CHAPTER LVIII.GERTIE AND THE STORY.
Gertie did not go into Godfrey’s room again, nor was it necessary, as he was very quiet and seemed to be sleeping, while his father sat by him with his head bowed down, and such marks of age upon him that Miss Rossiter asked him if he were sick. He did not hear her at first, and she said, again:
“Howard, are you sick? Have you any trouble on your mind?”
Then he looked up, with a faint smile, and answered her:
“Trouble? sick? No, not sick, and no trouble now; that is past. I say, Christine, have I grown very old? isn’t my hair turning gray? I did not like to ask Edith, because, you see, the—the trouble concerned her the most.”
Miss Rossiter was sure of it. That woman, whom she never liked, had shown her colors at last, and here was the result in the colonel’s bowed form and fast-turning hair. Hehadgrown old and his hairwasgray, and she told him so, and added:
“Poor Howard, tell me about it. I knew it must come to this when you married her.”
“Didyouknow anything about it?” the colonel asked, in some surprise; and Miss Rossiter replied:
“Know about what? I knew it was amésalliance, and they always prove unhappy.”
“Hush, Christine, it is not that,” and the colonel spoke sternly, “Edith is a noble woman. She has been so tempted and tried, and is so broken now. Christine, I wish you were her friend, my friend. I want so much to unburden myself to some one. It would be such a relief. Christine, try and like my wife, and let me tell you the strangest tale you ever heard, and let me feel that we have your sympathy and support in the storm which will blow so hard.”
He looked at her so pleadingly that Miss Rossiter’s heart was moved, and she said:
“I likeyou, Howard, and know nothing against Edith as a woman. She is beautiful and you love her, and I daresay she is good, and I will be your friend: tell me the story, please; is it about Gertie? She showed me your letter in which you called her your daughter. What does it mean?”
Colonel Schuyler glanced at his son, who was still sleeping quietly, then drawing his chair closer to Miss Rossiter and speaking in the lowest possible whisper for her to hear, he told her the story from beginning to end. And Miss Rossiter neitherfainted nor went into hysterics, but for her behaved remarkably well, and with the exception of a few ejaculations of amazement when the story was at the most exciting point, never spoke a word until the colonel had told her everything there was to tell. Then her first remark was:
“I am so glad it is Gertie. You need not be ashamed ofher.”
“Thank you, Christine,” the colonel said; “and now who will tell her, you or I, and when?”
“You, and as soon as she can bear it. I think she is too tired now, too much fatigued; she ought to have perfect rest. If I knew Godfrey was out of danger I should take her home with me. Perhaps I had better do it anyway,” Miss Rossiter replied, wondering at herself and her interest in Gertie Westbrooke, and why she could not feel more indignant atthat woman, who really had been in a way an impostor after all.
Miss Rossiter was peculiar, and often did things and took fancies which astonished those who knew her best. And this was one of her fancies. Colonel Schuyler had confided in her first, had told her everything, and asked her to stand by him, and she was going to, and would begin by being very kind to Gertie, toward whom she had been greatly drawn during the days and nights they had watched together by Godfrey’s bedside. After her conference with the colonel was finished, and the doctor had been in and declared the danger past for Godfrey, she went to Gertie and Alice in the adjoining room and telling them the good news, said to the former:
“Colonel Schuyler and myself both think it better for you to go where you can have perfect rest and quiet for a few days, lest you take the fever also. My carriage will be here in an hour or so; you know it comes every day, and as I am not needed at present, I shall go home and take you with me.”
Gertie was lying on the couch, with her hands pressed to her head, which was aching terribly. But she put them away, and lifting her heavy eyes wonderingly to Miss Rossiter’s face said:
“Go home withyou! Doyouwish it?”
“Certainly; I should not suggest it if I did not,” Miss Rossiter answered, a little stiffly.
And Gertie continued:
“But my,—Colonel Schuyler,—he has not told me yet. I must know about that before I can rest anywhere.”
“Yes; but you must rest a little first, he says. You will need strength and courage both to hear what he has just told me,” Miss Rossiter replied; and then, as Gertie was about to speak again, she added: “Not a word more at present. This afternoon, if he can leave Godfrey, the colonel will come and tell you all.”
And with this Gertie was obliged to be satisfied; and an hour later she was driven with Miss Rossiter to the handsome house far up town, which she had never thought it possible for her to enter as she was entering it now.
Alice had decided to go to her own home proper at Uncle Calvert’s, and Gertie was alone with Miss Rossiter, who gave her the room near hers, where Alice slept when she was there.
And here, late in the day, Colonel Schuyler came, and was brought up by Miss Rossiter, who withdrew and left him alone with Gertie.
She was pale as marble, save where two bright red spots burned on her cheeks, and her eyes were heavy as lead, but they brightened with eagerness and excitement when the colonel came in and drew his chair beside her as she lay upon the couch.
“Don’t try to rise,” he said, as she made an effort to sit up. “You are too tired and worn; keep as you are while I am talking to you. Gertie, it is a very strange story I am about to tell you, and that it may come to you by degrees, I will tell you first why we went to England so suddenly, and that when we went we had no thought of you, or that we should discover who you were. We were hunting for another child.”
Gertie was looking steadily at him, and her eyes never left his face while he told her the story, beginning with the time when he first asked Edith to be his wife, and she hinted at a page of her life of which she wished to tell him, and which after so many years, had come to him by accident.
“I have the letter with me,” he said; “I brought it on purpose to read to you, as it will tell the story so much better than I can.”
Taking out Edith’s letter he read it aloud, while Gertie’s eyes deepened their gaze upon his face, and the red all died from her cheeks, which were of an ashen hue, as when the letter was finished, he went on to tell how the child was not dead, as Edith had supposed, and of their search in London, which they gave at last into the hands of the police.
“Then, while we were waiting,” he said, “I thought to make some inquiries about you at the office where your annuity is paid. There I heard of a Mrs. Westbrooke, recently from Florence, and to her we went, hoping she might know something of you, and she did. She was the second wife of the man who was not your father, but whose first wife adopted you when her own baby died. Her maid, Mary Stover, afterward Mrs. Rogers, told her of you, and brought you to her from her mother, who had taken you from the —— Street Foundling Hospital, where you had been left on the steps, and where Mary Stover’s sister Anne was at that time nurse.
“Gertie, are you going to faint? Do you hear me? Do you understand?” the colonel asked, alarmed at the expression of the face still confronting him so steadily, and never moving a muscle any more than if the features had been chiselled in stone.
“Yes, I think—I understand,” came huskily from the livid lips, “that baby, born in Dorset Street, and left on the hospital steps, and hunted for by you—and—and—her—was—was—I, and she—your—Mrs. Schuyler—is—my mother—and that—that grave I’ve tended always—is—is my father’s!”
She understood it perfectly, but the colonel thought to make it clearer by saying:
“Yes, Gertie, you are the child of my wife, Mrs. Schuyler, born in lawful wedlock, and Abelard Lyle was your father!”
He opened the window and carried Gertie to it, and let the cool air blow on her, and dashed water on her face, and only that he had seen Edith thus more than once, would havethought her dead, when he laid her back upon the couch and went to summon help. Miss Rossiter watched with Gertie that night and many other nights, while the fever contracted at Godfrey’s bedside, and brought to a crisis by the terrible shock which she had sustained, ran its course. There were a few moments of consciousness that first night, when Gertie’s eyes opened and looked up at Miss Rossiter, who was bending over her.
“Am I very sick?” she asked faintly, and Miss Rossiter replied:
“Pretty sick, yes; but we hope to have you well soon if you are quiet.”
“Am I going to have the fever like Godfrey?”
“Yes, we think you are, though not so hard.”
“Miss Rossiter, if I am very sick,very,—I wantherto come,—mother,—Mrs. Schuyler,—you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And if I don’t know her, if Ineverknow her, tell her please, that I have loved her since I first saw her a bride in England, and gave the flowers to her; and tell her, too, I’ve loved that Heloise Fordham ever since Miss Armstrong told me about her and the lover who died, and my name is Heloise, too,—Gertrude Heloise,—and there’s a spot of blood right over my heart; she will find it there if I die.”
“Yes, I will tell her.”
“And tell Godfrey,—oh, what message shall I leave for Godfrey? Tell him I loved him,—more than he ever knew; but he must marry Alice for my sake. Tell him it was my wish.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“And Miss Rossiter, let me kiss you once, please, because you are so kind. I used to think you proud, and guess I did not like you, but I do now. I like everybody.”
The kiss was given, and, strangest part of all, returned, for Miss Rossiter’s heart was very soft toward the young girl, who, having said all she had to say, folded her hands upon her bosom, and whispering the little prayer, “Now I lay me,” learned when she was a child, sank into unconsciousness, from which she didnot awake until the first April rains were falling, and there was a breath of coming summer in the soft spring air. If that sickness can be called pleasant when the fever runs so high that the pulse cannot be counted, and the breath of life almost fleets away, then Gertie’s sickness was a pleasant one, and never sure before or since was there a patient so docile, and quiet, and manageable as she, taking always what they bade her take, lying just where they put her, and seldom moving hand or foot save as they moved them for her. Like Godfrey, she was out on the broad sea, sailing away to parts unknown, but with her there were no storms, no sudden lurches, no rollings, no pitchings, no swelling waves threatening to engulf her. All was smooth and quiet and calm, as a river of glass, and the sun by day shone upon the water, flecking it with spots of gold, while the moon and stars at night looked down on the blue expanse, and lit it up with sheets of silvery light, into which Gertie went gliding, with Godfrey at her side. Always Godfrey, who stood at the helm and managed the oars, and managed the sails, and talked to her of love, which it was right for her now to accept. In that pleasant dream there was no Alice in the way, no father to dissent, but all was bright and clear, and the boat went drifting on and on, always in moonlight or sunlight, always on a smooth, still sea, till they came in sight of a far-off country, where golden streets and gates of pearl gleamed in the setting sun, and the boat paused mid stream, and waited whether the soul would cross to the beautiful city, or turning, take the homeward route and come back to life again. It chose the latter, and came slowly back, with sails all drooping and torn, and more ripples on the waves than had been in the journey out. Godfrey was no longer in the boat, Gertie had lost him somewhere, and was hunting sadly for him until a voice, which sounded much like his, said to her: “Gertie, I am here, and shall never leave you again.”
Then her little plaintive moan, “Godfrey, oh, where is Godfrey?” ceased, and when she spoke again, it was to a beautiful woman, who, she thought, was standing by her, and calling her “my daughter.” Oh, how that mother-love brooded overthe sick girl, soothing and quieting and comforting her, and with its pleading prayers bringing at last the healing power which unlocked the sleeping senses, and made Gertie whole again. For Edith was there with her, and had been since the third day of her illness, when the colonel’s telegram went up the river, saying: “Gertie is very sick. Come immediately.”