THE BRIDAL.
Mary Rogers had been in the country for several weeks and had written to
Mrs. Barrett that she was to return to London sooner than she had
intended, as Gertie was not very well and needed the advice of her
physician. To this Mrs. Barrett had at once replied, telling of the
approaching marriage and asking Mrs. Rogers to defer her return as long
as possible, as Miss Lyle was at home and occupying Gertie’s room.
Accompanying this letter to Mrs. Rogers was one from Norah Long, who
also told of the expected marriage of Colonel Schuyler with Miss Lyle,
and the breakfast to be given at Oakwood, and then added that as both
the colonel and Miss Lyle wished her to accompany them to America, she
had decided to do so, provided her cousin Mary, to whom she was strongly
attached, would go too. Colonel Schuyler owned several cottages, he
said, and Mary could have one, if she liked, at a low rent.
Two days before the receipt of this letter Mrs. Rogers had heard of the
failure of the bank where her money was invested, and knew that
henceforth she must earn her own living. This she could do better in
America, and after due reflection she wrote to Norah that she would go,
and started for London the next day, intending to take up her abode in
the vicinity of Oakwood until the time for sailing. And that is how the
cab came to be standing at Mrs. Barrett’s door. Gertie did not alight,
but waited while Mrs. Rogers explained to Mrs. Barrett the change in her
circumstances and plans, and said that she would come in a few days and
take her things away. Mingled with Mrs. Barrett’s exultation at her
daughter’s good fortune there had been more than one feeling of
loneliness and desolation as she thought of being alone in her old age,
even if that old age was to be well provided for, as Colonel Schuyler
had promised. But there was one comfort left her in little Gertie
Westbrooke, whom, with Mary Rogers, she meant to keep as long as
possible. She was not fond of children, but no one could resist the
bright, sunny little girl who filled the house with so much life and
gladness, and whose feet and hands were always ready for some act of
kindness. And Mrs. Barrett loved the beautiful child with a strong,
intense love, which she could not define, unless it was that the child
loved her and hung about her neck with soft caresses and words of love.
And now she was going away,—and the woman’s heart was heavy as lead, and
there were traces of tears on her face as she went about her usual work
and thought of the desolate future with Gertie Westbrooke gone.
Owing to Mrs. Sinclair’s health Edith had not visited her mother very
often during the past year, and had never met Gertie face to face, so
she was only sorry for her mother in a general kind of way when she
heard that she was to be left alone. She was very much occupied with her
own affairs, and Colonel Schuyler and Godfrey took all her leisure time.
The colonel came every other day, Godfrey every day, and between them
both she had little time for reflection, but was hurried on toward the
end, which approached so fast, until at last the very day had come, a
soft, warm August day, when the sky seemed to smile in anticipation of
the bridal, and the whole earth to laugh for joy. And Edith felt happy
and glad and peaceful as she dressed herself for the occasion, and with
her mother and Norah Long, her waiting-maid, started for the church near
Oakwood, where her bridegroom waited for her, and where just a few of
the late Mrs. Sinclair’s friends were assembled. Thanks to Godfrey and
Robert Macpherson, who had returned from visiting his friends, the
little church was decked with flowers, and Edith stood under a canopy of
roses as she pledged her troth a second time, and was made Mrs. Howard
Schuyler. Just to the right of the chancel, and where they could command
a good view of everything, Mary Rogers sat, and with her Gertie
Westbrooke. It was the child’s first sight of a wedding, and when that
morning Mary had said to her, “Gertie, how would you like to go to
church to-day and see Miss Lyle married?” she had clapped her hands for
joy, and could scarcely eat her breakfast for thinking and talking of
the wonderful wedding.
“Don’t they sometimes throw a bouquet at the bride’s feet?” she asked.
And when told that they did, she gathered and arranged an exquisite
little bouquet, which she tied with a white ribbon, and then, moved by
some impulse she did not try to define, she wrote on a slip of paper, in
her childish hand:
“From little Gertie Westbrooke, with her love, and God bless you.”
This she folded and put inside the flowers, saying to herself:
“She’ll know who Gertie Westbrooke is, and maybe speak to me on the
ship.”
Gertie was much interested in the beautiful lady, whom she had
occasionally seen from the window when Edith came to call upon Mrs.
Barrett, and her interest was increased when she heard she was to be
married to a gentleman rich enough and grand enough to be a lord, and
that she was to see the sight, and then go to America in the same vessel
with the bridal pair.
It was all like a bit of romance, and the little girl’s heart beat high,
and her cheeks were like carnation, as she arranged her bright hair and
twisted a blue ribbon in it, and put on her best muslin dress, and the
string of pearl beads a lady had given her at the last Christmas, and
then went with Mary to the church, where, with her face all flushed and
eager, she stood with her dimpled white arms leaning on the pew railing,
her straw hat falling back from her head, and her sparkling blue eyes
fixed upon the bridal party as it came up the aisle.
“Look, Bob! there’s the very face I told you about, over there in the
corner!” Godfrey whispered to Robert Macpherson, with a pinch of the
arm, which made Bob wince with pain.
But he saw the face, and started suddenly,—it was so like another dear
little face lying under the daisies in the English sunshine. The same
blue eyes, the same sweet mouth, the same bright, flowing hair he had
tried so hard to put upon the canvas, and failed each time he tried,
because of the treacherous memory, which, good in other things, could
not retain with vividness the image of the lost one, loved so
passionately and laid away from sight amid so many tears and
heart-throbs.
“The likeness is wonderful,” he thought. “I must ascertain who this
child is. Schuyler will find her for me.”
The ceremony was commencing now, and all eyes were fixed upon the bride,
save those of Robert Macpherson. He looked only at Gertie Westbrooke,
who, unconscious of his gaze, stood watching Edith in silent wonder and
admiration, thinking how beautiful she was in her rich bridal robes, and
how happy she must be,—only the bridegroom was a trifle too old, and
dignified, and grave, Gertie thought; and then, as she glanced at the
tall, handsome Godfrey, she thought if she were the bride she should
prefer him to the father, and she wondered a little at Edith’s choice.
“I require and charge you both that if either of you know any impediment
why ye may not be lawfully joined together, ye do now confess it. For be
ye well assured that if any persons are joined together otherwise than
as God’s word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful.”
The clergyman uttered these words with great solemnity, and by mere
chance, looked full at Edith, who involuntarily raised her eyes, and
felt glad that there was nothing unconfessed on her part. Had there
been, she must have shrieked it out even then at the last moment. But
Col. Schuyler knew all about that grave at Schuyler Hill; all about the
baby girl who died, and liked her just the same. There was no reason on
her part why she should not be his wife, and she met the clergyman’s
eyes frankly, and felt a thrill of joy and peace even while she wondered
if the bridegroom thought of that other bridal, when Abelard Lyle stood
beside her in Mr. Calvert’s parlor, with Emily looking on. And Godfrey
had been there too, his first experience of a wedding, perhaps. Had he
ever thought of it since? Would his father ever tell him who the
boy-husband was, who the childish bride? Probably not, and it was just
as well. Godfrey had no concern in her past; only the father was
interested, and if he was satisfied, that was sufficient. Thus Edith
reasoned to herself, and saw the broad band of gold upon her finger, and
felt the pressure of her hand which the colonel gave her, and knew that
he was glad because of her, and when it all was over she left the altar
as happy as half the brides who embark upon the sea of matrimony, with
the uncertain future before them.
As she turned and passed near Gertie, a bouquet fell at her feet, and
the face of the child who threw it was something wonderful to look at as
she watched to see if her gift would be observed and accepted. It was,
for Godfrey and Robert both sprang forward to get it, but Godfrey was
the one who picked it up, and turning toward Gertie, he pressed it to
his lips, and then, with a sign which Gertie understood, indicated that
the bride should have it.
“Oh, wasn’t it nice, though!” Gertie said, when she was home again, and
talking of the event. “Such a sweet, beautiful lady, only I thought her
face was kind of sorry, and Col. Schuyler was a great deal too old. I’d
rather have the son, Mr. Godfrey, you call him. His face is smooth and
handsome, and his eyes so full of fun. He is the one who looked at me so
in the cab at Mrs. Barrett’s, and he stared at me to-day, and kissed my
flowers. I like Godfrey Schuyler ever so much. Do you believe I’ll see
him in America?”
Mrs. Rogers had listened with a good deal of interest to Gertie’s
remarks about the wedding, but when she came to Godfrey, and began to
speculate upon the probability of seeing him in America, a shadow
flitted across her face, and she said: “Gertie, listen a moment. You
probably will see Mr. Godfrey Schuyler in America, and perhaps on
shipboard, and if he noticed you in the cab and at church, as you say he
did, he may try to talk to you, but you are not to encourage him.
Gentlemen’s sons do not talk to girls like you for any good.”
Gertie lifted her great blue eyes to her auntie’s face a moment, and
then, casting them down, seemed to be thinking for a time, when she
said, suddenly:
“Auntie, wasn’t my mother a lady, and wasn’t my old home most as big and
pretty as Oakwood?”
“Yes,” was the reply; and Gertie continued:
“Then why should not a gentleman’s son talk to me for good?”
“I cannot explain to you now, only seeing you with me, and knowing you
are my adopted child, they would naturally place you in my rank; do you
understand?” Mrs. Rogers said; and Gertie replied:
“Yes, but I could tell them;” then after a moment she added: “Auntie,
who can I talk to? You said those children at the farmhouse were not
good enough for me to associate with, and that people like Mr. Godfrey
are too good.”
It was a puzzling question, which Mary Rogers could not answer
satisfactorily. She had carefully guarded her beautiful child from all
contact with children of her own rank, and as she could not hope to find
friends in the higher circles, Gertie had led a secluded life and knew
very little of young people, and what they did and said. In one sense
this made her old, and in other respects she was much more a child than
a girl of twelve should be. But the latter character suited Mary, who
wished she might keep her darling always as she was now, her very own,
with no other love or interest between them. The thought of Godfrey
Schuyler jarred upon her painfully, as if through him mischief might
come to her pet, and so she raised a note of warning, which Gertie
pondered upon the remainder of the day, wondering if she should see him
on the ship, and if he would speak to her, and what she should say if he
did, and who the man was who parted his hair in the middle, and stared
at her quite as hard as Godfrey did, only in a different way, and
wondered what her aunt would say if she knew she had given an old
photograph of herself to Abel Browning, the freckled boy at the
farmhouse, who cried when she came away, and told her “she was the
’andsomest girl he had ever saw.”
“I just wish I was one thing or the other,” the little girl said to
herself. “It is real mean to be too good to play with Abel and Bettie
Browning, and not good enough to be talked to and looked at by Mr.
Godfrey Schuyler.”