Edith Lyle

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.

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.”