EDITH’S ANSWER.
Gertie Westbrooke had gone to the country with Mrs. Rogers for a few
weeks, and Edith occupied her old room, and slept in the child’s bed,
and dreamed strange things which haunted her waking hours, and sent her
heart back to the little one lost long ago with a yearning such as she
had not felt in years. And with this pain, this sense of loss still
clinging to her, she sat down one morning and wrote the story of her
life, word for word, keeping nothing back and finishing by saying:
“If, after knowing all this, you still wish me to be your wife, I will
not refuse, but will do my duty faithfully, so help me Heaven!”
She showed the letter to her mother, who, finding that it was useless to
oppose her daughter, offered to take it to Oakwood herself.
“Better so than to trust it to the post,” she said. “Besides, it is well
for me to be there to answer any questions he may ask, and to take the
blame wholly upon myself, as I deserve.”
Edith did not refuse. She was rather glad than otherwise to have her
mother go as a kind of mediator between herself and the man whom she
began to find it would be a little hard to lose. Accordingly Mrs.
Barrett arrayed herself in her deepest mourning, and with her thick veil
drawn over her face, started for Oakwood and asked for Colonel Schuyler.
He had passed the four days drearily enough, and in his impatience had
more than once resolved to go to Caledonia Street, and claim Edith’s
answer. But he had promised her not to do so, and he remained at Oakwood
in a state of great suspense, until the day when a lady was announced as
wishing to see him.
“It surely cannot be Edith,” he thought, as he started for the parlor,
where the closely-veiled figure arose and introduced itself as “Mrs. Dr.
Barrett, mother of Miss Lyle.”
Colonel Schuyler was one of the preoccupied kind of men who take little
note of what does not directly concern them, and though he must have
heard the name of Edith’s mother, he had paid no attention to it, or
thought strange that it was not Lyle. Now, however, he noticed it, and
with only a stiff bow to the lady said:
“Barrett? Mrs. Barrett? And you Miss Lyle’s mother? How is that?”
“I have been twice married, and my last husband was Dr. Barrett,” was
the reply, which satisfied the colonel, who took a seat at some distance
from his visitor and waited for her to communicate her business.
Evidently it was a little awkward for her to do so, for she hesitated
and fidgeted in her chair and grew very red under her black veil, and
wished Colonel Schuyler would not scan her as curiously as he was doing.
At last, with a great effort, she began:
“My daughter has told me all that has passed between you, and I am come
with a message from her.”
“A message!” Col. Schuyler repeated, in some surprise; “I supposed she
was to write.”
He did not like this interference by a third person, and that person a
woman, whom his sister had described as “pushing and inquisitive,” and
for whom he had conceived a prejudice without knowing why. She was very
deferential, almost cringing in her manner, and her voice was apologetic
in its tone, as she replied:
“Yes, I know, she meant to send a letter, and she did commence one
yesterday, but grew so nervous over it that she finally gave it up, and
allowed me to come instead.”
Here she stopped a moment, and her hands worked together restlessly
while Col. Schuyler, in haste to know the worst, if worst there were,
said stiffly:
“Well, you are here, then, to say your daughter has refused me;” and as
he spoke the words, he was conscious of a sharp pang which told him how
hard such news would be to bear, and when Mrs. Barrett continued, “No,
not to tell you that,” the revulsion of feeling was so great that,
forgetful of his aversion for his prospective mother-in-law, he arose
and came near to her, while she continued:
“Her acceptance depends wholly upon yourself, and how you take the story
I am here to tell, and which she could not write. Some years ago, when
Edith was very young, scarcely fifteen, she fell in love with a
well-meaning, good-looking youth, greatly her inferior in the social
scale, though perfectly respectable, I believe. Of course, I opposed it,
both on account of her extreme youth and because, as the daughter of a
clergyman, with good family blood, she ought to do better. Without my
knowledge, however, they were engaged, and would have been married if he
had not been suddenly killed. It was a terrible shock to Edith, and one
from which she has never quite recovered. You know something of that
spasmodic affection of her throat which attacks her at times. It came
upon her then, and now when an allusion is made to the violent death of
any one, or she is over-excited, she experiences the same peculiar
sensation, so that I try to keep her as quiet as possible, and when I
found that writing to you about it, as she felt she must, was affecting
her so much, I persuaded her to desist and let me come instead. She is
morbidly conscientious, and would not for the world marry you until you
knew all about her past life. She loved the young man with such love as
very young girls feel; but that was years ago, and now I do not believe
she would marry him if he were living. She bade me tell you everything,
and say that if, after hearing it, you still wished her to be your wife,
she would do her best to make you happy, stipulating only that no
reference shall ever be made to a past which it is her duty and wish to
forget.”
Colonel Schuyler was not much given to talking at any time, and he
surely had no desire to speak to his _fiancée_ of her dead love. Could
he have had his choice in the matter there should have been no dead love
between himself and Edith, but when he reflected that he could not offer
her his first affection, for that was buried in Emily’s grave, he felt
that it was not for him to object to this poor, unknown youth who had
been obliging enough to die and leave Edith free. A few times he walked
up and down the room, then stopping suddenly before the anxious woman,
he said, “Your daughter once hinted to me that there was something she
must tell me, and as I knew her life must have been pure and innocent as
a babe’s, I supposed it was a matter of this kind, and am prepared to
overlook it, though of course I would rather have been the first to move
her maiden heart. I will write her a few lines if you will wait here,
and this afternoon or evening I shall see her.”
He bowed himself from the room, leaving Mrs. Barrett in a state of
fearful suspense as to what he might write to Edith, and whether her
wicked duplicity would at once be discovered. In her desire for Edith’s
advancement she was willing to do anything, and the slight put upon
herself was nothing to her now. She would rather have gone with Edith to
her beautiful home if she could, but as she could not she accepted the
condition, and was just as eager for Edith to accept the colonel as if
she too were to share in the greatness. With Edith she felt almost
certain that a full confession of the past would at once end everything,
for Colonel Schuyler would hardly marry the widow of one of his workmen,
and she resolved that he should not know it, at least not in time to
prevent the marriage. With Edith his wife he could not help himself, and
would make the best of it, if by chance it came to his knowledge, she
reasoned, and when she started for Oakwood with Edith’s letter it was
with no intention of giving it to him. She knew just what she would say
to him, and she said it, and then waited the result.
Fifteen minutes went by and then he came back to her, and, handing her a
note, said, “This is my message to Miss Lyle. I shall see her this
evening and arrange our plans.”
Then he meant to go on with it, and Mrs. Barrett could almost have
fallen at his feet and thanked him for raising her daughter to the
position she had sinned so greatly to secure for her, but the colonel’s
proud, cold manner kept her quiet, and she only said, as she took the
note:
“Thank you, sir; and please remember not to allude to the past, when you
see her. She wished that particularly,—it excites her so much.”
“I shall be careful on that point,” he said, and with another bow he
dismissed her from the room, wondering why he breathed so much freer
with that woman gone, and what it was about her which affected him so
unpleasantly.
“I know Edith is not like her in the least,” he said, “and I will take
care to remove her from that influence as soon as possible. Two weeks
will not be too soon for our marriage, and when the Atlantic rolls
between us I shall be done with Mrs. Barrett forever.”
Meantime Mrs. Barrett was on her way to London, and congratulating
herself upon the good luck which had not dried the seal of the note the
colonel gave her. Had it been otherwise she would have opened it all the
same; but Satan, whose servant she certainly was, was playing into her
hands, and the envelope held together so slightly that she opened it
with perfect ease, and taking out the letter, read it through with an
immense amount of satisfaction, as she saw that she could show it to her
daughter and not betray herself.
“My dear Edith,” it began, “do not think I prize you less on account
of anything in the past, though of course I would rather that past had
never been; but it is not for me, who have loved and lost a wife, to
object because of your early love, whose tragical death affected you
so strangely. I trust you will overcome that difficulty in time, and
be assured, that both for your sake and my own, I shall never in any
way allude to the past, nor is it necessary that I should do so. You
have been frank and truthful with me, and I thank you for it, and
value you all the more. Had it come to me later, I might have found it
harder to overlook than I do now. You are very young, and your
concealment from your mother is all I can see for which to blame you
in the least. Dear Edith, let it all be as if it never had been, and
go with me as my wife. I want you more than ever, and I cannot give
you up for a trifle. I will see you to-night and arrange for the
wedding, which must take place at once, as I have already been absent
too long from home, where I am needed so much, and where there will be
a warm welcome for you.
“Good-by, darling, till to-night.
“Yours, forever, HOWARD SCHUYLER.”
Had there been anything in this letter to awaken a suspicion in Edith’s
mind of foul play on the part of her mother, Mrs. Barrett would have
unhesitatingly withheld it from her and palmed off some story of her
own. But there was nothing, and she hastened home to Edith, whom she
found sitting listlessly in her room with Gertie Westbrooke’s things
everywhere around her, and a look of apathy upon her face, as if she
were fully assured of the nature of her mother’s tidings. She knew
Colonel Schuyler could not forgive, and now that the die was cast, and
her chance for something better than a governess’ life lost forever, as
she believed, she was conscious of a feeling of pain and weariness, and
her heart cried out for what she must not have.
As her mother entered the room she lifted her eyes languidly, but said
nothing until she read the letter, which made her pulse quicken with a
new hope and a restful feeling she had not known in years.
“What did he say to you?” she asked. “Did you talk with him? Tell me all
about it, please.”
And Mrs. Barrett told her just what it seemed best to tell, and said she
had taken the blame upon herself for the secrecy since Abelard’s death,
and that though he was, of course, surprised and shocked, he soon
recovered himself, and showed how much he was in love by his readiness
to forgive and let the past fade into oblivion.
To say that Mrs. Barrett’s conscience did not disturb her a little as
she thus told lie after lie would not be true; but she had committed
herself too far to stop now, and then it was for her interest to prevent
any conversation with regard to the past between the Colonel and Edith,
and she continued:
“Oh, one thing more I must tell you. Possibly Colonel Schuyler may have
said something of the kind in his letter. He is quite as averse to any
allusions to the past as you can be, and said distinctly that he did not
wish you to mention the subject to him. He is satisfied, and that is
enough.”
Edith did not reply. She was reading the note again, and feeling a
little hurt and disappointed that no direct mention had been made of
Abelard.
“He might at least have been generous enough to say how grateful he was
to him for having saved Godfrey’s life,” she said to her mother, who
answered:
“He did say that to me, and spoke very feelingly of him, and was glad he
honored his memory as he did; but you know how proud he is, and must
understand that it would grate upon his pride to think his bride elect
had been the wife of his servant. I think myself it would be bad taste
in him to go to lauding the dead husband of the woman he intends to make
his wife. You surely have no desire to praise the Lady Emily, or even to
talk of her, and you must give him the same liberty of reticence.”
Edith was silenced and satisfied. If Colonel Schuyler had praised her
husband to her mother, that was enough, and she appreciated the motives
which kept him silent to her, and as the day wore on there crept into
her heart a feeling of rest, and content, and satisfaction which she had
never known before. Colonel Schuyler was a man whom she thoroughly
respected and liked, and whom in time she might learn to love if she
could overcome the feeling of awe with which his presence inspired her.
She knew he would try to make her happy, and she more than once found
herself thinking with pleasing anticipations of the beautiful home
beyond the sea and the new life awaiting her. Never since the days when
she arrayed herself for the coming of Abelard had she felt as much real
interest in her dress as she did now when making herself ready for her
lover. Choosing a pretty robe of white which had been made in Paris, she
fastened a knot of lavender ribbon at her throat, and placing a white
rose in her hair, was ready for him when he came at last. His wooing of
Emily Rossiter had been the stiffest kind of an affair, and this, his
second love-making, was stiff and formal too, as became the man. Still
there was in his manner genuine kindness, and even tenderness, as he
took Edith’s hands in his, and said:
“Are these dear little hands mine?”
“Yes, if you still wish to have them,” Edith answered; and then he bent
down and kissed them very devoutly, as if fearful lest his breath should
blow them away.
This was a great advance on his manner with Emily. To her he had merely
said “This little hand is mine,” and had put it respectfully back into
her lap, reserving his right to kiss her, until she was his wife, while
in Edith’s case he kissed the hands he claimed as his, and held them in
his own a little awkwardly, it is true, as if he did not quite know what
he was doing, but still held them and looked at them, and turned them
over, and thought how shapely and pretty and white they were, and how
they would be improved with the jewels he meant to put upon them. And
she would be improved, too, with the rich apparel he would give her; and
his heart began to swell with pride as he saw in his home, and at his
table, and in society, the beautiful bride, who was sure to be a
success. And, as he talked to her, and watched the color mount into her
cheeks, and saw the coy drooping of her eyes, and felt her warm breath
upon his face, he was conscious of being moved as he had never been
moved before, and his words and tones were almost lover-like as he
talked of the future, and all he meant to do to make her happy. And only
once was there the slightest allusion to the past, and then Edith said
to him: “And you are sure that you do not care for what has made me so
unhappy?”
“Care! no. I told you as much in my letter. That is all gone by. Don’t
let us mention it now, or ever,” he said, as he wound his arm around
Edith, who felt that she might indeed forget the past, and take the good
offered to her in the new life coming.
It was late when Col. Schuyler left her that night, and before he went
he had arranged everything with that precision which marked all his
actions. They were to be married very quietly within the next three
weeks, and then, after a short trip into the country, go at once on
shipboard, and sail for America. The bridal outfit would come from
Paris, whither he would forward his order the next day. He would also
write at once to Godfrey, who would join them in time to be present at
the ceremony. There were to be no invited guests, and only a simple
breakfast at Oakwood. The heir was there now, but he had offered the
hospitality of the house to Col. Schuyler for as long a time as he chose
to accept it, and when told of the projected marriage, had asked the
privilege of furnishing the breakfast. Thus matters were arranged, and
Edith, who had cared and thought for herself so long, was glad to leave
everything to Col. Schuyler and let him plan and think for her. She was
beginning to like him very much, and when he brought her the engagement
ring, and she saw the superb diamond on her finger, she felt a throb of
pride and quiet exultation that at last the ease and luxury which her
fine tastes fitted her to appreciate and enjoy were to be hers without
stint or limit. That morning, too, a French modiste came and took her
measure, and when the second night of her betrothal closed in, the order
was on its way to Paris for “an entire outfit for a young bride whose
wealth would warrant any expenditure.”