A NEW FRIEND.
"Father," said Mrs. Sullivan, one afternoon, as he was preparing to take
a number of articles which he wanted for his Saturday's work in the
church, "why don't you get little Gerty to go with you, and carry some
of your things? You can't take them all at once; and she'd like to go, I
know."
"She'd only be in the way," said Mr. Cooper; "I can take them myself."
But when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal hod on one arm, taken
a little hatchet and a basket of chips in his hand, and hoisted a small
ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to acknowledge that there was no
accommodation for his hammer and a large paper of nails. Mrs. Sullivan
called Gerty, and asked her to go and help him carry his tools. Gerty
was pleased with the proposal, and started off with great alacrity.
When they reached the church the old sexton took them from her hands,
and telling her she could play about until he went home, but to be sure
and do no mischief, he went into the vestry to commence sweeping,
dusting, and building fires. Gerty had ample amusement for some time, to
wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine closely what,
hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the gallery. Then she
ascended the pulpit, and in imagination addressed a large audience. She
was growing weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had
entered unseen, commenced playing some low, sweet music; and Gerty,
seating herself on the pulpit stairs, listened with the greatest
pleasure. He had not played long before the door opened and two visitors
entered. One was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, with hair
thin and grey, and features rather sharp; but remarkable for his
benignant expression of countenance. A young lady, apparently about
twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his arm. She was attired with
great simplicity, wearing a dark brown cloak, and a bonnet of the same
colour, relieved by some light-blue ribbon about the face. She was
somewhat below the middle size, but had a good figure. Her features were
small and regular; her complexion clear but pale; and her light-brown
hair was neatly arranged. She never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly
up the aisle.
The two approached the spot where Gerty sat, but without perceiving her.
"I am glad you like the organ," said the gentleman; "I am not much of a
judge of music, but they say it is a superior instrument, and that
Hermann plays it remarkably well."
"Nor is my opinion of any value," said the lady; "for I have little
knowledge of music, much as I love it. But that symphony sounds very
delightful to me; it is a long time since I have heard such touching
strains; or, it may be partly owing to their striking so sweetly on the
solemn quiet of the church this afternoon. I love to go into a large
church on a week-day. It was very kind of you to call for me this
afternoon. How came you to think of it?"
"I thought you would enjoy it, my dear. I knew Hermann would be playing
about this time; and, besides, when I saw how pale you were looking I
knew the walk would do you good."
"It has done me good. I was not feeling well, and the clear, cold air
was just what I needed; I knew it would refresh me; but Mrs. Ellis was
busy, and I could not go out alone."
"I thought I should find the sexton here," said the gentleman. "I want
to speak to him about the light; the afternoons are so short now, and it
is dark so early, I must ask him to open more of the blinds, or I cannot
see to read my sermon to-morrow. He may be in the vestry-room; he is
always about here on Saturday; I will go and look for him."
Just then Mr. Cooper entered the church, and, seeing the clergyman, came
up, and after receiving his directions about the light, requested him to
go with him somewhere, for the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young
lady, and then said, "I suppose I ought to go to-day; and, as you say
you are at leisure, it is a pity I should not; but I don't know----"
Then, turning to the lady, he said, "Emily, Mr. Cooper wants me to go to
Mrs. Glass's with him; and I shall be absent some time. Should you mind
waiting here until I return? She lives in the next street; but I may be
detained, for it's about the library-books being so mischievously
defaced, and I am afraid that her oldest boy had something to do with
it. It ought to be inquired into before to-morrow."
"Oh, go, by all means," said Emily; "don't mind me; it will be a
pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. Mr. Hermann's playing is a
great treat to me, and I don't care how long I wait; so do not hurry on
my account, Mr. Arnold."
Thus assured, Mr. Arnold led the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, and
went with Mr. Cooper.
All this time Gerty had been unnoticed, and had remained very quiet on
the upper stair, secured from sight by the pulpit. Hardly had the doors
closed, however, with a loud bang, when the child got up, and began to
descend the stairs. The moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very
near, started, and exclaimed, "Who's that?"
Gerty stood still, and made no reply. Strange the lady did not look up,
though she must have perceived that the movement was above her head.
There was a moment's pause, and then Gerty began again to run down the
stairs. The lady sprang up, and, stretching out her hand, said, "Who is
it?"
"Me," said Gerty, looking up in the lady's face; "it's only me."
"Will you stop and speak to me?" said the lady.
Gerty not only stopped, but came close up to Emily's chair, irresistibly
attracted by the sweetest voice she had ever heard. The lady placed her
hand on Gerty's head, and said, "Who are you?"
"Gerty."
"Gerty who?"
"Nothing else but Gerty."
"Have you forgotten your other name?"
"I haven't got any other name."
"How came you here?"
"I came with Mr. Cooper, to help him to bring his things."
"And he's left you here to wait for him, and I'm left too; so we must
take care of each other, mustn't we?"
Gerty laughed at this.
"Where were you?--On the stairs?"
"Yes."
"Suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with me a
little while: I want to see if we can't find out what your other name
is. Where do you say you live?"
"With Uncle True."
"True?"
"Yes. Mr. True Flint I live with now. He took me home to his house one
night, when Nan Grant put me out on the side-walk."
"Why, are you that little girl? Then I've heard of you before. Mr. Flint
told me all about you."
"Do you know my Uncle True?"
"Yes, very well."
"What's your name?"
"My name is Emily Graham."
"O! I know," said Gerty, springing suddenly up, and clapping her hands
together; "I know. You asked him to keep me; he said so--I _heard_ him
say so; and you gave me my clothes; and you're beautiful; and you're
good; and I love you! O! I love you ever so much!"
As Gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange look passed
over Miss Graham's face, a most inquiring and restless look, as if the
tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of her memory. She did not
speak, but, passing her arm around the child's waist, drew her closer to
her. As the peculiar expression passed from her face, and her features
assumed their usual calmness, Gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of
wonder, exclaimed, "Are you going to sleep?"
"No.--Why?"
"Because your eyes are shut."
"They are always shut, my child."
"Always shut!--What for?"
"I am blind, Gerty; I can see nothing."
"Not see!" said Gerty; "can't you see anything? Can't you see me now?"
"No," said Miss Graham.
"O!" exclaimed Gerty, drawing a long breath, "_I'm so glad_."
"_Glad!_" said Miss Graham, in the saddest voice that ever was heard.
"O yes!" said Gerty, "so glad you can't see me!--because now, perhaps,
you'll love me."
"And shouldn't I love you if I saw you?" said Emily, passing her hand
softly and slowly over the child's features.
"Oh, no!" answered Gerty, "I'm so ugly! I'm glad you can't see how ugly
I am."
"But just think, Gerty," said Emily, in the same sad voice, "how would
you feel if you could not see the light, could not see anything in the
world?"
"Can't you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and the church we're
in? Are you in the dark?"
"In the dark all the time--day and night in the dark."
Gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as soon as
she could find voice amid her sobs, "It's too bad! it's too bad!"
The child's grief was contagious; and, for the first time for years,
Emily wept bitterly for her blindness.
It was but for a few moments, however. Quickly recovering herself, she
tried to compose the child also, saying, "Hush! hush! don't cry; and
don't say it's too bad! It's not too bad; I can bear it very well. I'm
used to it, and am quite happy."
"I shouldn't be happy in the dark; I should _hate_ to be!" said Gerty.
"I _an't_ glad you're blind; I'm really _sorry_. I wish you could see me
and everything. Can't your eyes be opened, any way?"
"No," said Emily; "never; but we won't talk about that any more; we will
talk about you. I want to know what makes you think yourself so very
ugly."
"Because folks say that I am an ugly child, and that nobody loves ugly
children."
"Yes, people do," said Emily, "love ugly children, if they are good."
"But I an't good," said Gerty, "I'm really bad!"
"But you _can be good_," said Emily, "and then everybody will love you."
"Do you think I can be good?"
"Yes, if you try."
"I will try."
"I _hope_ you will," said Emily. "Mr. Flint thinks a great deal of his
little girl, and she must do all she can to please him."
She then asked concerning Gerty's former way of life, and became so
interested in the recital of the little girl's early sorrows and trials,
that she was unconscious of the flight of time, and quite unobservant of
the departure of the organist, who had ceased playing, closed his
instrument, and gone away.
Gerty was very communicative. The sweet voice and sympathetic tones of
Emily went straight to her heart, and though her whole life had been
passed among the poorer and lowest classes of people, she felt no awe
and constraint on her encountering, for the first time, a lady of
polished mind and manners. On the contrary, Gerty clung to Emily as
affectionately, and stroked her soft boa with as much freedom, as if she
had herself been born in a palace. Once or twice she took Emily's
nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight; her
favourite mode of expressing her warmth of gratitude and admiration.
The excitable but interesting child took no less strong a hold upon Miss
Graham's feelings. The latter perceived how neglected the little one had
been, and the importance of her being educated, lest early abuse, acting
upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destructive to a nature
capable of the best attainments. The two were still entertaining each
other, when Mr. Arnold entered the church hastily. As he came up the
aisle, he called to Emily, saying, "Emily; dear, I fear you thought I
had forgotten you. I have been longer than I intended. Were you not
tired of waiting?"
"I thought it was but a very little while. I have had company, you see."
"What, little folks," said Mr. Arnold, good-naturedly. "Where did this
little body come from?"
"She came to the church this afternoon with Mr. Cooper. Isn't he here
for her?"
"Cooper?--No: he went straight home after he left me; he's probably
forgotten all about the child. What's to be done?"
"Can't we take her home? Is it far?"
"It is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our way;
altogether too far for you to walk."
"Oh, no, it won't tire me; I'm quite strong now, and I would know she
was safe home."
If Emily could but have seen Gerty's grateful face that moment, she
would indeed have felt repaid for almost any amount of weariness.