“Yes, but I could tell them;” then after a moment she added: “Auntie, who can I talk to? You said those children at the farmhouse were not good enough for me to associate with, and that people like Mr. Godfrey are too good.”
It was a puzzling question, which Mary Rogers could not answer satisfactorily. She had carefully guarded her beautiful child from all contact with children of her own rank, and as she could not hope to find friends in the higher circles, Gertie had led a secluded life and knew very little of young people, and what they did and said. In one sense this made her old, and in other respects she was much more a child than a girl of twelve should be. But the latter character suited Mary, who wished she might keep her darling always as she was now, her very own, with no other love or interest between them. The thought of Godfrey Schuyler jarred upon her painfully, as if through him mischief might come to her pet, and so she raised a note of warning, which Gertie pondered upon the remainder of the day, wondering if she should see him on the ship, and if he would speak to her, and what she should say if he did, and who the man was who parted his hair in the middle, and stared at her quite as hard as Godfrey did, only in a different way, and wondered what her aunt would say if she knew she had given an old photograph of herself to Abel Browning, the freckled boy at the farmhouse, who cried when she came away, and told her “she was the ’andsomest girl he had ever saw.”
“I just wish I was one thing or the other,” the little girl said to herself. “It is real mean to be too good to play with Abel and Bettie Browning, and not good enough to be talked to and looked at by Mr. Godfrey Schuyler.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
AT OAKWOOD AFTER THE BRIDAL.
The wedding breakfast was over, and Edith was in her room with her maid, Norah Long, and her mother, dressing for the short trip she was to make into the country before embarking for her new home.
There were many beautiful bouquets on her table, and Norah was to keep them for her till she returned, especially the one thrown at her feet by Gertie Westbrooke. Godfrey had brought this to her and told her whence it came, and she had found the slip of paper hidden in it, and read, “From little Gertie Westbrooke, with her love, and God bless you.”
She had received costly gifts that day, but with none had there come a “God bless you,” save with this tiny bouquet, and as she placed it herself in water, she whispered: “I do believe it’s the only blessing I have had. I’ll find the child when I come back, and thank her for it.”
She was dressed at last in her handsome black silk, with her jaunty round hat and feather, which made her look so young and girlish, and then turning to Norah she bade her leave the room, as she wished to be alone with her mother for a few moments.
“Mother,” she said, when the door had closed on Norah, “Col. Schuyler is so kind and generous, he has told me to ask him anything to-day, and he will grant it; and so I have concluded just for once to bring up the past and ask him if, before leaving England, I may find where baby was buried, and order her a grave-stone. You can attend to it, you know, and I shall feel that everything has been done which I ought to do. What do you think of it?”