The Lamplighter Part 19

"Yes, certainly," replied the doctor. "I came here to help myself to pears; but you are taller than I--perhaps, with the help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that best branch."

"A remarkably honourable and honest errand!" muttered the young man. "I shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause." And, drawing down the branch, so that he could reach it with his hand, shook it vigorously.

The ripe fruit fell on every side; and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands, started for the other side of the wall.

"Have you got enough?" asked the youth, in a very lazy tone of voice.

"Plenty, plenty," said the doctor.

"Glad of it," said the boy, indolently throwing himself on the gra.s.s, and still staring at Gertrude.

"You must be very tired," said the doctor, stepping back a pace or two; "I'm a physician, and should advise a nap."

"Are you, indeed!" replied the youth, in the same half-drawling, half-ironical tone of voice; "then I think I'll take your advice;" and he threw himself upon the gra.s.s, and closed his eyes.

Having emptied his pockets upon the seat of the summer-house, and invited Gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing at his boyish feat, looked at his watch. "Half-past four! The cars go in ten minutes.

Who's going to drive me down to the depot?"

"I don't know, sir," replied Gertrude.

"Where's George?"

"He's gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left white Charlie harnessed in the yard; I saw him fasten him to the chain, after he drove you up from the cars."

"Ah! then you can drive me down to the depot."

"I can't, sir; I don't know how."

"But you must; I'll show you how. You're not afraid?"

"O, no, sir; but Mr. Graham----"

"Never you mind Mr. Graham--do you mind me. I'll answer for your coming back safe enough."

Gertrude was naturally courageous; she had never driven before, but, having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and, being often afterwards called upon by Dr. Jeremy to perform the same service, she soon became skilful in the use of the reins.

Dr. Jeremy was true to his promise of installing Gertrude in Emily's sick room. The next visit he made to his patient, he spoke in terms of the highest praise of Gertrude's devotion to her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she had been expelled from the chamber.

"She is timid," said Emily, "and is afraid of catching the fever."

"Don't believe it," said Dr. Jeremy; "'tan't like her."

"Do you think not?" inquired Emily, earnestly. "Mrs. Ellis----"

"Told a lie," interrupted the doctor. "Gerty wants to come and take care of you, and she knows how as well as Mrs. Ellis any day; it isn't much you need done. You want quiet, and that's what you can't have with that great talking woman about. So I'll send her to Jericho to-day, and bring my little Gertrude up here. She's a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her shoulders."

It is not to be supposed that Gertrude could provide for Emily's wants any better than Mrs. Ellis; and Emily, knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to Jericho; for, though Dr. Jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, did not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not be dispensed with.

So, though Emily, Dr. Jeremy, and Gertrude were all made happy by the free admission of the latter to the sick-room, the housekeeper was never conscious that anyone knew her ill-will to Gertrude.

There were care and tenderness in Gertrude, which only the warmest love could have dictated. When Emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, she found a cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from Mrs.

Ellis's deep snoring that it was not her hand that held it--when she observed that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bathing, and the little feet that were never weary were always noiseless--she realised the truth that Dr. Jeremy had brought her a most excellent medicine. A week or two pa.s.sed away, and she was able to sit up, though not yet able to leave her room. A few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exercise. "Drive out two or three times every day," said he.

"How can I?" said Emily. "George has so much to do, it will be very inconvenient."

"Let Gertrude drive you; she is a capital hand."

"Gertrude," said Emily, smiling, "I believe you are a great favourite of the doctor's; he thinks you can do anything. You never drove, did you?"

"Hasn't she driven me to the depot every day for these six weeks?"

inquired the doctor.

"Is it possible?" asked Emily.

Upon her being a.s.sured this was the case, and the doctor insisting that there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into the carriage, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis went out to drive with Gertrude, an experiment which, being often repeated, was a source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. In the early autumn, when Emily's health was restored, old Charlie was daily called into requisition; sometimes Mrs.

Ellis accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged in household duties, they oft went by themselves, in a large, old-fas.h.i.+oned buggy, and Emily declared that Gertrude's learning to drive had proved a great source of happiness. Once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, Gertrude saw again the lazy youth whom Dr. Jeremy had stumbled over when he went to steal pears. Once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning her friend Dr. Jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her name.

Gertrude blushed; she was sensitive about her name, and, though she went by that of Flint, and did not think much about it, she could not fail to remember, when the question was put to her point-blank, that she had no surname of her own. Emily had tried to find Nan Grant, in order to learn from her something of Gertrude's early history; but Nan had left her old habitation, and for years nothing had been heard of her.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHANGES.

It was the twilight of a sultry September day, and, wearied by excessive heat, Emily sat on the front piazza of her father's house, inhaling a delicious and refres.h.i.+ng breeze. The western sky was still streaked with brilliant lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams upon Emily's white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. Ten years had pa.s.sed since Emily was introduced to the reader; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time, that she looked little older than on her first meeting Gertrude in Mr. Arnold's church.

She had even then experienced much of the sorrows of life, and learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for every pain.

Even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her countenance; therefore, time had little power upon her; as she was then so was she now; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more lovely in heart and life.

Still a close observer might perceive in her a greater degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of interest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of life, and this was due, as Emily acknowledged, to her recent close companions.h.i.+p with one to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation of the entertaining and the ludicrous, and the beautiful and true, and her unsparing efforts to bring her much-loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed, had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost dormant, and become, what Uncle True bade her be, eyes to her benefactor.

On the present occasion, as Emily sat alone, her thoughts were sad. She held her head a little on one side, in a listening att.i.tude, and, as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would cross her features.

At length, some one approaches the gate. None but Emily's quick ear could have distinguished the light step; but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer, whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance, time has not left her unchanged, and it would be hard to recognize in her our little quondam Gertrude, for she has now become a young lady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and her figure is slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear, and rendered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks; but that may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station.

Gertrude's eyes have retained their old l.u.s.tre, and do not now look too large for her face; and, if her mouth be less cla.s.sically formed than the strict rule of beauty would commend, it is atoned for by two rows of small pearly teeth, which are as regular as a string of beads. Her neat dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her black mantle does not hide the roundness of her taper waist.

Is Gertrude a beauty? By no means. Hers is a face and form about which there would be a thousand different opinions, and few would p.r.o.nounce her beautiful. But there are faces whose ever-varying expression one loves to watch--tell-tale faces, that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within; faces that now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that which the soul abhors, and faces sanctified by the divine presence, when the heart turns from the world and itself, and looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude's.

There are forms which, though neither dignified nor fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a power of moving airily in their sphere--and such a form was Gertrude's. Whatever charm these attractions might give her--and many estimated it highly--it was greatly enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing any attractions at all.

As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quickened her pace, and joining her near the door-step, where a path led into the garden, pa.s.sed her arm affectionately over Emily's shoulder, in a manner which the latter's blindness, and Gertrude's superior height and ability to act as guide, had rendered usual, and said, while she drew the shawl closer around her blind friend, "Here I am again, Miss Emily! Have you been alone since I went away?"

"Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been worried to think you were travelling about in Boston this excessive warm day."

"It has not hurt me in the least; I only enjoy this cool breeze all the more--it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the city!"

"But, Gerty," said Emily, stopping short in their walk, "what are you coming away from the house for? You have not been to tea, my child."