THE STORY IN HAMPSTEAD.
I was at the Hill when the telegram was received. In fact I had been
there ever since the day of Edith’s return from Europe and the colonel’s
departure for New York. I had with others been waiting anxiously for
them, for I knew how sick Godfrey was, and that Gertie, whether right or
wrong, was helping to nurse him. So when I saw the carriage drive past
the door, and caught a glimpse of Edith, I went over at once, and was
shocked beyond measure to see how she had changed. All the roundness had
left her cheeks, her bright color was gone, and in her tresses of golden
brown there were a few threads of silver. And still, despite all this,
she was very lovely, with such a subdued gentleness of manner and sweet
expression of face that I felt the tears rush to my eyes every time I
looked at her.
“Stay with me, Ettie, while the colonel is absent,” she said, and she
seemed so anxious for my company that I consented to remain, and after
Colonel Schuyler was gone we went up to her room, where she paced up and
down, up and down, with a restlessness for which I could not account,
unless it came from anxiety for Godfrey.
At last I said:
“You are troubled about Godfrey, Mrs. Schuyler,” and she replied:
“Yes,—no. I was not thinking of him, but of Gertie. Ettie, do you
remember the people who lived in the cottage years ago, Mrs. Fordham and
her daughter?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I remember them well. Why do you ask me that
question?”
She was standing by the window now, gazing wistfully at the cottage and
the smoke curling from the chimney.
“Did you like that girl? Heloise was her name,” she said, without
answering my question.
“Yes,” I answered, “I was very fond of her, and thought her so
beautiful, and I have often wondered where she was that she neither came
back nor wrote, when she promised to do both.”
Crossing swiftly to my side and laying a hand on each of my shoulders
she looked me steadily in the eye, and said:
“Ettie, is there anything in _my_ face which reminds you of that girl?”
Then it came to me like a flash of lightning; all the perplexity and
wonder I had at times experienced with regard to Mrs. Schuyler was made
clear, and without stopping to think how it could be and thinking only
that it was, I said:
“_You_ are Heloise!” while my knees shook so that I was compelled to sit
down upon the nearest chair to keep myself from falling.
“Yes, I was Heloise Fordham once,” she answered, her lip quivering and
the great tears gathering in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks.
“Ettie,” she continued, “I wanted to tell you so many times, but dared
not, for until that sickness of mine in November my husband even did not
know it.”
At this I looked up in surprise, and she went on:
“I asked you to stay with me that I might tell you the story first, and
let you break it to the people, for I will have no more concealments.”
Then she told me the whole story, and to my dying day I shall not forget
the ringing sweetness and joy in her voice when she said:
“Gertie is my daughter.”
I had heard the rest of the story with a tolerable degree of equanimity,
but that last electrified me like the shock from a battery, and
springing to my feet I exclaimed:
“Gertie your daughter! Gertie your child!”
“Yes, Ettie, God has been good to me. He has taken care of my little
baby girl and made her into a woman whom any mother might love; and oh,
how I do love her, and how hard it is for me to stay here and know that
she is only two hours away. But we thought it best for my husband to go
first and tell her before I saw her. He offered to do that; he tries to
spare me all he can; oh, he is so good and kind, and has behaved so
nobly through it all.”
She was crying now, and I did not try to stop her, for I knew tears
would do her good. And she was calmer after it, and talked with me until
long after midnight of the strange story and the old life at the cottage
when we both were girls.
Early the next morning the colonel’s first telegram came: “Godfrey is
very sick, but out of danger, we hope. Miss Rossiter and Gertie both
here; the latter well, but tired.”
I doubt if Edith paid much attention to anything but the last of the
telegram, the part relating to Gertie. This she read and re-read, as if
there were a pleasure even in the sight of the dear name.
“You see Mrs. Westbrooke named her Gertrude for her own little girl who
died,” she explained to me, “and as she did not know whether she had
been baptized or not she had her christened ‘Gertrude Heloise
Westbrooke,’ so Westbrooke really is her name, and I am glad, for I know
my husband would rather have it that than Lyle.”
After lunch came another telegram: “Godfrey better. Gertie at Miss
Rossiter’s. Shall see her to-night.”
That evening Edith was like a crazy woman walking up and down the halls,
and then through her suite of rooms and back again into the hall,
clasping her hands tightly together, and whispering to herself:
“Is it now he is telling her? Does she know it yet? And what does she
think of me, her mother? Will she call me by that name? Oh, Gertie, if I
could see you now. Heaven grant you do not hate me.”
Suddenly she grew calm, and said to me:
“Something tells me it is over. Gertie knows the truth and does not hate
me. Thank my Heavenly Father for that.”
Edith slept that night, but was restless and impatient in the morning
until the third message came. “She knows everything, and is very glad.”
“Then why doesn’t she come home?” Edith said, and all that day she was
in a feverish state of expectancy when a train from New York came in.
But Gertie did not come, and the next day we read the words: “Gertie is
very sick. Come immediately.”
Then Edith frightened me, she turned so white and stood so still, while
the iron fingers clutched her throat for the last time, and strangled
her until her face was purple. I rang for help, but before it came the
fingers relaxed their grasp, the natural color came back to the face,
and Edith was herself again. Fortunately it was her maid who answered
the ring, and telling her of the dispatch, and that she was going to New
York, Edith bade her pack her travelling valise, and order the carriage
for the next train, due in half an hour.
“Oh, Ettie,” she cried, when we were alone, “God will not take her from
me now. Pray that He will spare Gertie.”
I think she prayed constantly, while getting herself ready, for her lips
moved continually, and I caught the whispered words: “Don’t,—don’t,” and
knew she was pleading for Gertie’s life. I went with her to the station
and saw her on the train, and then returned to the Hill, charged with
the responsibility of acquainting the household, and as many others as I
saw fit with the story which it was better to have known while the
family was absent.
I found Mrs. Tiffe in her own room, and with her a Mrs. Noall, a great
gossip but a thoroughly good-natured and well-meaning woman, and though
she told all she knew, never told any more, and always told it as she
heard it. Here was a good opportunity for the news to be thoroughly
disseminated without much help from me, further than the telling it
first to my auditors. And this it was easy to do, for they were talking
of Mrs. Schuyler when I went in, and Mrs. Noall was wondering why they
came home from Europe so suddenly, and why they both seemed so broken
and worn. She _surmised_ that the colonel’s finances were in a very
precarious condition; she knew he had suffered some heavy losses
recently and perhaps he was going to fail.
“It is not that,” I said. “It is something entirely different which has
troubled Mr. and Mrs. Schuyler, and I have come in on purpose to tell
you, as Mrs. Schuyler wishes the people to know it before her return.”
Then, taking a chair between the two dames I told the story of Edith’s
life, interrupted frequently by questions and ejaculations from my
auditors, both of whom were more amazed than they had ever been before
in their lives. Mrs. Tiffe was the first to recover herself. _She_ had
the family dignity to maintain, and she was going to do it, and while
she condemned the _Fordham woman_ out and out, she stood firmly by Edith
as more sinned against than sinning, and said that she for one thought
more of her than ever, and that every right-minded person would agree
with her, of course. Mrs. Noall, who was usually chary of offending Mrs.
Tiffe, fully agreed with her, and both expressed unbounded delight that
the lost child had proved to be Gertie Westbrooke, whom everybody loved.
“And that’s what makes her sick, and why Mrs. Schuyler has gone to her.
I see,—yes, I understand,” Mrs. Noall said, and though she had intended
stopping to dinner with Mrs. Tiffe, she declared that she must go at
once, and she went, and to my certain knowledge made twenty calls before
ten o’clock at night, and told the story twenty times without varying it
in the least.
Of course there was nothing more for me to do except to answer the
questions of those who came on purpose to inquire if what they had heard
was true. Never before had I received so many calls within a given time
as I did during the few days of excitement when Hampstead was alive with
the story, and reminiscences of the Fordhams were brought up and
comments of various kinds were made, according to the nature of those
who made them. I think Mrs. Barton from the Ridge was the most
disturbed; she had spent the winter in Hampstead, and she came to see me
early, and stayed three hours, and talked the matter over, and wished
that it had not been made public.
Mrs. Barton was a kind, good woman at heart, but very proud and
particular about family and blood, and I knew she was thinking of Tom,
who still avowed his intention to marry Gertie or nobody, and so I
flamed up in Edith’s defence, and said she was resolved to have no more
concealments, that I _had_ suggested to her the propriety of not telling
who her first husband was, as that was sure to increase the talk and
wonder.
“Mrs. Barton,” I continued, “you ought to have seen her then, and heard
how piteously she cried as she said to me, ‘No, Ettie, I’ve thought that
over, and talked it over with Col. Schuyler, who is willing for me to do
as I like. To conceal it would look as if I was ashamed of Abelard, and
I am not. He was my husband and I loved him, and Gertie and the world
shall know who her father was.’”
“Noble woman!” Mrs. Barton exclaimed, crying a little herself. “I think
she is right after all, and for one I shall stand by her.”
Everybody stood by her, though everybody talked and wondered and
exclaimed, and suddenly remembered that they always thought there was
something familiar in Mrs. Schuyler’s face and manner. Everybody, too,
was anxious about Gertie, and the people cried on the Sunday when the
prayer for the sick was read by our rector, Mr. Marks, whose voice
trembled when he prayed for her. At last the one word “Better” flashed
along the wires, and the boy from the office ran as he brought the
telegram, telling everybody he met of the good news, and wiping his eyes
on the sleeve of his coat as he handed the envelope to me, and said: “I
guess she’ll pull ’er through.”