But she would trouble him no more. All he could do for her now was to give her a burial, and for Edith’s sake that burial should be as perfect in its appointments as if the dead had been his own mother, whom twenty carriages had followed out to Greenwood. There were almost as many as that drawn up before the house on Schuyler Hill on the day of the funeral, for far and near the people knew of the cloud hanging over that household; of the aged mother just arrived from England, and dead before she had even seen her daughter’s handsome home; of the little grave in the cemetery, made there too soon, and of the chamber where Edith lay, raving in mad delirium, and tearing her hair until they tied her hands to keep them from further mischief. And so they came from every quarter and filled the house to overflowing, save the south wing, where Edith was; that was bolted against them, and the murmur of the gathering multitude did not penetrate there enough to awaken the slightest interest in Edith. Only a very few beside myself were permitted to see the dead woman, lying so still in the costly casket which the colonel had ordered from New York, and to us, who looked upon her, there came no suspicion that we had ever seen that face before. It was very calm and peaceful in its last sleep, and many said, “She must have been fine-looking when in health,” while in every heart there was a profound pity for the stranger who had died so soon in a foreign land, and for whom there was no mourner at the grand funeral, except Gertie.
During the services the colonel left Edith long enough to come down to the parlor and listen while the prayers were said and the hymns were sung; then he went back to Edith, and strangers did the rest, making the funeral seem so sad and lonely without a blood relation except little Arthur, whose shoulder-knots and sash were black, and whom Gertie led by the hand when she went out to the Schuyler carriage, which was to take her to the grave as first and only mourner.
“Go with me, Miss Armstrong,” she whispered, as she passed me in the hall, and I followed after her until, as the carriage was reached, and she was about to enter, when I felt a sudden rush behind me, and was conscious that something unusual was agitating the crowd, and causing it to divide and fall back as if to give room for some one. It was for Godfrey, who, flushed and excited, made his way through the throng of people, and lifting Gertie from the ground as if she had been a feather’s weight, put her in the carriage before she knew whose arms were encircling her in so tender, masterful a manner as if they had the right. Little Arthur was put in next, and then Godfrey followed himself, closing the door behind him, and effectually shutting me out. But I knew it was better so, and was glad he was there, a help and a comfort to Gertie. By the merest accident he had heard that morning from Tom Barton of Mrs. Barrett’s death and Edith’s illness, and had taken the next train for Hampstead, which he reached just in time to join the funeral procession. Nor was his coming inopportune. He had a feeling, he said, that everything would devolve on Gertie, who would need somebody to sustain her. And she did, and when recovered from the first shock of finding Godfrey beside her, caring for her so kindly, she gave way, and her head drooped for a moment on his shoulder, as she sobbed out: “Oh, Godfrey, what made you come? I am so glad, so glad.”
“What for you tie, then, if you’se glad?” Arthur said, looking curiously from Gertie to Godfrey, and from Godfrey back to Gertie, as if not quite sure that all was right.
“Halloo, you little shaver, who thought you could put two and two together,” Godfrey said, as he took his brother in his lap and held him there until they reached the grave; then he alighted and stood with the child between himself and Gertie, while the burial service was read.
“That’s my danmusser in the box,” Arthur said, aloud, as the coffin was lowered from sight, and when the bystanders heard it more than one wept for the lonely woman, the “danmusser” of the little three-years-old Arthur, whose golden curls were tossed by the November wind as he stood on tiptoe leaning forward to look into the grave and throw the wreath of everlastings he had brought for this purpose.
Arthur was greatly attached to his tall brother Godfrey, and hung about him constantly after the return from the grave, and told both Mrs. Tiffe and his father that “Dirtie had tied on Godfrey’s coat ’cause she was so glad danmusser was dead.”
Godfrey had intended to return that same night if possible, but when he spoke of it before Gertie it seemed to him that her eyes pleaded with him to stay, and when he stood for a moment as he did at Edith’s bedside and saw how sick she was, he felt that to leave was impossible until the balance was turned one way or the other, and he knew whether his fair young step-mother lived or died.
CHAPTER LII.
THE BATTLE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
