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 is _not_ coming 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 said
_we_,—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 for _her_ sake, 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 are _you_ doing 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 only _bête noir_ since 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 this _is_ your 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 rippling hair, 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 her _protégée_. “Certainly not, you are one of us now. You are _my_
little 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, occupied herself 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 home no
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 burned _tar_ and 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 Jamie is 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 about Edith, 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 decided that 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.