Edith Lyle

Mrs. Rogers had received a message from her cousin Norah, which sent her again to Caledonia Street, where she found Mrs. Barrett more civil than before, and more inclined to let her rooms. Some little hesitancy there was, it is true, with regard to the chamber which had been Edith’s, and where she now occasionally spent a night.

“Surely your daughter can sleep with you, and does not require an extra room,” Mrs. Barrett said; and Mrs. Rogers replied:

“I prefer that she should have a room to herself. As I told you before, she is not my child, and I am more particular on that account to bring her up different. She has as good blood in her veins as many a would-be fine lady.”

So Mrs. Barrett gave up the point and prepared Edith’s old room for little Gertie, to whom Mary was as devoted as if she had been a scion of nobility. If Mrs. Barrett had cared for children she would have been interested in Gertie at once, but as it was she did not notice her particularly till she had been for several days an inmate of the house. Then one afternoon, as she sat at her sewing, her ear caught the sound of a sweet voice singing a familiar air. Something in the tone of the voice arrested her attention, and carried her back to the time when Edith was young and sang that very song. Moving her chair so that she could command a better view of the back porch where Gertie sat, she noticed for the first time how very pretty she was. She was rather small for her age, and had a round, sweet face, with a complexion like wax, and the clearest, sunniest blue eyes, which seemed fairly to dance when she was pleased, and again were so dreamy and indescribably sad in their expression as if the remembrance of some great sorrow had left its shadows in them. The long, thick eyelashes, and heavy arched brows gave them the appearance of being much darker than they really were, and when the lids were raised one was surprised to find them just the color of the summer sky on a clear, balmy day. But Gertie’s hair was her greatest point of beauty, her bright, wavy hair which in her babyhood must have been almost red, but which now was auburn, with a shading of gold in it. Taken altogether, she was a very beautiful child, and one whom strangers always noticed and commented upon, and even Mrs. Barrett, as she sat watching her, felt a sudden throb of interest in her, and thought of another little one, who might have called her grandma and made her old age happy.

“Gertie,” she said, after a moment, “come here, please. I want to talk with you.”

Startled by the voice and a little surprised to be addressed by the cold, quiet woman who had never before evinced the slightest interest in her or scarcely spoken to her, Gertie arose, and coming timidly to Mrs. Barrett’s side, stood waiting for her to speak.

“Gertie,” Mrs. Barrett began, “have you always lived in London?”

“Yes, ma’am, but not with auntie,” was Gertie’s reply: and Mrs. Barrett continued: “With whom then did you live?”

“With my mamma, who died when I was two years old,” was the prompt answer; and Mrs. Barrett went on: “Had you no father then?”

“Why, yes, but—but——;” the child hesitated a little and blushed painfully, then added, “he didn’t like me much, I guess, and when the new mother came, it was very bad, and so auntie, who isn’t my auntie, you know, only she lived there and liked me, took me for her own little girl, and I’ve been so happy with her, though mamma’s house was much bigger and nicer than any we have had since, and there were servants there just as there are at Oakwood, only not so many. But I like living with auntie best.”

Mrs. Barrett was interested now, and was about to question the child further of that home like Oakwood, when Mrs. Rogers appeared and called the little girl away. That afternoon Mrs. Barrett was attacked with a nervous headache which was so severe as to send her to her bed, where she lay with her eyes closed and moaning occasionally, when a light footstep crossed the floor, and a low, sweet voice said: “You are real sick, aren’t you? May I do something for you?” and before Mrs. Barrett could speak, two soft hands were pressed upon her aching head, which they rubbed and caressed until the throbbing ceased entirely, and the pain was less hard to bear. Gertie was a natural nurse, and she smoothed the lady’s pillow, and folded up a shawl and put it away and adjusted the shutters to exclude the light and still admit the air, and did it all so quietly and noiselessly that Mrs. Barrett would hardly have known she was there.

“You are very kind,” she said, “and I thank you so much, but don’t trouble yourself anymore. I shall do very well now.”

“Oh, I like to take care of you,” Gertie answered. “It’s funny I know, but you see I make believe I am caring for my grandma. I have one somewhere, auntie says, although I never saw her, and I guess she don’t like me very well.”

“Not like you!” Mrs. Barrett exclaimed. “How can she help it?”

“You see she don’t know me,” Gertie answered. “If she did, maybe she would. Do you like me?”

The question was put timidly, and the little face was very grave until the answer came, “Yes, very much;” then it flushed all over, and the blue eyes shone like stars while the warm red lips touched Mrs. Barrett’s cheek so lovingly, as Gertie exclaimed: “I am so glad. I want to be liked. I want everybody to like me.”

A desire to be loved was a part of Gertie’s nature, and with it she seemed to possess the faculty of making everybody love her, even to Mrs. Barrett, who, after that day, was exceedingly kind to the little girl, and ceased to care because she was an occupant of Edith’s room. That there was some history connected with her she was sure, but no questioning on her part availed to elicit any more information than had been volunteered during their first interview. Mrs. Rogers must have cautioned Gertie not to talk of her parents and old home, for she was very reticent, and answered evasively whenever Mrs. Barrett broached the subject to her, as she did once or twice.

“Auntie can tell you,” was her reply, when asked where her father had lived, and as Mrs. Barrett did not care to talk to Mrs. Rogers, she knew nothing definite of little Gertie Westbrooke when Edith came to see her and brought news of her rejection of the colonel.