“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.”
CHAPTER LX.
EDITH AND GERTIE.
When Gertie wound her arms around Miss Rossiter’s neck and kissed her so lovingly, she touched a chord in the woman’s heart which had never been touched before,—a chord which, under favorable circumstances, would have vibrated with a mother’s love, and which now brought to life so strong a liking for the helpless girl, that had there been no Edith in the way, Miss Rossiter would have adopted her at once as her own petted daughter. During the days and nights they had watched together by Godfrey’s side, Gertie had crept a long way into Miss Rossiter’s heart by her quiet, gentle manner, and her kind, unselfish thoughtfulness for her companion’s comfort. More than once, when Miss Rossiter looked tired and worn, Gertie had made her lie down, and kneeling beside her had bathed and rubbed her head, and even her feet, and combed and brushed her hair, and had done it all as if it were a favor to herself rather than to her companion, whose duty it now was to care for her.
And Miss Rossiter did not shrink from the task imposed upon her. True, she wore a lump of camphor in her bosom to prevent infection, just as she had done in Godfrey’s room, and she occasionally swallowed a pill of morphine, and kept the house full of chloride of lime, and used every disinfectant of which she had ever heard, and hired a nurse to take care of Gertie, but stood by her all the same, and saw that the doctor’s orders were obeyed. The third day Col. Schuyler said to her, when he came to look at Gertie:
“Christine, you are doing nobly, and I thank you so much, but I must test you still further. Gertie’s mother ought to be here when her child is so sick. Are you willing I should send for her?”
“Certainly,” Miss Rossiter replied, with a little darker shade on her face. “Send for her by all means. I had thought of that myself.”
It was right, Miss Rossiter knew, that Edith should come to her sick daughter, and she gave her consent graciously, though there was in her heart a feeling of aversion to the woman who had taken Emily’s place, and whom she had always disliked. Still in her own house she must be polite and courteous, and she received Mrs. Schuyler kindly, and made her rest awhile and take some refreshment before she went to Gertie, who was sleeping and must not be disturbed.