The Lamplighter Part 48

"You cannot wonder, Gertrude, that in my feeble condition I was hardly capable of realising at the time, far less of retaining, any distinct recollection of the circ.u.mstances that followed my father's words. A few dim pictures, however, the last my poor eyes ever beheld, are still engraved upon my memory and visible to my imagination. My father stood with his back to the light, and from the first moment of his entering the room I never saw his face again; but the countenance of the object of his accusation, illumined as it was by the last rays of the golden sunset, stands ever in the foreground of my recollection. His head was thrown proudly back; conscious innocence proclaimed itself in his clear, calm eye, which shrunk not from the closest scrutiny; his hand was clenched, as if he were vainly striving to repress the pa.s.sion which proclaimed itself in the compressed lips, the set teeth, the deep and angry indignation which overspread his face. He did not speak--apparently he could not command voice to do so; but my father continued to upbraid him in language cutting and severe, though I remember not a word of it. It was fearful to watch the working of the young man's face, while he stood there listening to taunts and enduring reproaches which were believed by him who uttered them to be just and merited, but which wrought the youth to a degree of frenzy which it was terrible to witness. Suddenly he took one step forward, slowly lifted the clenched hand which had hitherto hung at his side. I know not whether he might then have intended to call Heaven to witness his innocence of the crime, or whether he might have designed to strike my father; for I sprang from my seat prepared to rush between them, and implore them for my sake, to desist; but my strength failed me, and, with a shriek, I sunk back in a fainting fit.

"Oh, the horror of my awakening! How shall I find words to tell it?--and yet I must! Listen, Gertrude. He--the poor, ruined boy--sprung to help me; and, maddened by injustice, he knew not what he did. Heaven is my witness, I never blamed him; and if, in my agony, I uttered words that seemed like a reproach, it was because I was too frantic, and knew not what I said!"

"What!" exclaimed Gertrude, "he did not----"

"No, no! he did not--he did _not put_ out my eyes!" exclaimed Emily; "it was an accident. He reached forward for the eau-de-cologne, which he had just had in his hand. There were several bottles, and in his haste he seized one containing a powerful acid which Mrs. Ellis had found occasion to use in my sick-room. It had a heavy gla.s.s stopper--and he--his hand being unsteady, and he spilt it all----"

"On your eyes?" shrieked Gertrude.

Emily bowed her head.

"Oh, poor Emily!" cried Gertrude, "and wretched, wretched young man!"

"Wretched indeed!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Emily. "Bestow all your pity on him, Gertrude, for his was the harder fate of the two."

"Oh, Emily! how intense must have been the pain you endured! How could you suffer so, and live?"

"Do you mean the pain from my eyes? That was severe indeed, but the mental agony was worse!"

"What became of him?" said Gertrude.

"I cannot give you an exact account of what followed. I was in no state to know anything of my father's treatment of his step-son. He banished him from his sight and knowledge for ever; and it is easy to believe it was with no added gentleness, since he had now, besides the other crimes imputed to him, been the cause of his daughter's blindness."

"And did you never hear from him again?"

"Yes. Through the good doctor--who alone knew all the circ.u.mstances--I learned that he had sailed for South America; and in the hope of once more communicating with the poor exile, and a.s.suring him of my continued love, I rallied from the sickness, fever, and blindness into which I had fallen; the doctor had even a thought of restoring sight to my eyes.

Several months pa.s.sed, and my kind friend, who was persevering in his inquiries, having learned the residence and address of the ill-fated youth, I was commencing, through the aid of Mrs. Ellis (whom pity had now won to my service), a letter of love, and an entreaty for his return, when a fatal seal was put to all my earthly hopes. He died in a foreign land, alone, unnursed, and uncared for; he died of that southern disease which takes the stranger for its victim; and I, on hearing the news of it, sunk back into a more pitiable malady; and--and alas, for the encouragement of the good doctor had held out of my gradual restoration to sight!--I wept all his hopes away!"

Emily paused. Gertrude put her arms around her, and they clung closely to each other; grief and sorrow made their union dearer than ever.

"I was then, Gertrude," continued Emily, "a child of the world, eager for worldly pleasures, and ignorant of any other. For a time, therefore, I dwelt in utter darkness--the darkness of despair. I began, too, again to feel my bodily strength restored, and to look forward to a useless and miserable life. You can form no idea of the utter wretchedness in which my days were pa.s.sed.

"But at last a dawn came to my dark night. It came in the shape of a minister of Christ, our own dear Mr. Arnold, who opened the eyes of my understanding, lit the lamp of religion in my now softened soul, taught me the way to peace, and led my feeble steps into that blessed rest which even on earth remaineth to the people of G.o.d.

"In the eyes of the world I am still the unfortunate blind girl; cut off from every enjoyment; but so great is the awakening I have experienced that to me it is far otherwise, and I am ready to exclaim, like him who in old time experienced his Saviour's healing power, 'Once I was blind, but now I see!'"

Gertrude half forgot her own troubles while listening to Emily's sad story; and when the latter laid her hand upon her head, and prayed that she too might be fitted for a patient endurance of trial, and be made stronger and better thereby, she felt her heart penetrated with that deep love and trust which seldom come to us except in the hour of sorrow, and prove that it is through suffering only we are made perfect.

CHAPTER XL.

THE HOUR OF PERIL.

As Mr. Graham had expressed in his letter the intention of being at the steamboat wharf in New York to meet his daughter and Gertrude on their arrival, Dr. Jeremy thought it unnecessary to accompany his charges further than Albany, where he could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to Boston with his wife over the Western Railroad.

"Good-bye, Gerty," said the doctor, as he bade them farewell on the deck of one of the Hudson river-boats. "I'm afraid you've lost your heart in Saratoga; you don't look quite so bright as you did when we first arrived there. It can't have strayed far, however, I think, in such a place as that; so be sure and find it before I see you in Boston."

It wanted a few minutes only of the time for the boat to start, when a gay group of fas.h.i.+onables appeared talking and laughing. Among them was Miss Clinton, whose companions were making her the object of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she feigned to be teased, her smiling face gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. At length the significant gesture of some of the party, and a half-smothered hush-h! indicated the approach of some one, and presently William Sullivan, with a travelling-bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm, and his grave face, as if he had not recovered from the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared, pa.s.sed Gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined Isabel, placing his burden on a chair which stood near.

Just then the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the pa.s.sengers to quit the boat, and he was compelled to make haste to depart. As he did so he drew a step nearer Gertrude, a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the former distinguished the words: "Then, if you will do your best to return on Thursday I will try not to be impatient in the meantime."

A moment more and the boat was on its way; just then a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had, to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that already divided her from the sh.o.r.e; after which he sought the gentlemen's saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from his pocket, and commenced reading.

As soon as the boat was fairly under weigh and quiet prevailed in the neighbourhood, Emily spoke softly to Gertrude, and said----

"Didn't I just now hear Isabel Clinton's voice?"

"She is here," replied Gertrude, "on the opposite side of the deck, but sitting with her back towards us."

"Didn't she see us?"

"I believe she did," answered Gertrude. "She stood looking this way while her party were arranging their seats."

"Perhaps she is going to New York to meet Mrs. Graham."

"Very possible," replied Gertrude. "I didn't think of it before."

"Who was the gentleman who spoke to her just before the boat started?"

"Willie," was the tremulous response.

Emily pressed Gertrude's hand and was silent. She, too, had overheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance. Several hours pa.s.sed, and they had proceeded some distance down the river; for the motion of the boat was rapid--too rapid, as it seemed to Gertrude, for safety. She observed several circ.u.mstances, which excited so much alarm, that, effectually aroused from her train of reflection, she had leisure only to take into view her own and Emily's situation, and its probable consequence.

Several times, since they left Albany, had the boat pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed another of similar size, with living freight, and bound in the same direction. Occasionally, during their headlong course, the contiguity of the two boats excited serious alarm. They were racing, and racing desperately. Some few, regardless of danger, watched with pleased eagerness the mad career of rival ambition; but by far the majority of the company, who had reason and sense, looked on in indignation and fear. The usual stopping places on the river were either recklessly pa.s.sed by, or only paused at, while, with indecent haste, pa.s.sengers were shuffled backwards and forwards at the risk of life and limb, their baggage (or somebody's else) unceremoniously flung after them, the panting, snorting engine in the meantime bellowing with rage at the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom.

Gertrude sat with her hand locked in Emily's, anxiously watching every indication of terror, and endeavouring to judge from the countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-travellers the actual degree of their insecurity. Emily, rendered through her acute hearing, conscious of the prevailing alarm, was calm, though very pale, and from time to time questioned Gertrude concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with which was the princ.i.p.al cause of fear.

At length their boat for a few moments distanced its compet.i.tor; the a.s.surance of perfect safety was impressively a.s.serted; anxiety began to be relieved, and most of the pa.s.sengers gained their wonted composure.

Emily looked pallid, and, as Gertrude fancied, a little faint. "Let us go below, Emily," she said; "it appears now to be very quiet and safe."

Gertrude opened her travelling-basket, which contained their luncheon.

It consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected and put up at their hotel, in Albany, by Dr. Jeremy's direction.

Gertrude was hesitating which she could recommend to Emily, when a waiter appeared, bearing a tray of refreshments, which he placed upon the table.

"This is not for us," said Gertrude. "You have made a mistake."

"No mistake," replied the man. "Orders was for de blind lady and hansum young miss. I only 'beys orders. Anything furder, miss?"

Gertrude dismissed the man with the a.s.surance that they wanted nothing more, and then, turning to Emily, asked, with an attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this Aladdin-like repast.

"Eat it, my dear, if you can," said Emily; "it is no doubt meant for us."

"But to whom are we indebted for it?"

"To my blindness and your beauty, I suppose," said Emily, smiling.

"Perhaps the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on our inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us."