“Yes, I will tell her.”
“And tell Godfrey,—oh, what message shall I leave for Godfrey? Tell him I loved him,—more than he ever knew; but he must marry Alice for my sake. Tell him it was my wish.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“And Miss Rossiter, let me kiss you once, please, because you are so kind. I used to think you proud, and guess I did not like you, but I do now. I like everybody.”
The kiss was given, and, strangest part of all, returned, for Miss Rossiter’s heart was very soft toward the young girl, who, having said all she had to say, folded her hands upon her bosom, and whispering the little prayer, “Now I lay me,” learned when she was a child, sank into unconsciousness, from which she did not awake until the first April rains were falling, and there was a breath of coming summer in the soft spring air. If that sickness can be called pleasant when the fever runs so high that the pulse cannot be counted, and the breath of life almost fleets away, then Gertie’s sickness was a pleasant one, and never sure before or since was there a patient so docile, and quiet, and manageable as she, taking always what they bade her take, lying just where they put her, and seldom moving hand or foot save as they moved them for her. Like Godfrey, she was out on the broad sea, sailing away to parts unknown, but with her there were no storms, no sudden lurches, no rollings, no pitchings, no swelling waves threatening to engulf her. All was smooth and quiet and calm, as a river of glass, and the sun by day shone upon the water, flecking it with spots of gold, while the moon and stars at night looked down on the blue expanse, and lit it up with sheets of silvery light, into which Gertie went gliding, with Godfrey at her side. Always Godfrey, who stood at the helm and managed the oars, and managed the sails, and talked to her of love, which it was right for her now to accept. In that pleasant dream there was no Alice in the way, no father to dissent, but all was bright and clear, and the boat went drifting on and on, always in moonlight or sunlight, always on a smooth, still sea, till they came in sight of a far-off country, where golden streets and gates of pearl gleamed in the setting sun, and the boat paused mid stream, and waited whether the soul would cross to the beautiful city, or turning, take the homeward route and come back to life again. It chose the latter, and came slowly back, with sails all drooping and torn, and more ripples on the waves than had been in the journey out. Godfrey was no longer in the boat, Gertie had lost him somewhere, and was hunting sadly for him until a voice, which sounded much like his, said to her: “Gertie, I am here, and shall never leave you again.”
Then her little plaintive moan, “Godfrey, oh, where is Godfrey?” ceased, and when she spoke again, it was to a beautiful woman, who, she thought, was standing by her, and calling her “my daughter.” Oh, how that mother-love brooded over the sick girl, soothing and quieting and comforting her, and with its pleading prayers bringing at last the healing power which unlocked the sleeping senses, and made Gertie whole again. For Edith was there with her, and had been since the third day of her illness, when the colonel’s telegram went up the river, saying: “Gertie is very sick. Come immediately.”
CHAPTER LIX.
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.