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The Lamplighter
By MARIA S. CUMMINS
Author of "MABEL VAUGHAN," "EL FUREIDIS," "HAUNTED HEARTS."
A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER
52-58 DUANE STREET
NEW YORK
THE LAMPLIGHTER
CHAPTER I.
LIGHT IN DARKNESS.
"Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise."
--LANDON.
It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country it would be
light for half-an-hour or more; but in the streets it was already dusk.
Upon the wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking
house, sat a little girl, earnestly gazing up the street. The house-door
behind her was close to the side-walk; and the step on which she sat was
so low that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a
chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow had made the narrow
streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheerless than ever.
Many people were passing, but no one noticed the little girl, for no one
in the world cared for her. She was clad in the poorest of garments; her
hair was long, thick, and uncombed, and her complexion was sallow, and
her whole appearance was unhealthy. She had fine dark eyes; but so large
did they seem, in contrast to her thin, puny face that they increased
its peculiarity without increasing its beauty. Had she had a mother
(which, alas! she had not), those friendly eyes would have found
something in her to praise. But the poor little thing was told, a dozen
times a-day, that she was the worst-looking child in the world, and the
worst-behaved. No one loved her, and she loved no one; no one tried to
make her happy, or cared whether she was so. She was but eight years
old, and alone in the world.
She loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit the street-lamp
in front of the house where she lived; to see his bright torch flicker
in the wind; and then when he so quickly ran up his ladder, lit the
lamp, and made the place cheerful, a gleam of joy was shed on a little
desolate heart, to which gladness was a stranger; and though he had
never seemed to see, and had never spoken to her, she felt, as she
watched for the old lamplighter, as if he were a friend.
"Gerty," exclaimed a harsh voice within, "have you been for the milk?"
The child made no answer, but gliding off the door-step, ran quickly
round the corner of the house, and hid a little out of sight. "What's
become of that child?" said the woman who spoke, and who now showed
herself at the door.
A boy who was passing, and had seen Gerty run, and who looked upon her
as a spirit of evil, laughed aloud, pointed to the corner which
concealed her, and walking off with his head over his shoulders, to see
what would happen next, said to himself, "She'll catch it!"
Gerty was dragged from her hiding-place, and with one blow for her
ugliness and another for her impudence (for she was making faces at Nan
Grant), was despatched down a neighbouring alley for the milk.
She ran fast, fearing the lamplighter would come and go in her absence,
and was rejoiced, on her return, to catch a sight of him just going up
his ladder. She stood at the foot of it, and was so engaged in watching
the bright flame, that she did not observe the descent of the man; and,
as she was directly in his way, he struck against her, and she fell upon
the pavement. "Hallo, my little one!" exclaimed he, "how's this?" as he
stooped to lift her up. She was on her feet in an instant; for she was
used to hard knocks, and did not mind a few bruises. But the milk was
all spilt.
"Well! now, I declare!" said the man, "that's too bad!--what'll mammy
say?" and looking into Gerty's face, he exclaimed, "My, what an
odd-faced child!--looks like a witch!" Then, seeing that she looked
sadly at the spilt milk, he kindly said, "She won't be hard on such a
mite as you are, will she? Cheer up, my ducky! never mind if she does
scold you a little. I'll bring you something to-morrow that you'll like;
you're such a lonely-looking thing. And if the old woman makes a row,
tell her I did it.--But didn't I hurt you? What were you doing with my
ladder?"
"I was seeing you light the lamp," said Gerty, "and I an't hurt a bit;
but I wish I hadn't spilt the milk."
Just then Nan Grant came to the door, saw what had happened, and pulled
the child into the house, amidst blows and profane, brutal language. The
lamplighter tried to appease her, but she shut the door in his face.
Gerty was scolded, beaten, deprived of her usual crust for her supper,
and shut up in her dark attic for the night. Poor little child! Her
mother had died in Nan Grant's house five years before; and she had been
tolerated there since, not so much because when Ben Grant went to sea he
bade his wife to keep the child until his return--he had been gone so
long that no one thought he would ever come back--but because Nan had
reasons of her own for doing so, and, though she considered Gerty a dead
weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiries by trying to
dispose of her elsewhere.
When Gerty found herself locked up for the night in the dark
garret--Gerty hated and feared the dark--she stood for a minute
perfectly still, then suddenly began to stamp and scream, tried to beat
open the door, and shouted, "I hate you, Nan Grant! Old Nan Grant, I
hate you!" But nobody came near her; and she grew more quiet, lay down
on her miserable bed, covered her face with her little thin hands, and
sobbed as if her heart would break. She wept until she was exhausted;
and then gradually she became still. By-and-by she took her hands from
her face, clasped them together convulsively, and looked up at a little
glazed window near the bed. It was but three panes of glass unevenly
stuck together. There was no moon; but as Gerty looked up, she saw
shining upon her _one_ bright star. She thought she had never seen
anything half so beautiful. She had often been out of doors when the sky
was full of stars, and had not noticed them much; but this one, all
alone, so large, so bright, and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed
to speak to her; to say, "Gerty! Gerty! _poor_ little Gerty!" She
thought it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long time ago
seen or dreamt about. Suddenly she asked herself, "Who lit it? Somebody
lit it! Some good person, I know. Oh! how could he get up so high?" And
Gerty fell asleep, wondering who lit the star.
Poor little, untaught, benighted soul! Who shall enlighten thee? Thou
art God's child, little one! Christ died for thee. Will he not send man
or angel to light up the darkness within, to kindle a light that shall
never go out, the light that shall shine through all eternity!
Gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who are roused by
merry voices, or by a parent's kiss, who have kind hands to help them
dress, and knowing that a nice breakfast awaits them; but she heard
harsh voices below; Nan's son, and two or three boarders had come in to
breakfast, and Gerty's only chance of obtaining any share of the meal
was to be on the spot when they had finished, to take that portion of
what remained which Nan might shove towards her. So she crept
downstairs, waited a little till they had all gone out, and then she
slid into the room. She met with a rough greeting from Nan, who told her
she had better drop that ugly, sour look; eat some breakfast, if she
wanted it, but keep out of her way, and not come near the fire, where
she was at work, or she'd get another dressing, worse than she had last
night. Gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so she was not
disappointed; but, glad of the miserable food left for her on the table,
she swallowed it eagerly, and she took her little old hood, threw on a
ragged shawl, which had belonged to her mother, and ran out of the
house.
Back of Nan Grant's house was a large wood and coal-yard, and beyond
that a wharf, and the thick, muddy water of a dock. Gerty might have
found many playmates in this place. She sometimes did mingle with the
boys and girls, ragged like herself, who played in the yard; but not
often--there was a league against her among the children of the place.
Poor, ragged, and miserably cared for, as they were, they knew that
Gerty was more neglected and abused. They had often seen her beaten, and
daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child; told that she belonged to
nobody, and had no business in any one's house. Thus they felt their
advantage, and scorned the little outcast. Perhaps this would not have
been the case if Gerty had mingled freely with them, and tried to be on
friendly terms; but, while her mother lived, she did her best to keep
her little girl away from the rude herd. Perhaps that habit of
avoidance, but still more a something in the child's nature, kept her
from joining in their rough sports, after her mother's death had left
her to do as she liked. She seldom had any intercourse with them. Nor
did they abuse her except in words; for, singly, they dared not cope
with her--spirited, sudden, and violent, she had made herself feared as
well as disliked. Once a band of them had united to vex her; but, Nan
Grant coming up just when one of the girls was throwing the shoes, which
she had pulled from Gerty's feet, into the dock, had given the girl a
sound whipping, and put them all to flight. Gerty had not had a pair of
shoes since; but Nan Grant, for once, had done her a good service, and
the children now left her in peace.
It was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when Gerty sought shelter in the
wood-yard. There was an immense pile of timber in one corner of the
yard, almost out of sight of any of the houses. Of different lengths,
the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps. Near the
top was a little sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and
forming a miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one,
and from that looking out upon the water.
This was Gerty's haven of rest, and the only place from which she never
was expelled. Here, during the long summer days, the little lonesome
child sat brooding over her griefs, her wrongs, and her ugliness;
sometimes weeping for hours. Now and then she would get a little more
cheerful, and enjoy watching the sailors as they laboured on board their
vessels, or rowed to and fro in little boats. The warm sunshine was so
pleasant, and the men's voices so lively, that the poor little thing
sometimes forgot her woes.
But summer was gone, and the schooner and the sailors were gone too. The
weather was cold, and for a few days had been so stormy, that Gerty had
to stay in the house. Now, however, she made the best of her way to her
little hiding-place; and, to her joy, the sunshine had dried up the
boards, so that they felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining
so bright and pleasant, that Gerty forgot Nan Grant, forgot how cold
she had been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. Her thoughts
rambled about sometime; but, at last, fixed upon the kind look and voice
of the old lamplighter; and then, for the first time since the promise
was made, it came into her mind that he had engaged to bring her
something the next time he came. She could not believe he would remember
it; but still he might--he seemed to be so sorry for her fall.
What would he bring? Would it be something to eat? Oh, if it were only
some shoes! Perhaps he did not notice that she had none?
Gerty resolved to go for her milk in season to be back before it was
time to light the lamp, so that nothing should prevent her seeing him.
The day seemed very long, but darkness came at last; and with it came
True--or rather Trueman Flint, for that was the lamplighter's name.
Gerty was on the spot, though she took good care to elude Nan Grant's
observation.
True was late about his work that night, and in a great hurry. He had
only time to speak a few words to Gerty; but they were words coming
straight from a good and honest heart. He put his great, smutty hand on
her head in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt, and
said. "It was a plaguy shame she should have been whipped, too, and all
for a spill o' milk, that was a misfortin', and no crime."
"But here," added he, diving into one of his huge pockets, "here's the
critter I promised you. Take good care on't; don't 'buse it; and I'm
thinking, if it's like the mother I've got at home, 'twon't be a little
ye'll be likin' it, 'fore you're done. Good-bye, my little gal;" and he
shouldered his ladder and went off, leaving in Gerty's hands a little
grey-and-white kitten.
Gerty was so taken by surprise on finding in her arms a live kitten,
something so different from what she had anticipated, that she stood
irresolute what to do with it. There were a many cats, of all sizes and
colours, inhabitants of the neighbouring houses and yard;
frightened-looking creatures, which, like Gerty herself, ran about, and
hid themselves among the wood and coal, seeming to feel, as she did,
great doubts about their having a right to be anywhere. Gerty had often
felt a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one, and
carry it home; for she knew that food and shelter were grudgingly
accorded to herself, and would not be extended to her pets. Her first
thought, therefore, was to throw the kitten down, and let it run away.
But while she was hesitating, the little animal pleaded for itself in a
way she could not resist. Frightened by its long journey in True Flint's
pocket, it crept from Gerty's arms up to her neck, clung there, and,
with feeble cries, seemed to ask her to take care of it. Its eloquence
prevailed over all fear of Nan Grant's anger. She hugged pussy to her
bosom, and resolved to love and feed it, and keep it out of Nan's sight.
How much she came in time to love that kitten no words can tell. Her
little, fierce, untamed, impetuous nature had hitherto expressed itself
only in angry passion, sullen obstinacy, and hatred. But there were in
her soul fountains of warm affection, a depth of tenderness never yet
called out, and a warmth and devotion of nature that wanted only an
object upon which to expend themselves.
So she poured out such wealth of love on the poor kitten as only such a
desolate little heart has to spare. She loved the kitten all the more
for the care she was obliged to take of it, and the trouble it gave her.
She kept it, as much as possible, out among the boards, in her favourite
haunts. She found an old hat, in which she placed her hood, to make a
bed for pussy. She carried it a part of her scanty meals; she braved for
it what she would not have done for herself--for almost every day she
abstracted from the kettle, when she returned with the milk for Nan
Grant, enough for pussy's supper, at the risk of being discovered and
punished, the only risk of harm the poor ignorant child knew or thought
of, in connection with the theft; for her ideas of abstract right and
wrong were utterly undeveloped. So she would play with her kitten for
hours among the boards, talk to it, and tell it how much she loved it.
But in very cold days she was puzzled to know how to keep herself warm
out of doors, and the risk of bringing the kitten into the house was
great. She would then hide it in her bosom, and run with it into her
little garret. Once or twice, when she had been off her guard, her
little playful pet had escaped from her, and scampered through the lower
room and passage. Once Nan drove it out with a broom; but there cats and
kittens were not so uncommon as to excite inquiry.
How was it that Gerty had leisure to spend all her time at play? Most
children of the poorer class learn to be useful while they are young.
Nan Grant had no babies; and being a very active woman, with but a poor
opinion of children's services, she never tried to find employment for
Gerty, much better satisfied for her to keep out of her sight; so that,
except her daily errand for the milk, Gerty was always idle--a fruitful
source of unhappiness and discontent.
Nan was a Scotchwoman, not young, and with a temper which, never good,
became worse as she grew older. She had seen life's roughest side, and
had always been a hard-working woman. Her husband was a carpenter, but
she made his house so uncomfortable, that for years he had followed the
sea. She took in washing, and had a few boarders; by which she earned
what might have been an ample support for herself, had it not been for
her son, a disorderly young man, spoilt in early life by his mother's
management, and who, though a skilful workman, squandered his own and a
large part of his mother's earnings. Nan had reason for keeping Gerty,
though they were not so strong as to prevent her often being inclined to
get rid of the encumbrance.