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 disposition to 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
that her 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 take _her_ as 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 as I 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.