MARY ROGERS’ LETTER TO EDITH.
Five days after the bridal party at Schuyler Hill Edith and Gertie sat
together in the boudoir of the latter talking of the Providence which
had thrown them so constantly together, and of the way in which they
were at last made known to each other.
“I have often thought of the night Mrs. Rogers died,” Edith said, “and I
think there must have been something on her mind which she wished to
tell me about you. Do you suppose she could have known you were my
child?”
“No, she could not have kept it so many years,” Gertie said, “and yet I
can remember many things she used to say about my parentage, which I
interpret differently now from what I did when my thoughts were all in
another channel.”
“One would have supposed that knowing as she must have known her
liability to sudden death she would have left some writing which might
throw light upon your history. You are sure she did not?” Edith said,
and Gertie replied:
“Yes, sure; or at least I think I am. Norah and I looked over everything
carefully at the time, and there was nothing but a bundle of old letters
and receipts.”
“Did you destroy them?” Edith asked, and Gertie answered her:
“No, I have them still in the box where I keep the souvenirs of my
childhood. I’ll bring them, if you like, though I am quite sure that
there is nothing in them.”
The box was brought and opened, and Gertie began to examine the papers
more carefully than ever before. There were dressmakers’ bills and
grocers’ bills and landlords’ bills, and music bills for Gertie and
letters to “John Rogers, Birmingham,” and then Gertie came upon a
fresher-looking envelope, the seal of which had not been broken, and on
which, in Mary Rogers’ hand, was written: “For Mrs. Edith Schuyler, if I
die suddenly.”
“Oh-h—yes—here—it must be this?” Gertie gasped, as she passed the
package to Edith, whose heart beat with an undefined dread lest after
all there might be some mistake and her darling be wrested from her.
“Shall I read it, or you?” she said, and Gertie replied: “You;—but read
aloud, if you please. I cannot wait to know.”
Edith could not read it aloud, and Gertie did not wait, but leaning over
her mother’s shoulder read the letter with her. It was as follows:
“HAMPSTEAD, _April 10, 18—_.
“MRS. COL. SCHUYLER—MADAME: Warned by a twinge in my heart and about
my vitals that I may be taken away suddenly, I am going to commit to
paper the true history of Gertrude Westbrooke, the girl known as my
adopted child. Mrs. Schuyler, did you ever hear of a young girl,—who
came one day with her mother to a dreary lodging in Dorset Street,
London? They had the back rooms looking into a dirty court, and the
girl had a baby born there, a little girl baby, with eyes like robin’s
eggs.
“There was a housemaid, who waited on the ladies in No. ——; her name
was Mary Stover, and she admired the young lady so much, and was
curious about her, especially after the birth of the baby. That
housemaid was _me_, and the lady was _you_, whom your mother called
Heloise. She was Mrs. Fordham then, and I did not like her much, and
after I accidentally heard what she said to you about sending the
child away, I kept a watch on her.
“I was going to your room with a jug of water, and heard it all, and
saw her the night she went out with a bundle under her arm. I was sure
the bundle was the baby, and, when she got back, I let myself out on
to that little balcony under your window, and waited till I heard her
tell you where she had taken the child. There certainly was a
Providence in it that I had a sister nurse in that very hospital, and,
to make sure your mother told you true, I got leave to go next day to
see my sister.
“By a little management, I found that a girl baby had been left there
the night before, with _Heloise_ pinned on its dress, as Mrs. Fordham
said, and that it was further marked on the bosom with a drop of
blood. I got Anne to show the baby to me and knew it for the same I
had seen in your room. You remember I tended it an hour or more once.
“I love children, and this one interested me more than I can tell; and
I said to myself I’ll keep watch of it, and the mother, too, and some
time maybe I can unravel the mystery and bring them together. From
what I overheard, I believed you had been married, and that your
husband was dead, and that was all I knew of him. But I pitied you,
and loved the child, and without telling Anne why, I made her promise
to be very kind to the little one.
“Mother lived in Dorset Street, too, and as she was very lonesome from
week’s end to week’s end without us, I took the plan to have her take
the baby for ours. It was hard work to bring her to it, and Anne
opposed it, too; but something seemed to push me on and say that it
must be done, and I got her consent, and she took Heloise to our house
in No. ——, where she was just like a little sunbeam, and it was hard
to tell which loved her the most, mother, or Anne, or me. I claimed
her for mine, and dressed her with my wages, and meant to bring her up
above what we were, if I could. When you left Dorset Street I lost
track of you for a while, but that only made me love baby more. Soon
after you left I got another place, and a better one. I was
waiting-maid to a Mrs. Westbrooke, who lived in a very fine place.
She, too, had a baby girl named Gertrude, and, when it died suddenly
of croup, I thought she would have mourned herself to death for it.
“About that time mother went off with cholera, and then I told Mrs.
Westbrooke about my baby, and asked if I might bring it and show it to
her. You don’t know how pretty she was, with her golden-red hair
curling all over her head, and her sweet blue eyes. My lady got very
fond of her the three days she stayed with me, and, when I spoke of
carrying it away, she said:
“‘I do not believe I can let baby go. It seems like my own lost
darling. Will you let me have her?’
“‘For your own?’ I said, and she answered:
“‘Yes, for my own.’
“This was just what suited me,—to see my pet grow up a lady,—and I
told her yes, and as the master did not oppose it more than to say
‘that he did not care especially for other people’s brats, and this
one must be kept out of his way,’ it was settled that baby should
stay, and I do believe my mistress came to love it like her own. She
gave it her lost baby’s name, and had it christened ‘Gertrude Heloise
Westbrooke,’ so it sure would have a name. She was a sweet-tempered
lady, but weak and nervous like. I think she had consumption, for
nothing in particular appeared to ail her, only she was tired like all
the time, and never could sleep nor get rested, and at last she died,
and left an annuity of forty pounds a year to little Gertie, and said
I was to have the care of her.
“About a year after her death the master married a fashionable, fussy
little woman from Glasgow, who disliked children worse than he did,
and never noticed Gertie in any way after she found out that she was
not Mr. Westbrooke’s own. I was about to be married myself, and asked
the master if I might have the child. He was more than willing, and so
I took her to my own comfortable home on the second floor of a house
in what is now Abingdon Road, but was then Newland Street. All this
time I had not been able to track you, though I never went out that I
did not look for you; and many’s the time I drew my little girl to the
gardens of Kensington and even to Hyde Park, where I sat by the hour
watching the people as they went by in hopes of seeing you. But I
never did, and I had almost given it up, when one day in October I
went into a linendraper’s on High Street to get a new slip for my
darling. The girls were all very busy, and I had to wait a bit, and
was looking at the dresses in the window when I heard some one say,
‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ and looking up I saw you coming in. I knew you
in a moment, though you was handsomer than ever, and looking well and
strong. In my excitement I forgot what I had come to get, but stood
watching you, my heart beating so loud I was afraid you might hear it.
“I do not remember what you bought, but you ordered it sent to ‘Mrs.
Dr. Barrett’s, No. —— Caledonia Street,’ and then left the shop, while
I followed close behind. You turned into that shady lane or road which
leads past the Holland House to Bayswater, and I kept as near you as I
could without attracting your attention. Once you sat down under a
tree as if you were tired, and going a little further on I sat down
too, and watched you when you did not know it. There was a pretty
little girl about Gertie’s age playing near, and I remember you called
her to you, and smoothed her curls, and caressed her little hands, and
asked her for her name, and when she went back to her nurse there was
a sad, sorry look in your eyes and, on your face, and I said to
myself, ‘Is she thinking of the baby, I wonder?’
“I knew from Anne that a woman in deep black, with her vail drawn
closely over her face had been to the hospital to inquire after it,
and had seemed relieved when told it had been taken by a woman who was
sure to be kind to it. I was certain the lady in black was your
mother, but could not tell whether she had ever inquired again for the
child. I meant to know for sure where you lived, and if Caledonia
Street was your home; so when you got up, which you did after a time,
I got up too, and kept close behind till you reached Notting Hill
station. I was standing by you when you got your ticket, and took the
same carriage you did, and alighting at the same station, followed you
to your very door, and saw you go in like one who was at home. There
was a baker’s shop near by, and I bought some bread and buns which I
did not want, and questioned the girl who waited upon me with regard
to the houses in the neighborhood, pretending I was looking for one to
rent. In this way I learned that the Mrs. Dr. Barrett who lived at No.
—— took lodgers, and had a beautiful daughter, a Miss Lyle, the child
of a first marriage, the girl supposed, as old Dr. Barrett, who had
owned the place for a long time, had only been married to the present
Mrs. Barrett two or three years when he died. So much I learned, and
then I left the place for home, determining to keep track of you after
that, and not lose sight of you again. I knew when you were governess
at Allanbanke, and when you played the organ in —— church, and used
sometimes on Sundays to take Gertie there to listen to the music, but
never gave her a hint as to who the musician was. There was a kind of
pleasant excitement in watching you and feeling that I had your
secret, and I enjoyed it to the full.
“At last you were lost to me for a while,—I nursed my husband in his
last sickness, but greatly to my delight you unexpectedly turned up
again at the very house where my cousin Norah was living as lady’s
maid,—at Oakwood, you know. I saw you there one evening when I was
calling on Norah, and learned that you were Mrs. Sinclair’s companion,
and was going abroad with her. As Norah, too, was to go with her
mistress, I was certain to know when you returned, and I did, and saw
you dressed for dinner one day, and thought you the most beautiful
woman I ever saw. I was a widow then. My husband had been dead some
time, but he had left me quite comfortable for a woman of my class,
while Gertie’s annuity was sufficient for her. I was anxious that she
should have a good education, and I tried to bring her up a lady so
far as I knew myself. Just _what_ I intended to do, or whether I
should ever let you know of her existence, had now become a matter of
some doubt, for I loved the girl too well to part with her willingly.
She was the very apple of my eye, and I said unless something happens
to me, or her mother marries rich, I will keep the secret all my life.
Still I liked to be near you,—to know just what you were doing, and so
I applied to your mother for apartments, with what success you know.
Then Colonel Schuyler came, and Norah told me of your probable
marriage with him, and I had a great battle with duty and my love for
little Gertie. The first told me that when you was in a position to do
for the child what I never could, I ought to give her up, while the
last said I never could; she was all the world to me, and I decided to
keep her a spell at least, especially as through Norah it was so
arranged that I was to go to America when you did. In any event I
should have followed you after a while, and I thought it a special
Providence which made my going with you so easy. You can imagine the
interest I have felt in you and everything belonging to you, and how
at times, when I saw my darling snubbed by the young ladies at the
Hill, I have been tempted to claim her right to be there as their
equal and companion.
“I never could tell whether Colonel Schuyler knew that such a child
ever had existence. If he did not, and your passing for Miss Lyle
instead of Mrs. made me suspect that he did not, I thought it would be
a cruel thing for me to tell it to him, and that of itself might have
kept me from it, even if I had loved Gertie less. If it was not for
this frequent pain which warns me of sudden death, I should perhaps
keep the secret forever; but I must not leave my little girl alone if
anything happens to me, and so I write it down, begging you to take
her and do justice to her, for I swear to Heaven she is the child born
in Dorset Street, Jan. ——, 18—, of the young woman Heloise or Edith
Lyle, whose mother called herself Mrs. Fordham, and left the baby on
the steps of the —— Street Hospital.
“Perhaps you need not confess the truth to your husband, if he does
not already know it, but you can at least _adopt_ Gertie, and treat
her as your own, and this I beg of you to do.
“And now I have told you all I know. Who Gertie’s father was, or where
he died, is a secret to me; only this is sure, the girl known as
Gertie Westbrooke is your own daughter, and may God deal with you and
prosper you according as you deal with her when I am gone.
“Written this day at Hampstead, and sworn to solemnly by me before the
Eye which sees me, and which knows what I say is true.
MARY ROGERS.”
Had Edith needed proof of Gertie’s identity, she had it in this letter,
but she did not, and clasping the beautiful girl in her arms, she burst
into a paroxysm of tears, moaning softly, “My darling, my baby; it seems
like a dream, and God has been so good to keep you all the time and
bring you at last to me. Oh, if mother could have known! She loved you
from the time you went to lodge with her in London.”
“Mamma,” Gertie said suddenly, “she did know! I am sure of it, or she
must have guessed. It was the night she died, when I was sitting with
her, and accidentally mentioned my birthmark,—that drop of blood. I
remember how excited she grew, and how hard she tried to tell me
something, but could not. It must have been her suspicion of the truth.”
“Perhaps so. I would like to believe she knew it,” Edith answered, and
then she told her daughter of the Lyles across the sea in Alnwick; the
sweet-faced old lady, and the barearmed Jenny, who had so shocked and
disgusted her. Gertie was interested in the grandmother at once, and
proposed writing to her immediately, and telling her that the son whom
she had mourned so long had left a child who would some day find her in
her humble home, and call her grandmamma.
This plan Edith did not oppose, but before Gertie could write there came
a letter from Robert Macpherson, saying that Mrs. Lyle was dead and the
cottage vacant, for Mr. Nesbit had taken his wife and children to the
north of Scotland, where his boyhood was passed. As Gertie had no
particular interest in Jenny, her letter was not written, but through
her influence provision was made for the education of Jennie’s children,
especially the boy, who bore Godfrey’s name.