Chapter XII: The Tiny Rose Bud

THE next morning's mail carried a letter to Mr. Wallingford, announcing the birth of a tiny girl; and that Gertrude was so prostrated by the nervous spasms which followed, that fears for her life began to be entertained. Unfortunately, Edward was absent on business when the letter arrived; but as it was postmarked "haste," the clerk carried it at once to Rose Cottage.

The trial of poor Hannah at being confined to her couch, while her dear child was dying, perhaps for want of her care; may be easier imagined than described. She worried and chafed until she brought on a fever which did not abate until a second letter was received from Chicago, saying Gerty's symptoms were decidedly more favorable.

She had roused from her lethargy, enough to call for her babe; and when once she had it in her arms, could scarcely be prevailed upon to give it up again. The child, which she had instantly whispered was to be named, Rose Wallingford, was so feeble and puny, that it could not probably live many days; and on this slender, delicate prop the young mother's life seemed to be dependent.

As may well be supposed Mr. Wallingford lost no time in hurrying to the bedside of his sister.

He found her looking fragile as a lily upon which the wind has blown too roughly; but with the light of a mother's love beaming from every feature.

"Isn't she a darling?" she murmured as he bent over the tiny form. "I am so happy. If God will only spare her to me, I will try to make her like our mother." The tears filled her eyes as he repeated some of Hannah's many messages.

"If crawling on my hands, and knees, darling, would have taken me to you in time. I would have been glad to go."

"Dear Hannah," Gerty faltered. "It has been a keen sorrow to both of us; but we know it was ordered by a friend who can tell what is best."

"Now," added Edward, "she is beginning to plan for the winter; for she insists you are to spend it in Rose Cottage. Little Rose is to be fatted up on cream from her best Alderney; and all the fowls on the farm are put on good behavior, being expected to lay a certain number of eggs per diem or forfeit their corn."

"If papa will let us, you and I will go and see Hannah; wont we little one," murmured the young mother pressing the infant to her breast—"you and I and Bridget."

Contrary to the expectations of all, little Rose lingered until she was three months old. Gertrude had gained her strength and scarcely had a thought outside her nursery. The infant was so feeble that the journey to New York had been postponed from time to time, greatly to Hannah's disappointment. The Doctor had told Mr. Dudley that his child could not linger many weeks longer; hinting that he had better break the intelligence gradually to the mother as the effect on her sensitive heart might be alarming; but Paul did not relish scenes as he said to himself, and thought there was time enough yet.

The affection of Gertrude for her child was beautiful to witness. Every morning Marion Gilbert's feet tripped over the frozen ground, between her father's house and Gerty's, entering Mr. Dudley's by the side door, where Bridget was putting her kitchen in order, and inquiring:

"How's the baby?"

At this Bridget's apron would go up to her eyes.

"It's getting to be an angel, ma'am. Every day I see it."

In the neat nursery, Marion always found the two children, Gerty and Rose; for the mother since her illness allowed her hair to curl in her neck as formerly, and would easily be mistaken for a child just entering her teens.

The favorite seat of the mother was a low rocking chair lent her by Mrs. Gilbert; and which had been efficacious in rocking all the young Gilberts to sleep. Here in front of the cheerful coal fire, she sat, with her little blossom cradled in her arms, singing a low lullaby; or if the deep blue eyes of baby were closed, there was a Bible close at hand, from which a few words might be read.

Gertrude had given up all her studies now, except that of the Holy Book. Marion often thought, as she saw her storing her mind with its precious truths that by them her Father in heaven meant to fortify her heart in view of the separation which it was apparent to every one must soon come.

"Father," the young girl exclaimed one day, "Do go, and tell that poor child her baby's wings are growing and it will soon fly away to its home in the skies."

And Dr. Gilbert went; his heart oppressed with sorrow for the youthful mourner. He found his warning was not needed.

In the nursery Mr. Dudley sat, his countenance paler and more serious than his pastor had ever seen it. As the gentleman stood one moment in the hall waiting to receive an answer to his low knock, he heard Gerty's voice talking to her husband.

"I've always known she was only lent to me for a little while. At first I prayed a great deal that God would let her stay to help me be good."

"She, help you, Gerty?"

"Yes, Paul; and if you could be with her and see how patiently she bears all her pain,—if you realized how soon she is to be in the presence of the Saviour,—to rest in his bosom; you would find how easy it is to put away all unkind thoughts; to bear all the little vexations of life if we may grow meek and quiet like her. You remember Christ said to his disciples, that they must become like little children; and I've just been reading, 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.'"

Dr. Gilbert's repeated knocks at last were answered by Mr. Dudley himself, who seemed greatly relieved when he saw who the visitor was.

"Come in, sir," he said, cordially extending his hand. "Gerty, here is a gentleman who can comfort you much better than I can. She thinks her baby not quite so well to-day, and wants me to stay at home and help her watch it."

An expression of pain, for one instant, clouded the mother's fair countenance, but was instantly succeeded by a look of resignation, so elevated, so holy, that the pastor paused to gaze.

"I'll hurry home, Gerty; and perhaps I'll find time to run in at noon," said Mr. Dudley, making a little bustle to hide his embarrassment. He feared Dr. Gilbert would offer to pray for the child before he should be out of the house.

"Precious babe," faltered the clergyman, bending over her. "We cannot mourn for you, who will so soon be free from pain and sorrow. No, sweet and unwearied as your mother's care has been, the tender love of your Saviour, who shed his blood for you, will be more sweet, more unwearied; but babes are God's precious gifts, and it is hard to part with them."

"God will give strength to bear the chastisement he sends," faltered Gerty, without raising her eyes from the infant's face. "He knows how I love her, and he would not take her away unless he saw it was best."

"'A bruised reed shall he not break,'" repeated the clergyman.

"It is sweet to feel that he does not take her from me in anger," was the faint rejoinder.

"God chastens those whom he loves, my child, for their own growth in every Christian grace. By this affliction he intends to bring you nearer to himself."

"He has already done so," she added, her whole face beaming. "I never felt so sure that he has forgiven my self-will; my disregard of all authority; my many sins against his long-suffering kindness, until I have sat here day after day and watched my little Rose, growing to be an angel, as Bridget says. I could never have borne it without his help. You have lost three babies Dr. Gilbert, and you know how easy it would be for me to give up every comfort I have in the world if I might keep her; but by his help I can say, 'She is thine dear Father, thine for life or death.'"

Dr. Gilbert kneeled to offer up a petition for continued support to the mother, and prayed that the suffering so meekly endured by the little one, might be blessed to her infantile advancement in divine grace; and then went home to tell his wife that her fears for their young friend were needless; that he had learned a lesson from her which he hoped never to forget.

He had scarcely concluded his relation of Gerty's faith in God's love; and her sweet submission to his will, though it was to take from her the dearest object she had in life, when a hurried ring announced the family physician.

"I have just come," he exclaimed, with a suspicious moisture in his eye, "from the house of Mr. Dudley. Will you, Mrs. Gilbert, be a mother to that poor child in her sorrow. Her babe is dying and Bridget is wailing over it in frantic grief. I shall ride to Mr. Dudley's office on my way back, and send him home. Nothing but the recollection of her mute sorrow keeps me from calling him some hard names."

"Come, mother," said Marion tearfully, "let's go at once."

When they reached the chamber of death, little Rose had plumed her wings and was taking her flight from earth to her home in the skies. The Doctor had persuaded Gerty to lay her on the couch; and she knelt by the side, one finger closely clasped in the tiny fingers; while the violet eyes, so wishful and wondering, were fastened on the dear face upon which they had never seen a frown.

"It was the most affecting sight I ever witnessed," wrote Marion afterwards to Mr. Wallingford, "to see Gerty smiling on her treasured one, that it might not be frightened by her tears, when her heart was nigh to breaking. This passage of Scripture, 'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee,' came home to me with greater force than I had ever felt it before."

Just as the child ceased to breathe. Mr. Dudley rung the bell with a loud, quick jerk and hurriedly mounted the stairs. Gertrude did not seem to hear him. Her tearless eyes were fixed on the marble countenance; her hand still grasped in the stiffening fingers.

"Good by, darling," she whispered, bending over and imprinting a long, long kiss on the cold, pale lip.

Mrs. Gilbert saw a shudder run through her frame; and took hold of her to persuade her away. She saw that the shock had been too great for the overtasked nerves; and was almost glad when with a stagger the bereaved mother fell back insensible into her arms.

Motioning to Mr. Dudley, he carried his wife from the chamber, and laid her on a bed in what she called Edward's room, where Mrs. Gilbert watched by her side, while Paul, in a fever of remorse, by turns walked the floor, and passionately kissed the cold lips of his unconscious wife.

Gerry's swoon was of so long continuance that when she revived, Marion's loving hands had prepared the body of little Rose for its final resting place. When the tiny fingers were folded, Bridget, with a fresh burst of grief, begged Miss Gilbert to place within them an exquisite rose bud, which she had expended one quarter of her week's earnings to purchase at the stall opposite.

"It's the last poor Bridget can do for ye," she sobbed, rushing from the room.

"I'd give a year of my poor life in a minute," she exclaimed afterward to Mrs. Gilbert, "if the precious angel could have been spared to her mother for a little while. Then they would both have gone together; for any one must be blind not to see the Father is preparing to take her home to himself."