MENTAL DARKNESS.
The blind girl did not forget little Gerty. Emily Graham never forgot
the sufferings, the wants, the necessities of others. She could not see
the world without, but there was a world of love and sympathy within
her, which manifested itself in abundant charity, both of heart and
deed. She loved God with her whole heart, and her neighbour as herself.
Her own great misfortunes and trials were borne without repining; but
the misfortunes and trials of others became her care, the alleviation of
them her greatest delight. Emily was never weary of doing good. But
never had she been so affected as now by any tale of sorrow. Children
were born into the world amid poverty and privation. She could not
account to herself for the interest she felt in the little stranger; but
the impulse to know more of her was irresistible, and sending for True,
she talked a long time with him about the child.
True was highly gratified by Miss Graham's account of the meeting in the
church, and of the interest the little girl had inspired in one for whom
he felt the greatest admiration and respect. Gerty had previously told
him how she had seen Miss Graham, and had spoken in the most glowing
terms of the dear lady who was so kind to her, and brought her home when
Mr. Cooper had forgotten her, but it had not occurred to the old man
that the fancy was mutual.
Emily asked him if he didn't intend to send her to school?
"Well, I don't know," said he; "she's a little thing, and an't much used
to being with other children. Besides, I don't exactly like to spare
her."
Emily suggested that it was time she was learning to read and write; and
that the sooner she went among other children, the easier it would be to
her.
"Very true, Miss Emily, very true," said Mr. Flint. "I dare say you're
right; and if you think she'd better go, I'll ask her, and see what she
says."
"I would," said Emily. "I think she might enjoy it, besides improving
very much; and, about her clothes, if there's any deficiency, I'll----"
"Oh, no, no, Miss Emily!" interrupted True; "there's no necessity; she's
very well on't now, thanks to your kindness."
"Well," said Emily, "if she should have any wants, you must apply to me.
You know we adopted her jointly, and I agreed to do anything I could for
her; so you must never hesitate--it will be a pleasure to serve either
of you. My father always feels under obligations to you, Mr. Flint, for
faithful service that cost you dear in the end."
"Oh, Miss Emily," said True, "Mr. Graham has always been my best friend;
and as to that 'ere accident that happened when I was in his employ, it
was nobody's fault but my own; it was my own carelessness, and nobody's
else."
"I know you say so," said Emily, "but we regretted it very much; and you
mustn't forget what I tell you, that I shall delight in doing anything
for Gerty. I should like to have her come and see me, some day, if she
would like, and you'll let her."
"Sartain, sartain," said True, "and thank you kindly; she'd be glad to
come."
A few days after Gerty went with True to see Miss Graham, but the
housekeeper, whom they met in the hall, told them that she was ill and
could see no one. So they went away full of disappointment and regret.
Emily had taken a severe cold the day she sat so long in the church, and
was suffering with it when they called; but, though confined to her
room, she would have been glad to have a visit from Gerty, and was sorry
that Mrs. Ellis should have sent them away.
On Saturday evening, when Willie was present, True broached the subject
of Gerty's going to school. Gerty was much displeased with the idea; but
it met with Willie's approbation; and when Gerty learned that Miss
Graham also wished it, she consented, though reluctantly, to begin the
next week, and try how she liked it. So next Monday Gerty went with True
to one of the primary schools, was admitted, and her education began.
When Willie came home the next Sunday, he rushed into True's room, eager
to hear how Gerty liked going to school. She was seated at the table,
with her spelling-book; and she exclaimed, "Oh, Willie! Willie! come and
hear me read!"
Her performance could hardly be called reading. She had not got beyond
the alphabet, and a few syllables she had learned to spell; but Willie
bestowed upon her much well-merited praise, she had been very diligent.
He was astonished to hear that Gerty liked going to school, liked the
teachers and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. He had fully
expected that she would dislike the whole business, and go into tantrums
about it--which was the expression he used to denote her fits of
ill-temper. Willie promised to assist her in her studies; and the two
children's literary plans soon became as high-flown as if one had been a
poet-laureate and the other a philosopher.
For two or three weeks all appeared to go on smoothly. Gerty went
regularly to school, and made rapid progress. Every Saturday Willie
heard her read and spell, assisted, praised, and encouraged her. But he
had heard that, on two occasions, she had nearly had a brush with some
large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike. This soon
reached a crisis. One day, when the children were in the school-yard,
during recess, Gerty saw True in his working-dress, passing down the
street, with his ladder and lamp-filler. Shouting and laughing, she
pursued and overtook him. She came back in a few minutes, seeming much
delighted, and ran into the yard full of happy excitement. The troop of
large girls, whom Gerty had already had some reason to distrust, had
been observing her, and one of them called out saying----
"Who's that man?"
"That's my Uncle True," said Gerty.
"Your what?"
"My Uncle, Mr. Flint, that I live with."
"So you belong to him, do you?" said the girl, in an insolent tone of
voice. "Ha! ha! ha!"
"What are you laughing at?" said Gerty, fiercely.
"Ugh! Before I'd live with him!" said the girl--"Old Smutty!"
The others caught it up, and the laugh and epithet Old Smutty circulated
freely in the corner of the yard where Gerty was standing. Gerty was
furious. Her eyes glistened, she doubled her little fist, and, without
hesitation, came down in battle upon the crowd. But they were too many
for her, and, helpless as she was with passion, they drove her out of
the yard. She started for home on a full run, screaming with all her
might.
As she flew along the side-walk, she brushed stiffly against a tall,
stiff-looking lady, who was walking slowly in the same direction, with a
much smaller person leaning on her arm. "Bless me!" said the tall lady,
who had almost lost her equilibrium from the suddenness of the shock.
"Why, you horrid little creature!" As she spoke, she grasped Gerty by
the shoulder, and, before she could break away, gave her a slight shake.
This served to increase Gerty's anger, and, her speed gaining in
proportion, it was but a few minutes before she was crouched in a corner
of True's room behind the bed, her face to the wall, and covered with
both her hands. Here she was free to cry as loud as she pleased; for
Mrs. Sullivan was gone out, and there was no one in the house to hear
her.
But she had not indulged long in her tantrum when the gate at the end of
the yard closed with a bang, and footsteps were heard coming towards Mr.
Flint's door. Gerty's attention was arrested, for she knew by the sound
that a stranger was approaching. With a strong effort she controlled
herself so as to keep quiet. There was a knock at the door, but Gerty
did not reply to it, remaining concealed behind the bed. The knock was
not repeated, but the stranger lifted the latch and walked in.
"There doesn't seem to be any one at home," said a female voice, "what a
pity."
"Isn't there? I'm sorry," replied another, in the sweet musical tones of
Miss Graham. Gerty knew the voice at once.
"I thought you'd better not come here yourself," rejoined the first
speaker, who was no other than Mrs. Ellis, the identical lady whom Gerty
had so frightened and disconcerted.
"Oh, I don't regret coming," said Emily. "You can leave me here while
you go to your sister's, and very likely Mr. Flint or the little girl
will come home in the meantime."
"It don't become you, Miss Emily, to be carried round everywhere, and
left, like an express parcel, till called for. You caught a horrid cold
that you're hardly well of now, waiting there in the church for the
minister; and Mr. Graham will be finding fault next."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Ellis; it's very comfortable here; the church must have
been damp, I think. Come, put me in Mr. Flint's arm-chair, and I can
make myself quite contented."
"Well, at any rate," said Mrs. Ellis, "I'll make up a good fire in this
stove before I go."
As she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and, after
stirring up the coals, and making free with all True's kindlewood,
waited till the fire burnt up, and then, having laid aside Emily's
cloak, went away with the same firm step with which she had come, and
which had so overpowered Emily's noiseless tread, that Gerty had only
anticipated the arrival of a single guest. As soon as Gerty knew that
Mrs. Ellis had really departed, she suspended her efforts at
self-control, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, gasped out, "O dear! O dear!"
"Why, Gerty!" exclaimed Emily, "is that you?"
"Yes," sobbed Gerty.
"Come here."
The child waited no second bidding, but, starting up, ran, threw herself
on the floor by the side of Emily, buried her face in the blind girl's
lap, and once more commenced crying aloud. Her whole frame was agitated.
"Why, Gerty," said Emily, "what is the matter?"
But Gerty could not reply; and Emily desisted from her inquiries until
the little one should be somewhat composed. She lifted Gerty up into her
lap, laid her head upon her shoulder, and with her handkerchief wiped
the tears from her face. Her soothing words and caresses soon quieted
the child, and when she was calm, Emily, instead of recurring at once to
the cause of her grief, questioned her upon other topics. At last,
however, she asked her if she went to school.
"I _have been_," said Gerty, raising her head from Emily's shoulder;
"but I won't ever go again!"
"What!--Why not!"
"Because," said Gerty, angrily, "I hate those girls; yes, I hate 'em!
ugly things!"
"Gerty," said Emily, "don't say that; you shouldn't hate anybody."
"Why shouldn't I?" said Gerty.
"Because it's wrong."
"No, it's not _wrong_; I say it _isn't_!" said Gerty; "and I do hate
'em; and I hate Nan Grant, and I always shall! Don't _you_ hate
anybody?"
"No," answered Emily, "_I don't._"
"Did anybody ever drown your kitten? Did anybody ever call your father
Old Smutty?" said Gerty. "If they had, I know you'd hate 'em just as I
do."
"Gerty," said Emily, solemnly, "didn't you tell me, the other day, that
you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be good, and would
try!"
"Yes," said Gerty.
"If you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must forgive others."
Gerty said nothing.
"Do you not wish God to forgive and love you?"
"God, who lives in heaven--who made the stars?" said Gerty.
"Yes."
"Will he love me, and let me some time go to heaven?"
"Yes, if you try to be good and love everybody."
"Miss Emily," said Gerty, after a moment's pause, "I can't do it, so I
s'pose I can't go."
Just at this moment a tear fell upon Gerty's forehead. She looked
thoughtfully up into Emily's face, then said--
"Dear Miss Emily, are you going there?"
"I am trying."
"I should like to go with you," said Gerty.
Still Emily did not speak. She left the child to the working of her own
thoughts.
"Miss Emily," said Gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, "I mean to
_try_, but I don't think I _can_."
"God bless you, and help you, my child!" said Emily, laying her hand
upon Gerty's head.
For fifteen minutes or more not a word was spoken by either. Gerty lay
perfectly still in Emily's lap. By-and-by the latter perceived, by the
child's breathing, that, worn out with the fever and excitement of all
she had gone through, she had dropped into a quiet sleep. When Mrs.
Ellis returned, Emily pointed to the sleeping child, and asked her to
place her on the bed. She did so, and turning to Emily, exclaimed, "My
word, Miss Emily, that's the same rude, bawling little creature that
came so near being the death of us!" Emily smiled at the idea of a child
eight years old overthrowing a woman of Mrs. Ellis' inches, but said
nothing.
Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene of the
morning? Why did she, on bended knees, wrestle so vehemently with a
mighty sorrow? Why did she pray so earnestly for new strength and
heavenly aid? Why did she so beseechingly ask of God His blessing on the
little child? Because she had felt, in many a year of darkness and
bereavement, in many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of
despair, how a temper like that of Gerty's might, in one moment of its
fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, and write in fearful lines
the mournful requiem of early joy. And so she prayed to heaven for
strength to keep her firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying
purpose, to cure that child of her dark infirmity.