The Lamplighter Part 24

"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.

Jeremy, 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 heartily at the recollection of an amusing scene that took place when she went shopping with Mrs.

Jeremy. "But come, Gerty, dinner's ready; take off your cloak and bonnet, and come into the dining-room; the doctor has much to say, and has been wanting dreadfully to see you."

They had been sitting some minutes without a word having been spoken, when the doctor suddenly commenced laughing till tears came into his eyes. Gertrude looked at him, inquiringly, and Mrs. Jeremy said, "There, Gertrude!--for a 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 don't understand now what could have happened between him and Mr. Graham that was so very funny."

"Come, wife," said the doctor, "don't you forestall my communication. I want to tell the story myself. I don't suppose, 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, "be careful."

"I don't care, wife; I'll speak my mind with regard to Mr. Graham; and Gertrude, here, has done the same, I haven'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; "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 dare say," 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 isn't," replied the doctor. "A man may get angry talking politics, and be a good-natured man too. I get angry _myself_ on _politics_, but that isn't the sort of thing I refer to. 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 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--"wasn'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. "You wonder where I got my information; 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, when I saw through him, and knew that he'd found his match in you."

"Dr. Jeremy," said Gertrude, "I hope you don't think----"

"No, my dear, I _don't_ think you a _professional 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; 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. One day--about two months ago--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 secured your services in his school.

I knew Emily intended you for a teacher, and I was thankful you had got so good a situation. At Mr. W.'s door I encountered Mr. Graham, and he entertained me as we went down the street with an account of his plan 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 of the opportunity; it isn't every girl that is so fortunate.' Now, Gerty, I felt provoked at his way of speaking, and I answered, in as confident a tone as his own, 'I doubt 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 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. 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 to see Emily, and hear the result; but a doctor never can call a day his own, and I got prevented. On Sunday I heard Mrs. Prime's voice in the kitchen (her niece lives here), and down I went to make my inquiries. 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 great surprise, 'has Gertrude left you?'--'She has,' answered he. 'And dared,' continued I, 'to treat you with such disrespect--to trifle so with your dignity?'--'Dr. Jeremy!' exclaimed he, 'I don't wish to hear her mentioned; she has behaved as ungratefully as she has unwisely.'--'Why, about the grat.i.tude, Graham,' said I, 'I believe you said it would only be an additional favour on your part if you took her with you, and I think it is wisdom in her to 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 emphasis, that seemed to say her 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. Jeremy," 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 doubts that she has the kindest of feelings towards Mr. Graham, this blessed minute."

"I have, 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. 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 dare say it pained you to displease him; and that is a right woman's feeling, and one that Dr.

Jeremy, 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, made many inquiries as to her health. It was now snowing 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 promised to repeat her visit, she drove away with the doctor.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CARES MULTIPLIED.

"I have been thinking," said Gertrude, as she drew near home, "how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm Mrs. Sullivan."

"What's going to alarm her?" asked the doctor.

"You, if she knows at once you are a physician. I think I had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home in the storm."

"Oh! so we are going to act a little farce, are we? Stage manager, Gertrude Flint--unknown stranger, Dr. Jeremy. I'm ready. What shall I say first?"

"I leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a physician."

"Ah, yes! pretend at first to be only a private individual of an inquiring mind. I can manage it." As they opened the door, Mrs. Sullivan rose from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited for the introduction to Gertrude's friend before she asked if Mr. Cooper were not with them.

"No, indeed," replied Gertrude. "Hasn't he come home?"

Upon Mrs. Sullivan saying that she had not seen him since morning, Gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far from feeling, that Mr. Miller had undertaken the care of him, and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. She would seek him at once.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Sullivan, "that you should have to go out again in such a storm; but I feel very anxious about grandpa--don't you, Gerty?"

"Not very: I think he's safe in the church. But I'll go for him at once; you know, auntie, I never mind the weather."

"Then take my great shawl, dear." And Mrs. Sullivan went to the closet for her shawl, giving Gertrude an opportunity to beg of Dr. Jeremy that he would await her return; for she knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often cause an attack of faintness in Mrs. Sullivan, and was afraid to have her left alone, to dwell with alarm upon Mr. Cooper's prolonged absence.

It was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing dark. Gertrude hastened along the wet footpath, exposed to the blinding storm, and, after pa.s.sing through several streets, gained the church. She went into the building, now nearly deserted by workmen, saw that Mr. Cooper was not there, and began to fear she should gain no information concerning him, when she met Mr. Miller coming from the gallery. He looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if Mr. Cooper had not returned home.

She answered in the negative, and he informed her that his efforts were insufficient to persuade the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had therefore taken him to his own house; he had supposed that long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one of the children to accompany him to Mrs. Sullivan's.

As it seemed probable that he was still at Mr. Miller's, Gertrude proceeded thither at once. After an uncomfortable walk, she reached her destination. She knocked at the door, but there was no response, and after waiting a moment, she opened it, and went in. Through another door there was the sound of children's voices, and so much noise that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, therefore, without further ceremony, entered the room. A band of startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and ensconced themselves in corners; and Mrs. Miller, in dismay at the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very person Gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding att.i.tude, sat cowering over the fire. But, before she could advance to speak to him, her attention was arrested by a most unexpected sight. Placed against the side of the room, opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which some person seemed to be sleeping.

Hardly, however, had Gertrude presented herself in the doorway before the figure suddenly raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off her approach, and uttered a piercing shriek.

The voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and Gertrude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her old dread as she beheld the well-known features of Nan Grant.

"Go away! go _away_!" cried Nan, as Gertrude advanced into the room.

Again Gertrude paused, for the wildness of Nan's eyes and the excitement of her countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. Mrs.

Miller now came forward and said, "Why, Aunt Nancy! what is the matter?

This is Miss Flint, one of the best young ladies in the land."

"No, 'tan't!" said Nan. "I know better."

Mrs. Miller now drew Gertrude aside into the shadow of the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an undertone, while Nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them, maintained a watchful, listening att.i.tude. Gertrude was informed that Mrs. Miller was a niece of Ben Grant's, but had seen nothing of him or his wife for years, until, a few days previous. Nan had come there in a state of the greatest dest.i.tution, and threatened with the fever under which she was now suffering. "I could not refuse her a shelter," said Mrs. Miller; "but, as you see, I have no accommodation for her; and it's not only bad for me to have her sick here in the kitchen, but, what with the noise of the children, and all the other discomforts, I'm afraid the poor old thing will die."

"Have you a room that you could spare above-stairs?" asked Gertrude.