CHAPTER VIII.MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
The world had not gone very well with Mrs. Dr. Barrett since her husband’s death. Her house was too small to admit of many lodgers, and as those who came were mostly Americans, they did not stop long, and required so much of her that she was glad when they left, hoping to do better the next time. A pain under her left shoulder made it hard for her to sew, and but for Edith’s generosity she would have been badly off. Edith was very kind to her, and gave her the larger part of her salary, and Mrs. Barrett was very proud of her daughter, even though that daughter had sorely disappointed her in not having married or shown any dispositionto do so, nor, so far as Mrs. Barrett knew, had she received but one offer, and that from so questionable a quarter that a refusal was the only alternative. She had been away from home when Edith called upon her the day following her return from the Continent, but she found the card which Edith left, and when her maid glowingly described the carriage, and the beautiful young lady who came in it, she said, with a great deal of pride, “That was my daughter.”
“And sure she walked as if the ground wasn’t good enough for her to step on,” was Kitty’s mental comment, as she wondered at the difference between mother and child.
After that day Mrs. Barrett was constantly expecting Edith, and once she thought of going to Oakwood to see her, but on the occasion of her first and only visit there, Mrs. Sinclair, whose likes and dislikes were very strong, had conceived a great aversion for her, and had intimated to Edith that though she was at liberty to visit her mother when she pleased, it was not desirable that the latter should come often to Oakwood. Knowing this, Mrs. Barrett did not like to venture, and she remained at home, waiting impatiently for Edith until the morning when she saw at last the well-known carriage at the gate, and Edith coming up the walk.
How beautiful she was, and how like a princess she looked even in her simple muslin dress and straw hat, with a lace scarf around her graceful shoulders. Everything which Edith wore became her well, and now with a faint flush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, she had never seemed fairer to the proud mother than when she swept into the house with a grace and dignity peculiarly her own, and put up her lips to be kissed. Mrs. Barrett was glad to see her, and asked her many questions concerning her journey, and admired her dress, and scarf, and boots, and gloves, and asked what they cost, and told about herself, how she had but one lodger now, and that he found fault with everything, and that the day before she had received application for rooms from a respectable looking woman, who seemed to belong to the middle or lower class. “Indeed, she said, she had been out to service before her marriage, but thather husband had left her a few shares in the —— Bank, so that she was quite comfortable now.
“I never thought I would take any one who was not first-class,” Mrs. Barrett said, “but my purse is so low that I should have made an exception in favor of Mrs. Rogers if she had not told me her cousin was waiting-maid at Oakwood.”
“Oh, that is Norah Long,” Edith answered indifferently, and her mother continued:
“It seemed like coming down, to lodge and serve a cousin of Mrs. Sinclair’s maid, and when she said she had a little girl about eleven years old, and that she wished her to have a room by herself, I made that an excuse for refusing her. I could not give up my best room to a child, I said, and I did not care to take children, anyway.”
“I think you were very foolish, mother; if this Mrs. Rogers would pay well, and is respectable, why not takeheras soon as another? The child is certainly no objection, and it might be pleasant to have it in the house.”
“Perhaps so, but I did not like the woman’s manner. When she asked for the extra room I told her it belonged to my daughter, Miss Lyle, who was travelling with Mrs. Sinclair, of Oakwood. ‘Oh, Miss Lyle,’ she said, ‘I have heard my cousin speak of her. She is very beautiful, I believe.’ I thought her impertinent, and answered, ‘People call her so. Can I do anything more for you?’ Even then she did not go, but offered me a shilling more than my price for the rooms. Indeed, she seemed resolved to have them, and only a positive refusal on the ground of not liking to have the child availed to send her away. I never thought I should be reduced so low that the cousin of a servant would insist upon lodging with me,” and Mrs. Barrett began to break down a little; then rousing herself, she said, suddenly, “Edith, will you never marry and raise me out of this? Did you find no one abroad?”
“No one, mother,” and Edith flushed to her forehead, while her voice had in it a tone of irritation, as she continued: “How many times must I tell you that I do not go about the country trying to sell myself. I am willing to work for you as long asI have strength, but marry I never shall, and probably could not if I would.”
“You, with that face, say you could not marry!” Mrs. Barrett exclaimed.
And Edith rejoined:
“The man who would take me for my face alone I do not want, and the man whom I could respect enough to marry must know all my past, and, after knowing it, how many, think you, would care to have me?”
There was a gesture of impatience on the part of Mrs. Barrett, but, before she could speak, Edith continued:
“Colonel Schuyler, of Schuyler Hill, is expected at Oakwood to-morrow.”
“Colonel Schuyler!” and Mrs. Barrett was surprised. “How does he happen to come to Oakwood?”
“He is Mrs. Sinclair’s half brother. I never knew it until the other day, and Lady Emily is dead, and he is travelling in Europe with Godfrey.”
“Lady Emily dead! She was a sweet-mannered lady, and young, too. Why, Colonel Schuyler cannot be very old. Not much past forty, I am sure, and he was very fine-looking.”
Edith had risen to go, and did not in the least understand what was in her mother’s mind; and buttoning her long gloves, she said:
“While Colonel Schuyler is there, Mrs. Sinclair’s time will be occupied with him, and she will not have so much need of me. I will try to see you oftener. I wish I could take you out of this altogether, mother, for I know how distasteful the life is to you after having known one so much better; but my salary is not large, and Mrs. Sinclair will never raise it. It is a principle of hers to give so much and no more. If she were not so kind, I would try for another situation.”
“No, no,” the mother said, in some alarm; “don’t leave Oakwood on any account. I’ve always felt that something would come of your being there. I can do very well as I am, only it was humiliating to have that Mrs. Rogers, who had been in service, come to me for rooms, and act as if she were my equal.”
“I do not see it in that light, mother,” Edith said. “If Mrs. Rogers is respectable, and can pay, I advise you to take her. It is far better to have some one permanently, than the changing, floating class you usually have about you. Beside that, it must be pleasanter to have a decent woman in the house than a lot of foreign men of whom you know nothing. Suppose I speak to Norah, and tell her you will take her cousin if she has not secured apartments elsewhere; and if she wants my old room for her child, let her have it. I do not occupy it often, and would rather some nice little girl was in it than any one else. Yes, I think I’ll speak to Norah.” And without waiting for her mother to object, even if she wished to do so, Edith went hastily down the walk to the carriage waiting for her.
She found Mrs. Sinclair asleep, and Norah mending a lace handkerchief for her outside the door.
“Norah,” she said, “has your cousin, Mrs. Rogers, yet suited herself with lodgings?”
“No, ma’am. She was just here. You must have met her and the little girl somewhere in the park. You would have noticed the child.”
But Edith had been too much occupied with her own thoughts as she drove through the park to see the woman and child sitting on a bench beneath the trees, and looking curiously at her as she drove by.
“No, I met no one,” she said; “but I wish you would see your cousin, and tell her that Mrs. Barrett, of Caledonia Street, No. —, will accommodate her with rooms.”
“Two rooms?” Norah asked.
And Edith replied:
“Yes, two rooms, if she likes, and pays in advance.”
“She’s sure to do that,” Norah answered, quickly; “and she’s able, too. Her man left her well beforehand, and the child has something, too. That’s what makes Mary,—my cousin, please,—so careful of her. She isn’t her own, you see; she’s adopted, and has a little money, and Mary worships her as something different from common ones; and well she may, for a sweeter, prettier lass was never born in England than little Gertie Westbrooke.”
There was a sound in Mrs. Sinclair’s room, and Edith hastened to remove her hat and scarf so as to be in readiness for the lady when she was needed, and what Norah had said to her of her cousin and the child was scarcely heeded, except, indeed, the name, Gertie Westbrooke, which struck her as very pretty, and twice that day she caught herself repeating it, while in her dreams that night it seemed constantly in her mind; and when at an early hour she woke from a troubled sleep, her chamber was full of the faint echoes of the name of the little girl who was to occupy her old room and bed in Caledonia Street.