CHAPTER XXXV.GERTIE AT THE HILL.
It was known now, from Mrs. Tiffe, the housekeeper, down to Jennie, the scullion, that Gertie Westbrooke was to be an inmate of the household, but no one seemed to care particularly, unless it were Kitty, the laundress, who groaned over the extra washing, but consoled herself that the girl would not probably “wear as many frillicks and puffs as the young ladies did.”
With regard in her exact position in the family the servants were at first in doubt, but guessed she was to be either second waiting-maid to their mistress or nurse to the baby, but of this opinion Edith, who overheard their conjectures, disabused them at once.
“Miss Westbrooke isnotcoming here as waitress or nurse,” she said. “She comes as a young lady of the house, and as such you will treat her with deference and respect.”
The servants glanced curiously at each other, and John, the table-waiter, said he knew now why Miss Julia looked so black at lunch, and whisked so spitefully out of the room.
Julia was furious, and when alone with her father spoke her mind freely to him, asking first if it were true, that Mrs. Schuyler had adopted Gertie Rogers, and was to bring her there to live.
“Not adopted; no, certainly not adopted her,” the colonel said, apologetically, for there was something in his daughter’s black eyes which made him wince a little. “That woman was anxious about her child’s future, and Mrs. Schuyler,—or, rather, we promised to give her a home and an education, but there was no talk of adoption. No, certainly not.”
He was careful to spare Edith as much as possible, and generously saidwe,—but Julia was not deceived, and answered, indignantly:
“What is Gertie Rogers and that woman to Mrs. Schuyler?Are they relatives of hers, that she has so persistently interested herself in them since she first came to Hampstead? It would certainly seem as if they were more than mere chance acquaintances, as she affirms.”
“Julia, hush! I will hear no more!” the colonel said; but Julia would not stop, and continued, hotly:
“I wonder what my mother would say could she know the kind of society to which her children are subjected, and the danger threatening Godfrey.”
“Godfrey!” the colonel repeated, in surprise; and Julia answered him:
“You must have been blind not to have seen the interest he has taken in Gertie Rogers ever since she came here. Why, she has even presumed to criticise his manners and his mode of talk; and he has promised to improve forhersake, and holds her up as a pattern for Alice and me to imitate. If he does this now, when she is in her proper place, what may he not do when he finds her here, an equal, and a daughter of the house, as I understand Mrs. Schuyler says she is to be. Possibly she may yet be the daughter really; and if so, you’ll have yourself to thank.”
Now, Julia had not the slightest fear for Godfrey, and the entire secret of her aversion to the child lay in the interest which Robert Macpherson manifested in her. From the first Julia had appropriated Robert to herself, and was fearfully jealous of any one who stood in her way in the least. She had quarrelled with Rosamond Barton because he once escorted her home from a party, and had refused to speak to Emma for an entire day when she found her in the summer-house alone with Robert, who was reading “Lady Geraldine’s Love” to her; and though Gertie was a mere child, she was even jealous of her because of Robert’s interest in her, and the unbounded praise he so unhesitatingly bestowed upon her. He thought her face the most beautiful he had ever seen, and he had painted her portrait and called it “La Sœur,” and spoke of her so often in Julia’s presence that she began to hate the girl, who had heretofore been only indifferent to her as one beneath her notice;and now she was to become an inmate of the family, where Mr. Macpherson would meet her on terms of equality when he came back to Hampstead in the spring; and this was the cause of Julia’s anger, and the reason why she dared talk as she did to her father, who was made quite as uncomfortable as she wished him to be.
Perhaps it was an unwise thing to bring Gertie into the house on terms of equality. She was very pretty. She would, of course, grow prettier with years, while Godfrey was headstrong and impetuous, and might be led to do her harm by attentions which to him would mean nothing, but would, nevertheless, be much to her. The colonel tried to believe that it was only for Gertie that he anticipated harm. Godfrey would never be in earnest, and, consequently, no serious injury could accrue to him, except, indeed, the moral one of deceiving and playing with the feelings of another. The real hurt would fall on Gertie, and for her sake it might have been better if he had left her where she was. Thus Colonel Schuyler reasoned after Julia left him to his own reflections, which finally assumed the conviction that Edith had been foolish, if not unreasonable, to wish Gertie to come there, and he unwise to permit it. But it was too late now. She was expected that very afternoon, and as he went up to look at his boy before going into town, he stumbled over dustpan and broom which were standing before the door of the room opposite Edith’s, and which he knew was to be Gertie Westbrooke’s. Glancing in, he saw a bright fire in the grate, and a pretty bouquet of flowers on the dressing-table, while Edith herself was arranging the chairs and curtains and ornaments upon the mantel.
“Edith, what areyoudoing here in this cold room?” he said, rather sharply.
He had never spoken to her in this tone of voice, and she turned toward him with a look of surprise in her face as she replied:
“It is not cold; the fire has been kindled some time, and I wanted to see that Gertie’s room was all right. I am so sorry for her, and wish her to feel at home.”
“Yes, certainly; but, Edith,—Mrs. Schuyler,—my dear,—are you not in danger of spoiling her by making so much of her. You could hardly do more if she were Alice herself, and such people do not often bear sudden elevation.”
“Oh, Howard, what do you mean? You are not sorry we gave her a home?” Edith said, in much perplexity at his manner, as she followed him into the nursery.
“No, not exactly that, certainly not; under the circumstances we could hardly have done otherwise than to give her a home, but we might have stopped there; we need not have made her one of the family, and our having done so may be productive of a great deal of harm. My daughter Julia is already in open rebellion, and has said things which disturb me very much.”
“Julia,” Edith began, indignantly, but checked herself at once, as she met the questioning look in her husband’s eyes, and saw the meeting together of his eyebrows.
Julia had been her onlybête noirsince the departure of Miss Rossiter, and though they were outwardly extremely polite to each other, Edith knew that she was looked upon by the young lady as an intruder and adventuress, and that the slightest provocation on her part would fan the smouldering fire into a flame.
Not a hint of this, however, had she ever given her husband, who, as she stopped suddenly, said:
“You were going to speak of Julia.”
“Nothing of any consequence,” she replied, “except that I will keep Gertie out of her way as much as possible.”
“Yes, certainly, and now I must go. I have an appointment in town. There’s the carriage at the door. Good-by.”
He kissed her forehead and stooped to kiss his boy, when Edith said hesitatingly:
“By the way, Howard, would you mind driving round by the cottage on your way home and bringing Gertie with you? The snow is so deep and the walking so bad.”
“I shall not have time,” he answered, a little stiffly, as he buttoned his overcoat, “and then, you forget that such people do not mind mud and snow. They are used to it.”
He was gone before Edith could utter a word, and with a swelling heart she watched him driving down the avenue, and then bending over the cradle of her boy, she shed the first really bitter tears she had known since coming to Schuyler Hill. It is true she had received insolence from Miss Rossiter,, coldness from Julia, and indifference from Alice; but these had weighed little when her husband’s uniform kindness and consideration were in the opposite scale, and now it seemed as if he, too, were against her, and for a time she cried silently, wondering if she had done wrong to befriend the orphan girl, and if her coming there would be the beginning of discord between herself and husband.
“Mrs. Schuyler, please, may I come in? It’s I,—Gertie,” a soft voice said at the door; and starting up Edith went to meet the young girl, and winding her arms around her, kissed her lovingly, while all doubts of right and wrong were swept away with her first glance into the bright, innocent face, and the soft blue eyes looking at her so wonderingly.
Gertie had never expected the carriage to come for her. As the colonel said, she was accustomed to mud and snow, and had walked to the Hill and entered at the side door with Norah, who, knowing the position she was to occupy in the house, took her up stairs at once, and, pointing out her room, left her, while she went to change her wet shoes and stockings. But Gertie could not believe this pretty room was intended for her. There must be some mistake, she thought; and, seeing the door opposite slightly ajar, and knowing it led into the nursery, and that Mrs. Schuyler was probably there, she ventured to knock and ask if she might enter. There was something peculiarly restful about Gertie,—something mesmeric in her presence, which everybody felt for good, and which affected Edith at once, making her forget for a moment her husband’s words and manner.
“I am so glad to have you here, and thisisyour room,” she said, as she led her into her pleasant chamber. “I wanted you near me and baby, he is so fond of you.”
She removed Gertie’s hood and cloak, and smoothed her ripplinghair, and thought how pretty she was in black, and wondered where she had seen an expression like that which flashed into the blue eyes and spread over the bright face at her caresses.
It was an hour before dinner, and Gertie spent the time with Edith and in playing with little Jamie, who, at sight of her, gave a coo of delight, and nearly jumped into her arms. He was an active, playful child, and Gertie was sorry when the nurse came to take him, telling Mrs. Schuyler dinner was ready. This was an ordeal Gertie dreaded, and in a kind of nervous terror she cried, “Oh, Mrs. Schuyler, I wish I did not have to go down. Can’t I stay here and eat by myself?”
“Certainly not,” Edith replied, knowing the while that such a thing would be highly satisfactory to one of the young ladies, at least, and possibly to her husband, but, nevertheless, being fully resolved that every privilege of the house, whether great or small, should be awarded to herprotégée. “Certainly not, you are one of us now. You aremylittle girl;” and she passed her arm caressingly around the child. “Watch me, if you like, and do what you see me do.”
Thus reassured, Gertie entered the long dining-room with as much self-possession as if she had done the same thing every day of her life.
“Oh, Gertie, how do you do? And so you are come to live with us,” Emma said, kindly, as she came in, and offering her hand she took her seat at the table, and did not once seem to look at Gertie, whose feelings she wished to spare as much as possible.
With Julia it was different. She called herself a lady, versed in every point of politeness and breeding, and yet she could deliberately stoop to wound a girl who had never injured her, and whose only crime was her poverty. Arrayed in her longest train of dark blue silk, her hair in the very latest style, as reported by Alice Creighton, who was then in New York, she swept haughtily into the room, and with a slight inclination of her head to Edith, and a slighter one to Gertie, took her seat, and while the soup, which she never took, was serving, occupiedherself with a French novel, occasionally fixing her eyes upon Gertie, who was made very uncomfortable in consequence.
Colonel Schuyler had not yet returned from town, but he came before dinner was over. He was very sorry for the ungraciousness of his manner when talking with his wife of Gertie, and the pained expression of her face had haunted him all the afternoon, and been the cause of his driving round by the cottage on his way home.
“I can at least do that,” he thought; “and the roads are worse than I supposed.”
But the cottage was empty, and the colonel drove home alone, resolving to be very kind to the orphan girl for Edith’s sake and conquer all his fears for Godfrey until he saw something tangible, when it would be time to act. So when he entered the dining-room and met Gertie’s eyes raised so timidly to his, he went to her, and offering her his hand, bade her welcome to his house, and said:
“I drove to the cottage for you, but was too late. I fear you found the walking very bad?”
She had not minded it, she said, while the beaming glance which Edith gave him told him that his peace was made with her, and he became exceedingly urbane, and even talkative, and addressing some pleasant remarks to Gertie, made her feel more at ease, if possible, than Edith’s reassuring words had done. She was very pretty, and graceful, and modest, and he watched her movements with an interest he could not define, and compared her with Alice Creighton and his own daughters, who, so far as beauty was concerned, fell far in the scale.
Emma was very kind to her, and paid her several little attentions during the evening, but Julia preserved the same haughty demeanor she had at first assumed, and never spoke to her or noticed her in any way. When she had once conceived a prejudice, it was very strong, and that night, after retiring to her room, she wrote to her aunt Christine of this “last indignity put upon them,” and wished that she was emancipated from school like Alice, and could leave the home which seemed like homeno longer. On the receipt of this letter Miss Rossiter wrote to her brother-in-law, saying she had heard of his kindness in giving Gertie Westbrooke a home until something could be done for her, and adding that she had in her mind a plan which would relieve him of the girl and benefit the child as well. She was wanting a little maid to be with her constantly, and Gertie would do nicely after a little training.
“I believe your wife has some Quixotic idea of educating her,” she added, in conclusion, “and without giving my opinion in full with regard to elevating that class of people, I will say that if the girl comes to me I shall myself teach her an hour each day, which I consider all that is necessary, with what she already knows. I hope you will send her as soon as possible, for Alice is to stay with me through Lent so as to be near St. Alban’s, and between us we shall need an extra maid.”
What effect this letter would have had upon the colonel had he received it under ordinary circumstances, I do not know. As it was, it remained unopened for many days, while in an agony of anxiety he watched his baby boy, who lay almost constantly in Gertie’s arms, its little hand holding fast to hers as if fearful of losing her. It was scarlet fever in its most malignant form, and at the very first alarm, Julia, who was afraid of disease in any form, fled to her own chamber, where, like a true niece of her aunt, she burnedtarand kept chloride of lime as a disinfectant, and never went near the room where her baby brother was dying. Even the wet-nurse shrank from the fever-smitten child, fearing for the safety of her own little nurseling. But Gertie knew no fear, and from the moment little Jamie opened his heavy eyes at the sound of her voice, and raised his hands to her with the shadow of a smile on his face, she stood by him day and night and held him at the very last upon her lap, hers the last voice which spoke words of endearment to him, and hers the last lips which touched his in life, for Edith was fainting in the adjoining room, and the colonel in his anxiety for her did not know the end had come till he saw Gertie fold the child to her breast, while amid a rain of tears she said: “Poor Jamieis in heaven now;” then she laid him gently back in his crib, and the colonel knew his boy was dead.
They telegraphed for Godfrey, and the house was hung with mourning, and Julia stayed in her room and wondered if she would have to wear black, and Emma cried herself sick, and Edith sat motionless as a stone beside her dead baby, with a look of unutterable anguish on her face and no power to speak even had she wished it, for the iron hand was on her throat, and her heart was breaking for more than the dead child beside her.
Who had tended the death-bed of that other one? Who had folded the little hands upon the bosom as Jamie’s were folded? Who had curled the rings of golden hair as Jamie’s were curled? And who had kissed the pretty lips as she kissed these before her? Nobody,—nobody. Hospital nurses had no time for tears or caresses; strangers had buried her baby girl, and she, the mother, had made no sign, either then or since, and God was punishing her for it, and her heart was broken in twain as she sat, white, and still, and speechless, while her husband tried to comfort her.
Then it was that Gertie thought of everything. Gertie carried messages to and from Miss Julia, who unbent to her now that she could make her useful; Gertie comforted poor Emma; Gertie anticipated the colonel’s wishes before they were spoken, and Gertie took the white flowers from the conservatory, and putting them on baby’s pillow, laid her hand pityingly on the bowed head of Edith, who moved at the touch, and looking up, saw the flowers upon the pillow and the girl who had laid them there. Then the iron hand relaxed a little and Edith gasped, “Oh, Gertie, my child, my little one,” while the first tears she had shed began to fall like rain and her body shook with sobs, which did her good, for she was better after the outburst, though she would not leave the room until her husband took her away and put her in her bed, where she lay utterly helpless and prostrate while they buried her boy from her sight.
Godfrey came to the funeral and saw his little brother first in his coffin, and was very decorous, and grave, and kind to both his sisters, and respectful to his father, and solicitous aboutEdith, and attentive to Gertie, whom he called the sunbeam in the house.
“I don’t know what we should do without you now, and I am so glad you are here,” he said to her, on the morning after the funeral, when he stood with her a moment by the window of the drawing-room, and thought how pretty she was, and how womanly she had grown within the last six months.
“How old are you, Gertie?” he asked; and when she told him fourteen last January, he continued: “Almost a young lady. I shall have to hurry up and get to be that perfect gentleman whom you are to reward with a kiss, or you will be refusing to pay; eh, Gertie?”
He spoke playfully and laid his hand lightly on her hair, while a beautiful blush broke over the face which was upturned to his, when a stern voice called:
“Godfrey, my son, I want you;” and Colonel Schuyler stood in the door, with a stern look of disapproval in his eyes.
The colonel had read Miss Rossiter’s letter that morning, and tearing it in a dozen pieces, had answered, saying that the girl who had been so much to his lost boy, and was so much to his dear wife, would henceforth be his special care, and that if Miss Christine wanted a waiting-maid she must look elsewhere, as she could not have Gertie Westbrooke. This letter he had sent to the post; nor was he sorry for it even when he came so unexpectedly upon his son and fancied far more than he saw.
Gertie was too closely connected with his dead boy for him to cast her off; but he could not keep her there, and on the instant he formed the plan that she should be educated away from Schuyler Hill, where Godfrey could not see her until matters between him and Alice were finally adjusted, and he had outgrown any boyish fancy he might entertain for this child.
He had meant at first to keep Godfrey for a few days, but he sent him back at once, and as soon as Edith could bear it, told her of his decision with regard to Gertie, and told her in such a way that she did not venture to oppose him, though her heart ached with a new pain as she thought of losing the girl who seemed so very near to her. After many inquiries it was decidedthat the Misses H——’s school in Buffalo was the place for Gertie, inasmuch as the training there was very thorough; and when in the spring Godfrey came home for a short vacation, bringing Macpherson with him, he was told that Gertie was in Buffalo fitting for a teacher.