; Mr. Amory being
in like manner engrossed by Mrs. Graham.

“Miss Gertrude,” whispered Fanny, as soon as the interrupted
composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at
Willie, as she spoke, “that's the gentleman you were out driving
with, this afternoon. I know it is,” continued she, as she observed
Gertrude change color, and endeavor to hush her, while she looked
anxiously round, as if fearful the remark had been overheard; “is
it Willie, Gertrude?—is it Mr. Sullivan?”

Gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mischievous
Fanny continued to ply her with questions; and Isabel,
who had jealously noticed that Willie's eyes wandered more than
once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as rendered
her confusion distressing.

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Accident came to her relief, however. The housemaid, with the
evening paper, endeavored to open the door, against which her
chair was placed; thus giving her an opportunity to rise,
receive the paper, and, at the same time, an unimportant message.
While she was thus engaged, Mr. Clinton left his chair, with the
feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question
in a low voice to Willie, and, receiving an affirmatory reply, took
Isabel by the hand, and, approaching Mr. Amory, exclaimed, with
deep emotion, “Sir, Mr. Sullivan tells me that you are the person
who saved the life of my daughter; and here she is to thank you.

Mr. Amory rose and flung his arm over the shoulder and around
the waist of Gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the
newspaper to Mr. Graham, and who, not having heard the remark
of Mr. Clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an upturned
face. “Here,” said he, “Mr. Clinton is the person who
saved the life of your daughter. It is true that I swam with her
to the shore; but it was under the mistaken impression that I was
bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom I little
suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to another her
only apparent chance of rescue.”

“Just like you, Gertrude! Just like you!” shouted Kitty
and Fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place
in the little circle that had gathered round her.

“My own noble Gertrude!” whispered Emily, as, leaning on
Mr. Amory's arm, she pressed Gertrude's hand to her lips.

“O, Gertrude!” exclaimed Isabel, with tears in her eyes, “I
didn't know. I never thought—”

“Your child?” cried Mrs. Graham's loud voice, interrupting
Isabel's unfinished exclamation.

“Yes, my child, thank God!” said Mr. Amory, reverently;
“restored, at last, to her unworthy father, and—you have no
secrets here, my darling?”—Gertrude shook her head, and glanced
at Willie, who now stood at her side,—“and gladly bestowed by
him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover.” And he
placed her hand in Willie's.

There was a moment's pause. All were impressed with the solemnity
of the action. Then Mr. Graham came forward, shook

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each of the young couple heartily by the hand, and, passing his
sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the
library.

“Gertrude,” said Fanny, pulling Gertrude's dress to attract her
attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, “are you engaged?—
are you engaged to him?”

“Yes,” whispered Gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify
Fanny's curiosity, and silence her questioning.

“O! I'm so glad! I'm so glad!” shouted Fanny, dancing
round the room, and flinging up her arms.

“And I'm glad, too!” said Gracie, catching the tone of congratulation,
and putting her mouth up to Gertrude for a kiss.

“And I am glad,” said Mr. Clinton, placing his hands upon
those of Willie and Gertrude, which were still clasped together,
“that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom I have no words
to thank, and no power to repay, has reaped a worthy reward in
the love of one of the few men with whom a fond father may
venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child.”

Exhausted by so much excitement, Mr. Clinton now complained
of sudden faintness, and was assisted to his room by Willie, who,
after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the
blessing of Emily upon his new hopes, and hear with wonder and
delight the circumstances which attended the discovery of Gertrude's
parentage.

For, although it was an appointment to meet Mr. Amory
which had summoned him back to Boston, and he had in the
course of their interview acquainted him with the happy termination
of a lover's doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took
place in Mr. Graham's parlor, received in return the slightest
hint of the great surprise which awaited him. He had felt a little
astonishment at his friend's expressed desire to join him at once
in a visit to Mr. Graham's; but, on being informed that he had
made the acquaintance of Mrs. Graham in Germany, he concluded
that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possibly
a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the
only motives which had influenced him.

And now, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the

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present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening
passed rapidly away.

“Come here, Gerty!” said Willie; “come to the window, and
see what a beautiful night it is.”

It was indeed a glorious night. Snow lay on the ground. The
air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick
movements of pedestrians, and the brilliant icicles with which
everything that had an edge was fringed. The stars were glittering,
too, as they never glitter, except on the most intense of winter
nights. The moon was just peeping above an old brown building,—
the same old corner building which had been visible from the
door-step where Willie and Gerty were wont to sit in their childhood,
and from behind which they had often watched the coming
of that same round moon.

Leaning on Willie's shoulder, Gertrude stood gazing until the
full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless ether.
Neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same
emotion, as they thought of the days that were past.

Just then, the gas-man came quickly up the street, lit, as by an
electric touch, the bright burners that in close ranks lined either
side-walk, and in a moment more was out of sight.

Gertrude sighed. “It was no such easy task for poor old
Uncle True,” said she; “there have been great improvements
since his time.”

“There have, indeed!” said Willie, glancing round the welllit,
warm and pleasantly-furnished parlor of his own and Gertrude's
home, and resting his eyes, at last, upon the beloved one
by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happiness,—
“such improvements, Gerty, as we only dreamt of once!
I wish the dear old man could be here to see and share them!”

A tear started to Gertrude's eye; but, pressing Willie's arm,
she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star, just
breaking forth from a silvery film, which had hitherto half-overshadowed
it; the star through which Gertrude had ever fancied
she could discern the smile of the kind old man.

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“Dear Uncle True!” said she; “his lamp still burns brightly
in heaven, Willie; and its light is not yet gone out on earth!”

In a beautiful town about thirty miles from Boston, and on the
shore of one of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be immortalized
by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such
sheets of blue, transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of
solid though ancient architecture. It had been the property of
Philip Amory's paternal grand-parents, and the early home and
sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it
was only with great reluctance, and when driven to the act by
the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much-valued
estate.

To reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously
modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a
favorite scheme with Philip. His ample means now rendering
it practicable, he lost no time in putting it into execution, and,
the spring after he returned from his wanderings, saw the work
in a fair way to be speedily completed.

In the mean time, Gertrude's marriage had taken place, the
Grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of compliment
to Isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was
more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling
mistress was already projecting changes in her husband's country-seat.

And Emily, who had parted with her greatest treasure, and
found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with
her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither
dreamed of nor asked for outward change, until Philip came to
her one day, and, taking her hand, said, gently,

“This is no home for you, Emily. You are as much alone as
I in my solitary farm-house. We loved each other in childhood,
our hearts became one in youth, and have continued so until
now. Why should we be longer parted? Your father will not
oppose our wishes; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and
gladden the lonely life of your gray-haired lover?”

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But Emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smile
of ineffable sweetness,

“O, no, Philip! do not speak of it! Think of my frail health
and my helplessness!”

“Your health, dear Emily, is improving. The roses are
already coming back to your cheeks; and, for your helplessness,
what task can be so sweet to me as teaching you, through my
devotion, to forget it? O, do not send me away disappointed,
Emily! A cruel fate divided us for years; do not by your own
act prolong that separation! Believe me, a union with my early
love is my brightest, my only hope of happiness!”

And she did not withdraw the hand which he held, but yielded
the other also to his fervent clasp.

“My only thought had been, dear Philip,” said she, “that ere
this I should have been called to my Father's home; and even
now I feel many a warning that I cannot be very long for earth;
but while I stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish.
No word of mine shall part hearts so truly one, and your home
shall be mine.”

And when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their
fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring
gales blew soft and made a gentle ripple on the water, Emily
came to live on the hill-side with Philip. And Mrs. Ellis came
too, to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which
became henceforth her pride. She had long since tearfully implored,
and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged
Philip; and proved, by the humility of her voluntary confession,
that she was not without a woman's heart.

Mrs. Prime pleaded hard for the cook's situation at the farm;
but Emily kindly expostulated with her, saying,

“We cannot all leave my father, Mrs. Prime. Who would
see to his hot toast, and the fire in the library?” and the good
old woman saw the matter in the right light, and submitted.

And is the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply-sorrowing
exile happy now? He is; but his peace springs not from
his beautiful home, his wide possessions, an honorable repute
among his fellow-men, or even the love of the gentle Emily.

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All these are blessings that he well knows how to prize; but
his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet,—a surer
refuge from the tempest and the storm; for, through the power
of a living faith, he has laid hold on eternal life. The blind girl's
prayers are answered; her last, best work is done; she has cast
a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul; and, should
her call to depart soon come, she will leave behind one to follow
in her footsteps, fulfil her charities, and do good on earth, until
such time as he be summoned to join her again in heaven.

As they go forth in the summer evening, to breathe the balmy
air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the
refreshing influences of a summer sunset, all things speak a holy
peace to the new-born heart of him who has so long been a man
of sorrow.

As the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western light
grows dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their
solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul; and the
voice of nature around, and the still, small voice within, whisper,
in gentlest, holiest accents,

“The sun shall be no more thy light by day, neither for brightness
shall the moon give light unto thee; but the Lord shall be
unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory.”

“Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw
itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and
the days of thy mourning shall be ended.”

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