The Lamplighter. Maria S. Cummins
lifted Gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood in front of the house. True had not yet come up. It was he that the children were watching for. Gerty was not the only child that loved to see the lamps lit.
It was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could not see any one out of doors; but Willie and Gerty had so much better chance to look in. The mansion was a fine one, evidently the home of wealth. A clear coal fire, and a bright lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze. Rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave Gerty her first impressions of luxurious life. There was an air of comfort combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinating to the child of poverty and want. A table was bountifully spread for tea; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plate, above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most inviting look. A gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy chair by the fire; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl's arrangements at the tea-table; and the children of the household, smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, looking out, as we have just narrated.
They were sweet, lovely-looking little creatures; especially a girl, of the same age as Gerty, the eldest of the three. Her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck as white as snow; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little round plump figure. Gerty's admiration and rapture were such, that she could find no expression for them, and directing Willie's notice first to one thing and then another; "Oh, Willie, isn't she a darling? and see what a beautiful fire—what a splendid lady! What is that on the table? I guess it's good! There's a big looking-glass; and oh, Willie! an't they dear, handsome children?"
True now came up, and as his torch-light swept along the side-walk Gerty and Willie became the subjects of notice and conversation. The curly-haired girl saw them, and pointed them out to the notice of the other two. Though Gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like being stared at and talked about; and hiding behind the post, she would not move or look up, though Willie laughed at her, and told her it was now her turn to be looked at. When True moved off, she began to run, so as to escape observation; but Willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone from the window, she ran back to have one more look, and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. Then the servant-girl drew down the window-blinds. Gerty then took Willie's hand, and they tried to overtake True.
"Shouldn't you like to live in such a house as that, Gerty!" said Willie.
"Yes, indeed," said Gerty; "an't it splendid?"
"I wish I had just such a house," said Willie. "I mean one of these days."
"Where will you get it?" exclaimed Gerty, much amazed at so bold a declaration.
"Oh, I shall work, and grow rich, and buy it."
"You can't; it would take a lot o' money!"
"I know it; but I can earn a lot, and I will, too. The gentleman that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he first came to Boston; and why can't one poor boy get rich as well an another?"
"How do you suppose he got so much money?"
"I don't know how he did; there are a great many ways. Some people think it's all luck, but I guess it's as much smartness as anything."
"Are you smart?"
Willie laughed. "An't I?" said he. "If I don't turn out a rich man one of these days, you may say I an't."
"I know what I'd do if I was rich," said Gerty.
"What?" asked Willie.
"First, I'd buy a great nice chair for Uncle True, with cushions all in the inside, and bright flowers on it—just exactly like that one the gentleman was sitting in; and next, I'd have great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so as to make the room as light—as light as it could be!"
"Seems to me you're mighty fond of lights, Gerty," said Willie.
"I be," said the child. "I hate old, dark, black places; I like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and Uncle True's torch——"
"And I like bright eyes!" interrupted Willie; "yours look just like stars, they shine so to-night. An't we having a good time?"
"Yes, real."
And so they went on—Gerty dancing along the side-walk, Willie sharing in her gaiety and joy, and glorying in the responsibility of entertaining and protecting the wild little creature. They talked of how they would spend that future wealth which they both calculated upon one day possessing; for Gerty had caught Willie's spirit, and she, too, meant to work and grow rich. Willie said his mother was to wear a gay cap, like that of the lady they had seen; this made Gerty laugh. She thought that demure little widow would be ridiculous in a flowered headgear. Good taste is inborn, and Gerty had it in her. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan, attired in anything that was not simple, neat, and sober-looking, would altogether lose her identity. Willie had no selfish schemes; the generous boy suggested nothing for his own gratification; it was for the rest he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for his reward. Happy children! What do they want of wealth? What of anything, material or tangible, more than they now possess? They have what is worth more than riches or fame—they are full of childhood's faith and hope. With a fancy and imagination unchecked by disappointment, they are building those same castles that so many thousand children have built before, that children will always be building to the end of time. Far off in the distance they see bright things, and know not what myths they are. Undeceive not the little believers, ye wise ones! Check not that God-given hopefulness, which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety over many a rough spot in life's road. It lasts not long at the best; then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard.
They had reached the last lamp-post in the street, but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps before Gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed any further, pulled hard at Willie's hand, and tried to induce him to retrace his steps.
"What's the matter, Gerty?" said he, "are you tired?"
"No, oh no! but I can't go any further."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because—because—" and here Gerty putting her mouth close to Willie's ear, whispered, "there is Nan Grant's; I see the house! I had forgot Uncle True went there; and I am afraid!"
"Oho!" said Willie, drawing himself up with dignity, "I should like to know what you're afraid of, when I'm with you! Let her touch you if she dares! And Uncle True, too!—I should laugh."
Very kindly did Willie plead with the child, telling her that Nan would not be likely to see them, but they might see her; and that was just what he wanted—nothing he should like better. Gerty's fears were soon allayed. When they stood in front of the house, Gerty was rather hoping than otherwise to catch sight of Nan. Nan was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated dispute with one of her neighbours. Her countenance expressed great anger, and her face was now so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of vixen, virago, or scold.
"Which is she?" said Willie; "the tall one, swinging the coffee-pot in her hand? I guess she'll break the handle off, if she don't look out."
"Yes," said Gerty, "that's Nan."
"What's she doing?"
"Oh, she's fighting with Mrs. Birch; she does always with somebody. She don't see us, does she?"
"No, she's too busy. Come, don't let's stop; she's an ugly-looking woman, just as I knew she was. I've seen enough of her, and I'm sure you have—come."
Gerty lingered. Courageous in the knowledge that she was safe and unseen, she was gazing at Nan, and her eyes glistened, not with the innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of kindled passion—a fire that Nan had kindled long ago, which had not yet gone out, and which the sight of Nan had now revived in full force. Willie, thinking it was time to be at home, and perceiving