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?”
She was buttoning her gloves as she turned toward her mother, but
stopped suddenly, struck by the expression of the face which met her
eyes, and which she knew meant so much.
“Do nothing of the kind. Are you crazy, girl? Never allude to the child,
if you wish to be happy.”
Mrs. Barrett spoke rapidly and excitedly; and with a nameless terror of
some threatened danger, Edith asked:
“Why, mother? Why not mention the child to-day, when he said, ask what I
pleased? Why must I not?”
“Because—because—” and Mrs. Barrett came close to her and whispered: “He
don’t know there was a child. I did not tell him that.”
“Don’t know there was a child!” Edith repeated. “What do you mean? I
wrote it in the letter,—all, everything; if he read it he knows about my
baby. Moth——! Moth——!”
She could not say the whole name,—could not articulate another word, for
the awful suspicion which flashed upon her, bringing back the hand which
clutched her in a death-like grasp, and made her writhe and gasp for
breath.
“Edith, listen to me;” and Mrs. Barrett spoke sternly. “It is time this
folly ended. Do you think I would let you throw away the chance for
which I had waited so long? Had Colonel Schuyler known the truth as you
wrote it, he would not have married you, and as your mother it was my
duty to interfere and save you from the consequences of your rashness. I
kept your letter, and told him what I liked. I said you were in love
when very young,—scarcely fifteen,—that the object of your love was
greatly your inferior, and that I opposed the affair—that in spite of
all you were secretly engaged, and would have been married, no doubt,
had he not been suddenly killed. I told him, too, that the manner of his
death was a fearful shock to your nerves, from which you had not yet
recovered, as you now sometimes felt a choking sensation in your throat
when reminded of the past, and asked him never to refer to it if he
wished to spare you pain. He promised he would not. He did not ask the
name of the young man, nor where he lived; indeed, he was not at all
anxious to discuss the matter, and stopped me before I was quite done by
telling me he had heard enough, and that he was satisfied. I think,
however, he was annoyed, and you can judge what would have been the
result had I given him your letter. Believe me, I acted for the best,
and though you can now tell him, if you like, I trust you have too much
good sense to do so, or at least will take time to consider. You are his
wife; nothing can alter that, and the past cannot in any way affect him,
provided he knows nothing of it. To tell him now would be to wound him
cruelly, and my advice to you is to let the matter rest, and take the
good offered to you.”
Edith made no reply. Indeed, she could not have spoken to have saved her
life for the choking, palpitating sensation in her throat, where her
heart seemed beating wildly with such throbs of pain as she had never
felt before. Gradually as her mother talked she had sank down upon the
couch where she lay in a crumpled heap, her face as white as ashes, and
her eyes staring wildly like the eyes of one choking to death. And when
at last she spoke, it was only in a whisper that she said:
“Oh, mother, you make me wish I was dead.”
There was the sound of wheels upon the gravelled road, and Col.
Schuyler’s voice at the door, saying the carriage was waiting.
“Let it wait; I cannot go now,” Edith gasped, trying in vain to struggle
to her feet, and then falling back among the cushions, weak and
powerless to help herself.
Opening the door Mrs. Barrett bade Col. Schuyler enter, and then closing
it again drew him quickly into the little dressing-room before he caught
sight of Edith lying so still and helpless in her misery.
“I am sorry, but I suppose she cannot help it,” she began, “she is so
weak and nervous; but something I said to her of that early affair, you
know, has affected Edith so much as almost to bring on a faint, and she
is there on the sofa, unable to sit up. Be very gentle with her, do. It
is all my fault.”
For a man to be told that his two hours’ bride has fainted because
reminded of a former love affair, is not very pleasant, and Col.
Schuyler grew hot and cold, and a little annoyed. But he had known all
the time that Edith’s love in its full extent was yet to be won, and so
the humiliation was not nearly so hard, and his voice was very tender
and kind as he bent over her, and said:
“Edith, my darling, it distresses me to see you thus. I had thought,—I
had hoped,—Edith, you are not sorry you are my wife, when I am so glad?”
There was something pleading in his tone, and it roused Edith, and
sitting up, she said:
“No, Col. Schuyler, I am not sorry, and Heaven helping me, I’ll be a
good, true wife to you, but oh—oh—you must—bear with me, and if I am not
all, or what you believe me to be, forgive me, will you? _I_ am not to
blame.”
He did not in the least know what she meant, nor did he care. She was
excited and nervous, he thought, and he tried to comfort and soothe her,
and laid her head on his shoulder and held her closely to him, and told
her to calm herself, and motioned Mrs. Barrett away with a gesture of
impatience, and when Godfrey came to the door, and said, “Hurry up, or
you’ll be late,” he answered back, “Send the carriage away. We will take
the next train. Mrs. Schuyler is suddenly ill and cannot go just yet.”
He had called her Mrs. Schuyler, she was his wife, and a feeling of
reassurance and quiet began to steal over Edith as she sat with her head
on her husband’s shoulder and his arm around her waist, and with this
feeling came a sensation akin to love for the man who was so kind to her
and who had been so deceived. But not by her; she was not to blame, and
she meant to tell him all, but not then. It was neither the time nor the
place. It should be when they were away alone, before the day was over,
and then if he chose to put her from him, and go back without her, he
could do so, and she would say it was right. She grew better rapidly
after this decision was reached, and though her face was very pale, and
there was a frightened look in her eyes, she met her friends at last
with a smile, and gave some laughing excuse for her sudden
faintness,—said the day was warm,—that she had not been well or slept
much for weeks,—that she was subject to such attacks, but thought it
most unfortunate that she should have one that day of all others.
She was much better when the time for the next train drew near, but
there was a steady avoidance of her mother, who had deceived her so,—a
coldness of manner which Mrs. Barrett felt but did not mind. So long as
her end was obtained she was not scrupulous as to the means. She loved
her daughter in her way, and now that she was Mrs. Howard Schuyler she
would like to make much of her and be made much of in return, but if
Edith was foolish enough to resent the means she had used to place her
where she was, she could not help it, and bore her punishment very
meekly, and was not at all demonstrative when at last her daughter said
good-by to her just as she said it to the others and took her seat in
the carriage.
Col. Schuyler noticed the formal leave-taking, and though he was better
pleased to have it thus than he would have been had there been kissing
and crying over the woman he secretly disliked and distrusted, he was a
little surprised, and wondered if it were a feeling of pride born of her
elevation which had so soon affected Edith.
Alas, he little understood her or dreamed of the conflict going on in
her mind as she was borne rapidly along the road, through the beautiful
English country, to the place where they were to spend the night and
where Edith meant to tell him all.