THE FIRST SUNDAY IN HAMPSTEAD.
There was a great crowd at church that first Sunday after Mrs.
Schuyler’s arrival in town. Perhaps it was the brightness of the day,
and perhaps it was an unconfessed desire to see the bride, of whose
personal appearance so many conflicting rumors were afloat. I was early
at church myself, and felt nervous and excited when I knew that the
Schuyler carriage had stopped at the door, and that I should soon see
again the beautiful woman who had interested me so greatly. The
Morrises, and Beechers, and Montgomeries, and Bartons from the Ridge,
and indeed all the great families of the neighborhood, were already in
their seats, and had said their prayers, and found their places, and
arranged themselves comfortably and becomingly when the Schuylers came
in, the colonel and his bride, with Godfrey and the young ladies
following after. Edith’s dress was very plain and simple, a rich black
silk, with some kind of a gauzy white scarf around her shoulders and a
white chip bonnet, with lace and blue ribbons; and yet she was very
elegant, as with eyes cast down and a flush on her cheek she walked up
the aisle and took her seat in the Schuyler pew. There was perfect
silence during the moment she was on her knees, but when she rose and
threw a swift, curious glance about her we recovered ourselves and were
ready for the “dearly beloved,” which I doubt if Edith heard, though she
rose to her feet and let our village dressmaker, who sat behind, see
just how the back of her skirt was trimmed.
Edith was not thinking of the solemn service in which she joined
involuntarily, nor of the many eyes turned upon her, but of the Sundays
years ago, when she was a worshipper in that same house, though not in
that pew, crimson cushioned and velvet carpeted, but in the humbler seat
farther back, where now by some chance little Gertie sat, her blue eyes
fixed upon the bride, and her face wearing an expression of perfect
content, as if she understood the general impression the lady had made.
Miss Rossiter was not there. She had told Mrs. Barton not to expect her.
It would be too great a strain upon her nerves to see that doll in
Emily’s place, with everybody looking at her, and some admiring her, as
no doubt they would. She had called her “a doll,” and Mrs. Barton was
prepared for a pink-and-white expressionless creature, with some claims
to good looks, and an unmistakably lower-class air about her, but she
was not prepared for this superb beauty, who took her breath away, and
made her mentally revoke her promise not to call or notice her in any
way. It would not do to slight that woman, who would lead Hampstead, and
New York, too, if she tried, and Mrs. Barton did not propose to do it.
She would rather run the risk of offending Miss Rossiter; and when at
last church was out, and they were waiting for the carriages outside the
door, she managed to get introduced, and presented her daughter
Rosamond, who, for the remainder of the day, raved about the beauty and
grace and style of Mrs. Schuyler. Little Gertie half stopped as if to
claim acquaintance, but Mary Rogers led her away, and I saw the child
look back several times at the lady, to whom she had not yet spoken, and
whom she was to meet first at the grave of Abelard Lyle.
Godfrey had said to her, “I must go to the grave to-morrow after
dinner,” and as she wished to water the flowers and root up any weed
which might have come to sight since her last visit, she resolved to be
there before him and enjoy his surprise. She knew dinner at Schuyler
Hill was served at two o’clock on Sundays, and as Godfrey was not likely
to get out before three she had plenty of time, and after her own early
dinner started for the cemetery.
There was not much to be done, for the grave was like a pretty
flower-bed, and after pulling a weed or two, and digging around a
heliotrope, she sat down to rest at the foot of the monument.
Gertie was rather tired, and the day was warm and Godfrey long in
coming, and at last she fell asleep with her head against the marble,
and did not hear the sound of footsteps on the grassy path which led
across the lawn to the yard.
Some one was coming, but it was not Godfrey. He was sitting with Alice
upon the balcony, and asking her if she expected a new pupil at the
Mission that afternoon, and if she’d like him to go with her. Colonel
Schuyler was taking his Sunday nap in his easy-chair, and thus left to
herself Edith had resolved upon a visit to the grave, toward which she
had looked so many times since her arrival at Schuyler Hill. Only once
before had she been in that yard, and that when she planted the rosebush
which now twined about the monument, and made a screen from the sun for
the little girl sleeping so sweetly there.
How beautiful she was, and Edith paused a moment to look at her,
wondering who she was, and then concluding from the hair that it must be
Gertie Westbrooke, who had thrown her the bouquet. Entering the yard she
went close to the grave, marvelling to find it in such perfect order,
and feeling a sense of suffocation when she saw the vase she had given
Ettie Armstrong full of freshly-gathered flowers, which seemed to speak
to her so plainly from the dead. Who had done this, as if in welcome to
her? Was there any one in Hampstead who suspected her identity?
“Impossible,” she said to herself, as she sat down upon the iron chair
which stood near the grave. “It is very strange, and this child here too
asleep. What a beautiful face she has, and who is it she resembles?”
Edith thought, as she marked the regular features, the transparent
complexion, the long silken lashes and the glossy auburn hair of the
unconscious child.
How plump and pretty were the hands which lay, one on her lap, and the
other on the green sward beside her, where it had fallen in the
abandonment of sleep. How small, too, and perfectly formed were the
little feet, and Edith wondered to see them encased in such dainty
boots, just as she wondered at the whole appearance of the child who
interested and fascinated her so much.
“I wish she would awake. I’d like to talk with her,” she thought, and as
if the wish had communicated itself to Gertie, the long lashes lifted
slowly, disclosing a pair of eyes so bright and blue and lovely in their
expression, that Edith half started, and thought, with a pang, of eyes
she had seen years ago, but which now were closed forever and laid away
beneath the turf at her feet.
Gertie was quite awake now, and a sweet smile broke over her face and
showed itself in her very eyes when she saw who was with her.
“Oh, Mrs. Schuyler,” she said, advancing at once and without the least
timidity toward the lady. “Oh, Mrs. Schuyler, it’s you. I was waiting
for Godfrey, and went to sleep and had such a nice dream of mother, who
was alive, I thought, and father too.”
She was standing close to Edith, who, reaching out her hand, took
Gertie’s in it, and forgetting that Mrs. Rogers was not the child’s own
mother, said, in some surprise:
“Your mother is not dead!”
“Yes, she is,” Gertie replied. “She died when I was a little tiny girl,
and father married again and Auntie Rogers took me away, and then father
died, too, in Italy. Is not Mr. Godfrey coming to see the grave? he said
he would yesterday.”
She was more intent on Godfrey than on her parentage, and, at her
mention of the grave, Edith asked, quickly:
“What grave is Godfrey coming to see?”
“This one,” and Gertie pointed to the flower-bed where the vase was
standing. “You see,” she continued, “this is Mr. Lyle’s grave,—Mr. James
A. Lyle, who died in saving Mr. Godfrey’s life. He was working on the
tower of the house at Schuyler Hill, and Mr. Godfrey was a little boy,
and climbed up and slipped, and Mr. Lyle caught him, and threw him where
he was safe, but fell himself down—down—down—to the very earth, where he
was smashed all to bits, and they took him up as dead as dead could be!”
Gertie was very eloquent and earnest, and emphasized her
“down—down—down” with a wave of her hand in the air and a stamp of her
foot upon the ground, while Edith, who could not speak for the fingers
at her throat, sat gazing at her, motionless and completely fascinated
by her face, and manner, and voice, which last had in it the ring of
something familiar,—something heard years ago, when she was young and
listened to the bell in the old church-tower ringing on a Sunday
morning. When she could speak, she asked:
“How did you learn all this, and who keeps the grave so nicely?”
“I do; for you see Miss Armstrong,—that’s my teacher, she was at church
to-day, and plays the organ,—she came here with me one time, and, when I
asked about the graves, she told me whose they were,—that is, the newest
ones. That great, tall stone is the first Mrs. Schuyler; but you don’t
care for that. She was not half as pretty as you, they say, and so he
had to get her this grand stone, which cost two or three thousand
dollars. I dote on graves, and like to hear about them, and Miss
Armstrong told me about this poor boy, or man he must have been, for he
was a young girl’s beau, I guess.”
“A what?” Edith gasped. And Gertie went on:
“There was a beautiful young girl here then, from England,—Heloise
Fordham,—and she liked Mr. Lyle, and he liked her, and she cried so when
he was killed, and had a dreadful headache; and when she went away, she
made Miss Armstrong promise to keep up the grave till she came back to
see it, and to water the rosebush which she set out, and keep the vase
full of flowers in the summer time. And Miss Armstrong did water the
rose,—and for a while she tended the grave, hoping to hear from the
girl, or that she would come; but she never did, and so at last she grew
tired like and careless, and, when she told me about it that day, it was
a sight to see for weeds. I like to dig and work in the dirt, and so I
made it nice, thinking Godfrey would be pleased; and then, too, do you
know, I do it part for the girl, Heloise, who lived in the very house
where I live now, and slept in my room. And the poor man was carried
there, and his coffin and funeral were in the great room; but I never
told auntie, because she is afraid of ghosts. I am not, though, and I
like to think about him and her, and to make believe she is there with
me, crying by the window for the lover dead down stairs; and once,—it’s
funny, but it was the night you came,—I lay awake ever so long, and
fancied she was there, and, before I knew it, said right out aloud,
‘Poor Heloise, Gertie is sorry for you.’”
“Oh, child, child, hush, hush!” Edith cried, as she drew Gertie to her
and pressed her close to her side.
“Why, is it wicked? Was it naughty to make believe she was there and
talk to her?” Gertie asked, wonderingly; and Edith replied:
“No, no, not that; talk to her, pity her, pray for her all you please;
and tell me, has nothing been heard of her since she went away?”
“Nothing, I guess; and Miss Armstrong said maybe she’s dead or married.
I do not like to think her dead. I’d rather believe her married and
alive. Don’t you suppose she is?”
“Yes, I believe she is married; and I know she would be so grateful to
you and love you so much if she knew what care you take of the grave.”
And obeying an impulse she could not resist, Edith smoothed the bright
hair back from the fair white forehead, and looking straight into the
clear, blue eyes, kissed the child, whose lips kissed back again and
sent a strange tremor through every nerve of Edith’s body.
“Had you heard of this grave before?” Gertie asked, puzzled a little at
the lady’s manner; and Edith replied:
“Yes; Godfrey told me of it in England, and Colonel Schuyler too, and on
our bridal tour we went to see Mr. Lyle’s mother;” and in a low voice
Edith told the listening child of the white-haired old woman knitting in
the sunshine by the door of that thatched cottage among the heather
hills. “I promised to write to her,” she added, “and tell her about the
grave, and perhaps you will press me some flowers which grew here and
I’ll send them in the letter?”
“Oh, I’d like to do that,” Gertie said; and in a moment her nimble
fingers had gathered the few flowers still in blossom, and which were
destined for that home beyond the sea where Abelard once lived.
“I pity that old lady so much, and like her too; she seems so much like
my grandma, though I don’t know where she is. Auntie never told me.”
“You have one, then?” Edith asked, and Gertie told her all she knew of
herself, not forgetting the forty pounds a year which was to pay for her
education, for she meant to be a teacher like Miss Armstrong, and play
the organ, maybe, when Miss Armstrong was too old.
How interested Edith was in this little girl who puzzled, and confused,
and bewildered her so; they were getting acquainted with each other
rapidly, when a man’s step sounded in the distance, and turning quickly,
while a look of eager joy lighted up her face, Gertie cried:
“It is Mr. Godfrey, I guess.”
But Mr. Godfrey was still doing duty at Alice’s side, and the newcomer
was Robert Macpherson, who was coming directly toward the cemetery,
which he reached before he discovered its occupants. Then, with a start
and a blush, as if detected in something he would hide, he lifted his
hat to Mrs. Schuyler and went forward to greet her.
“And here is Gertie too,” he said, as he offered her his hand; then
turning again to Edith he explained that he had just come from New York
in the train which passed a few moments ago.
“Came from New York to-day! Why, Mr. Macpherson, it’s Sunday!” Gertie
exclaimed, while Edith smiled, and Mr. Macpherson looked amused as he
replied to the child, who believed in the fourth commandment.
“Yes, Gertie, I know it is Sunday, and that I should have waited until
to-morrow, inasmuch as there was nothing more pressing than
homesickness, for to tell the truth I was homesick in the city, and
after church this morning,—there came over me such a longing for the
country and a familiar face that I resolved to take the first train to
Hampstead. That is why I am here on Sunday, little Puritan,” and he
smiled good-humoredly at Gertie, thinking what a wonderful face she had,
and how like she was to the sister sleeping under the English skies, and
then he glanced at the well-kept grave and at the monument and the name
upon it, “James A. Lyle,” and said aloud, in an absent kind of way:
“Born in Alnwick.”
“He saved Godfrey’s life, you know, and lost his own,” Gertie said,
while Mr. Macpherson bowed and answered:
“Yes, I know,” but gave no sign that when on reaching the brow of the
hill on his way from the station he saw the white headstone gleaming in
the distance, he came that way to see for himself this very grave of
Abelard Lyle, who was born in Alnwick.
“Shall we go to the house? Godfrey will be glad to know you are here,”
Edith said, and as she spoke something in the expression of her face
made Robert glance quickly from her to Gertie, who was tying on her
bonnet.
“They certainly are alike,” he thought. “They would do splendidly in a
picture as ‘_Les Sœurs_,’” and then, as Edith was ready, he walked by
her side with Gertie in attendance, until they reached the place where
their paths diverged, and Gertie said “good-by,” while Edith and Robert
went leisurely toward the house.