CHAPTER LX.EDITH AND GERTIE.
When Gertie wound her arms around Miss Rossiter’s neck and kissed her so lovingly, she touched a chord in the woman’s heart which had never been touched before,—a chord which, under favorable circumstances, would have vibrated with a mother’s love, and which now brought to life so strong a liking for the helpless girl, that had there been no Edith in the way, Miss Rossiter would have adopted her at once as her own petted daughter. During the days and nights they had watched together by Godfrey’s side, Gertie had crept a long way into Miss Rossiter’s heart by her quiet, gentle manner, and her kind, unselfish thoughtfulness for her companion’s comfort. More than once, when Miss Rossiter looked tired and worn, Gertie had made her lie down, and kneeling beside her had bathed and rubbed her head, and even her feet, and combed and brushed her hair, and had done it all as if it were a favor to herself rather than to her companion, whose duty it now was to care for her.
And Miss Rossiter did not shrink from the task imposed upon her. True, she wore a lump of camphor in her bosom to prevent infection, just as she had done in Godfrey’s room, and she occasionally swallowed a pill of morphine, and kept the house full of chloride of lime, and used every disinfectant of which she had ever heard, and hired a nurse to take care of Gertie, but stood by her all the same, and saw that the doctor’s orders were obeyed. The third day Col. Schuyler said to her, when he came to look at Gertie:
“Christine, you are doing nobly, and I thank you so much, but I must test you still further. Gertie’s mother ought to be here when her child is so sick. Are you willing I should send for her?”
“Certainly,” Miss Rossiter replied, with a little darker shadeon her face. “Send for her by all means. I had thought of that myself.”
It was right, Miss Rossiter knew, that Edith should come to her sick daughter, and she gave her consent graciously, though there was in her heart a feeling of aversion to the woman who had taken Emily’s place, and whom she had always disliked. Still in her own house she must be polite and courteous, and she received Mrs. Schuyler kindly, and made her rest awhile and take some refreshment before she went to Gertie, who was sleeping and must not be disturbed.
“She would not know you, though she talks of you sometimes,” Miss Rossiter said, “and you must be careful not to excite her in the least.”
Edith promised to do whatever Miss Rossiter thought was proper.
“Only let me go to her at once,” she said. “You know I have not seen her in nineteen years, andshemy own child, too.”
“Not seen her? What do you mean?” Miss Rossiter asked, a suspicion of Edith’s sanity crossing her mind.
“I mean I have not seen her, knowing she was my daughter,” Edith replied, as she followed to the room where Gertie lay so white and still, her bright hair tucked away beneath a silken net, a red fever spot on cheek and lips, and her hands folded upon her bosom just as she kept them for the most of the time while with Godfrey she went sailing over the golden sea to the country so far away.
She was on her journey thither when Edith came in, and, parting the curtains cautiously, stood looking at her, while in fancy she was a young girl again in the dreary room in Dorset Street, and the rain plashed against the windows, and ran down the panes in dirty streams, and the roar of the great city sounded in her ears, and she heard the lodgers’ steps upon the stairs, and her baby was in her arms, nestled so close to her that she felt the warm, tender flesh against her own, just as she felt that of the sick girl, whose face and neck, and hands she touched so carefully, and yet with such a world of love and tenderness, as she whispered to herself:
“Little girley, little baby, little Gertie, my very own little one, you are changed since that dreadful day so many years ago, but I know that you are mine. They took you from me when I was asleep, and now, when I see you again, I find you sleeping too. Darling little child, do you know it is your mother standing here and talking to you thus? Will you ever know, ever open your eyes on me and call me mother? Oh, Father in Heaven, spare her to me,—spare my precious child!” This was what the colonel heard Edith say; for, feeling anxious for her, he stood just outside the door, and when her voice ceased and he heard a rustling sound, he went in, and, supporting her with his arm as she sank into a chair, held her head upon his bosom, and soothed her tenderly.
It was strange the effect Edith’s presence in the sick-room had upon Miss Rossiter. She had fully indorsed Gertie,—ay, had in some sort adopted her in her own mind, and could not bear that another should share her watch and care and anxiety for the only sick person in whom she had ever been so deeply interested. But as soon as Edith’s tears were dried, and she was herself again, the calm, quiet dignity of the mother asserted itself, and Miss Rossiter, who was not the mother, was compelled to stand aside while another took her place and did the thousand little things which only a mother could have thought to do.
And Edith did not grow tired with constant watching. On the contrary, both strength and flesh came back to her, and, when at last the fever turned, and she knew her child would live, she gained faster than Gertie, and it seemed to the colonel that she grew young and fair and smooth each day until it was very hard to believe her the mother of the sick girl, who, with the marks of disease upon her face, looked her nineteen years.
The sea was not so placid now, the boat was tossing on the waves, and Gertie sat alone on deck, and called in vain for Godfrey, who had deserted his post and was nowhere to be found, until one morning, when he came bodily, the wreck of his former self, and climbing the stairs to Gertie’s room, bentover her with words of love which penetrated to her dull ear, and must in part have been comprehended.
After that Godfrey stayed in Miss Rossiter’s house, which seemed a sort of hospital, and was so distasteful to Miss Julia, when at last she came from Florida, that she accepted her Uncle Calvert’s invitation, and went to thepokyhouse on Washington Square, where the Sixth Avenue cars on one side, and the University on the other, nearly drove her wild with the never-ending tinkle of their bells.
Julia had heard every particular of the story before she came home, for her father had written it to her, and had told her of Gertie’s illness, and Edith’s presence in Miss Rossiter’s house. Thus her first surprise and indignation had had time to abate, and now she was in a kind of bewildered state, incapable of realizing anything to the full, except the fact that in some sort her aunt had gone over to the enemy, leaving her alone on the old vantage ground of dislike and opposition tothat womanthrough whom all this had come upon them. Fortunately, however, for Julia, her mind was just then occupied with thoughts of a Southern bachelor, who had offered himself and his reputed half million for her acceptance. This offer she was duly considering when she came home, and after seeing how matters were at her Aunt Christine’s, and staying a day or two in the dark old house in Washington Square, she nearly made up her mind to accept it, though the man was forty and bored her nearly to death with his twaddling talk about his horses and dogs. She had not seen Edith during the one day and night spent at Miss Rossiter’s, neither had she mentioned her name or inquired for Gertie, except to ask if the fever was considered catching, and how her aunt liked having her house turned into a hospital! Of this indifference Edith knew nothing, and would not have cared if she had. All her thoughts were centred in that little, white-faced girl slowly groping her way back to life and reason, and talking now far more than she had done at first when the water was so still and the boat sailed so steadily. She was saved; she would live; there was no question about that, and Edith had only to wait patiently for the day when theblue eyes would first look at her with recognition in their glance, and the dear voice call her mother.
Miss Rossiter had given her Gertie’s message, and she knew the words by heart, and repeated them to herself as she watched for the first faint sign of reason. It was on a pleasant April day, and the windows of the room were open, and the sun shone softly upon the plants which Miss Rossiter had placed outside the windows, where they made quite a little garden.
Edith had been up all night, and was still sitting across the room, leaning her tired head upon her hand, when a sound caught her ear and brought her to her feet, where she stood listening intently, wondering if she could be mistaken, or had she heard the blessed namemother, and was she the mother meant and Gertie’s the voice which called her.
“Mother, my mother,” it came again, and then Edith glided across the floor, and parting the silken hangings to the bed looked eagerly in.
Gertie was awake, and sane, and thinking herself alone had tried to put things together and remember where she was, and what it was she heardlong ago, which made her so glad.
“Oh, I know I have a mother,” she said to herself, and it was this word Edith caught.
“Mother, my mother,” Gertie said again, delighted to repeat the dear name, and then it was that Edith parted the curtains and looked in upon her.
Oh, the rapturous joy of that first long gaze when eye met eye, and told without the aid of words the mighty love there was between the mother and the child meeting as such for the first time in the full sense of the relation. My pen cannot describe it, neither should it if it could, for there are some scenes over which a vail must be thrown, and this is one of them. Suffice it to say that Edith was perfectly satisfied with Gertie’s reception of her, and when, an hour later, Colonel Schuyler looked into the room he found them fast asleep, both heads on the same pillow, Edith’s arms around Gertie’s neck, and one of Gertie’s pale, wan hands resting on Edith’s face. This picture touched the colonel, and he cried softly to himself as he stood gazing atthe two, so like each other in their sleep that he wondered he had never seen the resemblance before. Then he called Miss Rossiter, who came and looked, and cried a little too; but neither spoke a word, and after a moment’s silence went out together, and closing the door left them alone together, the mother and her child.