COLONEL SCHUYLER RETURNS.
“OAKWOOD, _May 25th, 18—_.
“Colonel Schuyler:—Your sister, Mrs. Sinclair, is lying very low, and
desires to see you as soon as possible.
“Respectfully, EDITH LYLE.”
This short epistle found Col. Schuyler in Florence, and brought him back
to England at once. During the winter and the early spring Mrs. Sinclair
had been failing, and when May came, the change in her for the worse was
so perceptible that she asked Edith to write for her brother, whom she
wished to see once more. To Edith the thought of losing her kind
mistress was terrible, for, aside from the genuine love she bore the
lady, she knew that losing her involved also the loss of the home where
she had been so happy, and she dreaded to encounter the curious
suspicions she would have to meet alone and unprotected.
“What will you do when I am gone?” Mrs. Sinclair said to her one day
when speaking of her approaching decease, and as Edith made no reply,
except to cover her face with her fingers, through which the tears
trickled slowly, she went on: “You seem to me like a daughter, and I
shrink from the thought of leaving you alone. If it were possible I
would make you independent, but at my death the Oakwood property reverts
to a nephew of my husband’s, and I cannot control it. I can, however, do
something for you, and will. Edith, I have never mentioned the subject
to you before,—but, was there not,—did not my brother offer himself to
you last summer when he was here?”
“Yes,” came faintly from Edith; and Mrs. Sinclair continued:
“And you refused him, subject, I believe, to a reconsideration?”
“I refused him, and with no thought of reconsideration on my part. My
decision was final,” Edith said; and Mrs. Sinclair continued:
“It is not for me to dictate in such matters, perhaps, but it seems to
me you will do well to think of it again should he renew the matter on
his return. It is an offer which any woman should consider seriously
before rejecting it. I _know_ he can make you happy, and you would far
better be his honored wife even if he is many years your senior, than be
cast upon the world with your face and manner as a lure to evil-minded
men, who hold a governess as only fair spoil.”
“I know it; I know all that, and feel it so keenly,” Edith answered, and
for an instant there came over her such a feeling of utter loneliness
and desolation, and such a shrinking from the future which might be to
her what the past had been until she knew Mrs. Sinclair, that she would
almost have taken Colonel Schuyler had he been there then.
Smothering her sobs and commanding her voice as well as she could, she
continued:
“I would rather die than meet again what I have met in the families
where I was employed before I knew you, but mother is poor and growing
old, and I must do something.”
“Why not take the home offered you?” Mrs. Sinclair asked, while Edith
sat motionless as a stone, her face as white as ashes, and that horrid
sensation in her throat which kept her from uttering a word.
When at last she could speak she astonished Mrs. Sinclair by falling on
her knees beside the bed, and crying out:
“Oh, Mrs. Sinclair, you do not know, you cannot guess what and who I am,
or you would know that could never be. Forgive me, I have been an
impostor all these years, but now I must speak and tell the whole, and
then you shall judge if your proud brother, knowing all, would take me
for his bride.”
Twenty minutes passed, and then Edith sat, paler and more motionless, if
possible, than before, her hands pressed tightly together, and her eyes
cast down as if afraid to meet the wondering gaze fixed upon her. She
had withheld nothing, and Mrs. Sinclair knew the entire story, from the
hasty marriage in New York, up to the day when the message came that the
little baby was dead. She had been astonished and shocked, and indignant
with the mother rather than with the daughter, who, she readily saw, had
been only a tool in an ambitious, heartless woman’s hands, and whom she
could forgive for a deception which had wronged no one and in which no
one but herself was as yet involved. So, when at last she spoke, her
voice was just as kind and gentle as of old, as she said:
“My poor child, yours is a strange experience for one so young. Truth is
always best, and it would have been just as well if it had been
confessed at first. I am glad you have told me; and if my brother asks
you again, as I think he will, you must tell him. It may make a
difference with him. I do not know. Certainly it would, if withheld till
after marriage. That deception he would hardly forgive. Leave me now,
please; I am very tired, and you, too, need the open air after your
great excitement.”
The next day Col. Schuyler came alone, as Godfrey was in Russia. But
Mrs. Sinclair was too weak to talk much, and could only look her
pleasure at her brothers presence. Three days after she died, with her
head on Col. Schuyler’s bosom and Edith kneeling at her side. Just at
the last she had taken the girl’s hand, and putting it in that of her
brother had whispered:
“Take care of her, Howard. She is worthy, and has been like a daughter
to me.”
“I will,” he answered, emphatically, as his hand closed tightly over
that of Edith, who felt as if that hand-clasp bound her to the fate
which she had no longer power to resist.
Immediately after the funeral she returned to her mother’s cottage, but
before she went Col. Schuyler asked for a private interview, which she
granted with a feeling that it was of no use to struggle against what
was inevitable. Col. Schuyler had tried to forget her during his
travels; had tried to reason with himself that a poor unknown girl, who
was his sister’s hired companion, was not a fitting match for a Schuyler
whose first wife had been a Rossiter. But one thought of the beautiful
face, and of the sweet voice which had sung to him in the twilight was
sufficient to break down every barrier of pride and make him willing to
sacrifice a great deal for the sake of securing her. And so it was that
on his return to England he was resolved to renew the offer once made
and rejected, and to take no refusal this time. His sister approved his
choice, and had sanctioned it with her dying breath, and thus reassured
he went to Edith with a feeling of security as to the result of the
interview, which manifested itself somewhat in his manner, and made
Edith feel more and more how helpless she was, and how certain it was
that her secret must be told.
“Edith,” he began in his stiff way, as he took a seat beside her, “just
before I left Oakwood last August, I held a conversation with you which
I know you have not forgotten. I asked you to be my wife, and you asked
me if I loved you. I could not say yes, then, for though I admired and
respected, and wanted you, I did not experience any of those ecstatic
thrills of which we read in books, and which very young people call
love. And even now,”—he paused a moment and hesitated, and a flush
spread itself over his face, “even now I may not feel as a younger man
would in similar circumstances; but when I tell you that you have
scarcely been out of my mind for a moment during my absence, that I have
dreamed of you night and day, and that in all the world there is nothing
I desire so much as I desire you, I think you will be satisfied that if
I do not love you as you have imagined you might be loved, I am in a
fair way to do so, if I receive a little encouragement.”
He paused, but Edith did not speak, and sat before him with her long
eyelashes cast down and her hands working nervously together. She knew
he was sincere, though his wooing was so different from what Abelard’s
had been, or what Godfrey’s would be were he in his father’s place. But
Godfrey was young, and Abelard had been young, too, and both were
different from this cold, proud man of forty, who had unbent his dignity
so much, and who seemed so earnest, and even tender as he went on to
tell her of all she had to gain if she would go with him to the home he
would make more beautiful than it already was, for her sake. It was a
very pleasant picture he drew of the future, but it did not move Edith
one whit, because she felt certain that this life could not be hers if
she told him all, as she must surely tell him, if he persisted in his
suit. She admitted to him that he was not disagreeable to her; that she
found his society pleasant; that she believed him to be a man of honor,
who would try to make her happy; and when he asked why she hesitated,
she opened her lips to tell him, but could not speak the words.
“I can write them better,” she thought, and when she could command her
voice, she said to him: “Give me a few days, a week, in which to think,
and then I will write you my decision. I know you honor me, and I thank
you for it, and believe you sincere, and for that reason, would not for
the world deceive you. I have something to tell you which I can better
put on paper. Let me go now, for I feel like suffocating.”
She spoke slowly and with difficulty, and her face was so white, that
Col. Schuyler felt alarmed lest she should faint, and passing his arm
around her, led her to the balcony and brought her a glass of water, and
laid his hand softly on her hair, and seemed so kind and thoughtful,
that for the first time there awoke in Edith’s heart a throb of
something like affection for this man who might make her so happy.
“Oh, if I only could forget the past and accept the life offered me,”
she thought, as an hour later he put her into the carriage which was to
take her to her mother’s, and then pressing her hand deferentially, said
to her: “I shall await your answer with a great deal of impatience, and
shall not consent to receive an unfavorable one.”
He lifted his hat, and the carriage drove away to Caledonia Street,
where her mother was expecting her.