GODFREY AND GERTIE.
“Howard, come here, I wish to speak to you,” Miss Rossiter said, in the
quick, decided way she had assumed since so much had been depending upon
her, and she had been drawn out of herself. “Howard, what do you mean to
do with Gertie? Will you make her really one of your children, and have
her share equally with them?”
“Really, Christine, I have not thought; it’s a little too soon for that.
Why, yes, I rather think—she will share with them,—yes, if Godfrey
marries Alice, there would then be more reason why Gertie should share
equally, as Godfrey would not need so much, and you know I have had some
heavy losses.”
“Howard, don’t be a fool. Godfrey will never marry Alice, nor anybody
else except Gertie Westbrooke, and you know that, or ought to know it. I
learned it those days I took care of him when Gertie was with me, and I
got to liking her in spite of myself. I am not a deceitful woman,
Howard, and I will not say that I am altogether satisfied with Edith. It
is not in my nature to feel that people of her rank in life are fully my
equals, but I shall always treat her well for Gertie’s sake and
Godfrey’s. I cannot understand it, but that child has grown strangely
into my heart since she has been sick here in my house. They say we
always love what has cost us trouble and made us forget ourselves, and I
think I love her better than I have loved anything since Charlie died,
and I intend to make her my _heir_, and if she only would stay with me
I’d keep her so gladly. I have told you this, Howard, so that _money_
need not stand between you and your consent for Godfrey to make Gertie
his wife.”
Colonel Schuyler was astonished, and could hardly believe that it was
Christine Rossiter speaking to him, as this woman spoke, and actually
pleading Gertie’s cause, and advising him to accept her as the wife of
his son. In spite of Miss Rossiter’s talk of adoption and heirship, he
felt a pang of regret when he remembered the Creighton line of ancestry,
almost as pure as his own, and thought of Jenny Nesbitt, who seemed
destined to be connected with him in so many ways through Edith and Emma
and Godfrey. But there was no help for it. The star of the Lyles was in
the ascendant, and when, that afternoon, Godfrey went up to see Gertie
for the first time since her return to consciousness, he had his
father’s full consent to claim her for his wife.
The colonel himself had told Godfrey the story of Gertie’s birth, and
Godfrey had _hurrahed_ for very joy, feeling that in some way Gertie was
thus brought nearer to him. He knew of her coming alone to him in his
illness and braving the world because she thought herself his sister. He
had faint reminiscences, too, of soft hands which cooled his burning
brow, of loving words breathed into his ear, and of firm, though gentle
remonstrances and threats of leaving him, when the vessel plunged so
fearfully and he was plunging with it. Gertie had saved his life, and
even when he did not know she was in the room she had been constantly in
his mind, and was with him in his desperate voyage over the stormy sea,
where he had so nearly been lost. Always, when the waves were doing
their worst, there was a thought in his heart of _La Sœur_, and he
wondered how she was coming through, and if the window was open in her
dingy little stateroom. Hers was the first name upon his lips when he
awoke to consciousness; and before he was really able he left his room
and went to Miss Rossiter’s, to be near his darling and see her when he
chose. But she had never known him when he bent over her with fond words
and loving caresses; and she talked of him to his face, and mourned
sadly that he was lost, and she was left to sail alone over the troubled
waters.
“I am here, Gertie. I shall never leave you again,” he had said to her
once, when she could not understand his meaning, and now he was going to
say it again, with every obstacle cleared from his path, and nothing to
impede his love.
Gertie was sitting up and expecting him, but she was not prepared for
the impetuosity with which he gathered her in his arms, and hugging her
so close that her breath came in quick gasps, carried her to the mirror,
and laying her white, thin face beside his own, which, if possible, was
whiter and thinner, bade her see what a “pair of picked chickens they
were.”
“But we weathered it, Gertie,” he said, “and now we’ve nothing to do but
grow strong and well again, and you will be more beautiful than ever,
while I,—well, Gertie, I never was so happy in my life as at this moment
when I hold you thus and kiss you, so—and so!”
He emphasized his words by kisses, which took Gertie’s breath away, and
when she could speak she said imploringly, “Please, Godfrey, put me
down. You tire, you hurt me.”
Then he placed her in her chair, and kneeling at her side, held her
hands in his, and looking anxiously into her face, said, “Forgive me,
darling, I did not think how weak you were, and I am so happy, for I
have father’s consent for you to tell me yes. I really have, and you are
my own forever. ‘Tell Gertie,’ father said, ‘that I release her from her
promise and welcome her as my daughter.’ Will you kiss me now, Gertie,
even if I am _not_ a perfect gentleman?”
“You are not deceiving me, Godfrey?” Gertie said, her lips quivering as
she thought how terrible it would be to have this new cup of joy dashed
from her lips just as she was ready to drink it.
“Deceiving you! No. Father _did_ say so, and Allie knows it, too; and
fickle, like all her sex, will not break her heart for me, who, she
says, look like a fright with my shaved head, and high cheek-bones, and
loose clothes. You see the fever has not left me very good-looking, and
Marks, the rector at Hampstead, is down at Uncle Calvert’s, and rode
with Allie yesterday; and I should not be surprised if she were yet to
make aprons for Mrs. Van’s babies, and carry soup to the old lady.
She’ll be a splendid wife for a minister, if she makes up her mind to
it.”
He had rattled on thus volubly for the sake of giving Gertie time in
which to recover herself, and when he saw that her breath came more
naturally and the color was dying away from her cheeks, he returned to
the matter in question.
“Kiss me, Gertie, gentleman or not, and I shall know you are my wife.”
He held his face close to hers, and Gertie put her arms around his neck,
and so they were betrothed at last; and when, half an hour later, Edith
came in, she found Gertie with her head resting on Godfrey’s arm and an
expression of perfect peace upon her face, while he talked to her in
tones which no one who had ever known experimentally the meaning of love
could mistake.
“Ah, mother!” he said, as Edith came up to him. “You are really my
mother now, for Gertie is mine, and the Lyles are pretty well mixed with
the Schuylers, I think.”
How happy he was, and how he hovered around Gertie, seeming almost to
devour her with his eyes when his lips were not meeting hers, and when
he told Miss Rossiter the good news, he kissed her, too, and swung her
round as if she had been a top, and wanted to kiss his father, and did
kiss Julia and Alice both when he went to call upon them that evening,
and told them he was as good as a married man.
Alice had given him up since the day Miss Rossiter drove down to see
her, and talked so affectionately of Gertie, and said nothing would
please her better than to see her Godfrey’s wife. There had been a few
tears in private, a wrench or two in her heart, and then it was all
over; for Allie’s love had never been very strong, and but little more
than her pride was wounded when Gertie was preferred to herself. Alice
had one good trait,—she did not long harbor malice or resentment; and
she received Godfrey cordially, and said she hoped he would be happy,
and blushed rather prettily when he joked her about the parson, and said
she might possibly be his neighbor in Hampstead.
Two weeks from that day the doors and windows at Schuyler Hill were
opened wide, and Mrs. Tiffe, in a wild state of excitement and
expectancy, was giving the most contradictory orders to the servants,
and flitting from room to room to see that all was in readiness for the
family, who were coming home and would be there to dinner. Everybody in
Hampstead knew the story now, and none liked Edith the less, but rather
the more, I think; while the fact that Gertie was to marry Godfrey
filled every one with joy, except Tom Barton, who came to the Hill the
day we were expecting her, and, handing me a bunch of pansies and
English violets, said:
“They are for her room. I always associate her with English violets. She
is just as sweet as they are, Heaven bless her!”
There was a tremor in his voice and his hand shook as he gave me the
flowers. He was taking it hard, and I pitied him so much when he said:
“There is nothing in the wide world for me to live for now; but I shall
_not_ go back to my cups. She helped make me a man, and I’ll keep so for
her sake; but I tell you, Ettie, it is pretty tough sledding, and there
is a lump in my heart as big as a bass drum. I wish I were dead; I do,
upon my word.”
How sweet the perfume of those violets was, and how eagerly Gertie
inhaled it when she came at last, and I took her to her room.
“Tom brought them. He says they are like you,” I said, while a shadow
flitted over Gertie’s face, for she knew just how much Tom Barton loved
her, and felt in part the burden weighing him down so heavily.
It was curious to watch Edith as she came back to her home, with
something of humility and fear in her manner, as if she dreaded the
meeting of her old acquaintance now that they knew of the deception
which had been practised so long, and it was equally curious to see how
the colonel sustained and upheld her, and stood by her, and treated her
with a consideration and increased deference and tenderness which would
have precluded anything like coolness or indifference on the part of his
friends toward his wife had they felt disposed to manifest it, which
they were not. Edith was too popular; too much a favorite with all
classes at Hampstead for anything except positive wrong to make a
difference now; and the very first evening of her return many of her old
acquaintances came to see her and offer their congratulations for the
finding of her daughter, and that daughter Gertie.
How happy we were that night when Edith and Gertie sat together upon the
sofa, the daughter’s head resting upon the mother’s shoulder, and the
colonel and Godfrey standing behind and bending protectingly over them.
Even Julia, who had come with the party, was unusually gracious, and
told me confidentially that though she would have advised secrecy with
regard to Gertie’s father, she was tolerably well satisfied with matters
as they were, especially as Major Camden did not care, and she should
soon be away from it all.
The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Marks had no cause to complain of empty
pews, for every place was filled long before the bell sounded its last
note and the Schuyler carriage drew up before the door. It did not
matter that the villagers had seen Edith and Gertie and Godfrey hundreds
of times, there was about them now a new element of interest, and the
people came from other churches to see the wonderful sight. But they
were in part doomed to disappointment, for Gertie was still too weak to
venture out, while Godfrey would not go without her, and so, only Edith
was there, her beautiful head drooping a little, and her eyes cast
timidly down as she walked to her accustomed place and dropped upon her
knees, where she remained a long, long time, while all through the
church there was a solemn hush as the people watched her, many with
tearful eyes, and all with a feeling that they knew the nature of her
prayers and sympathized with her.