Chapter XI: Edith’s Diary

OAKWOOD, _July 15th, 18—_.

Am I dreaming, or is it a reality that Col. Schuyler has asked me to
be his wife? He says he thinks I am more beautiful than any woman he
has ever seen, and that I would make such a rare gem for his house at
Hampstead, and he would surround me with every possible luxury. And in
his voice, usually so cold and calm and impassioned, there was a
little trembling, and his forehead flushed as he went on to state the
one condition on which he would do me this honor:

“My mother must have no part in my grandeur! She must remain here. If
necessary, money should be freely given for her needs, but she could
not live with me!”

Poor mother, with all her planning and her dreams of my brilliant
future she never once thought that when the chance came she would be
left out and have neither part nor lot in the question! What would she
say if she knew it, and what will she say when I tell her I refused
him? For I did, and told him it could never be. For a moment, though,
weak woman that I am, I was tempted to end this life of dependence and
poverty, and take what he offered me; not his love: he never hinted at
such an emotion, and I think that feeling is rare in such natures as
his. I doubt if he felt it for the Lady Emily, whom he married in his
May time, and surely now in his October he has no place for
foolishness of that kind. He does not love me, but he admires my face
and form, and would no doubt be very kind and careful of me, just as
he would be kind to and careful of a favorite horse whose looks
depended on such treatment. He would hang upon me jewels rare, with
silks and laces and satins, and I could wear them and feel my heart
break afresh each time I looked from my window across the lawn to that
grave under the evergreen where Abelard is lying. I should hear him
discussed, and with Colonel Schuyler stand by the mound and listen to
a story I know so well, and loathe myself for the lie I was acting,
for if I was there as Colonel Schuyler’s wife, my life would be one
tissue of falsehood and deceit. He, of all men in the world, would not
take me if he knew the truth, and during that interval when I
hesitated I had resolved not to tell him! I would go to him, if I went
at all, as Edith Lyle the maiden, and not Edith Lyle the widow. But
only for an instant, thank Heaven, did the tempter have me in his
control ere I cast him behind me with the resolve that whatever else I
might do, I would be frank with the man whom I made up my mind to
marry, and as I had not made up my mind to marry Colonel Schuyler, I
did not tell him who I was. I only declined his offer, and said it
could not be, and when his remark that I did not know what I was doing
angered me, I burst out impetuously:

“I do know what I am doing. I am refusing a match which the
world,—_your_ world, would say was far above me; but, Colonel
Schuyler, poor as I am, and humble in position, I am rich in the
feeling which will not let me sell myself for a name and a home. And
if I accepted you it would be only for that. I respect you. I believe
you to be sincere in your offer, and that you would try to make me
happy, but you could not do it unless I loved you, and I do not;
besides——”

Here he stopped me, and took both my hands in his, and seemed almost
tender and lovable as he said

“Edith, I did not suppose you could love me so soon, but I hoped you
might grow to it when you found how proud I was of you, and how I
would try to make you happy.”

“Colonel Schuyler,” I interrupted him, “you have talked of your pride
in me, and your admiration of me, but you have said nothing of love.
Answer me now, please. _Do_ you love me?”

He wanted to say yes, I know, for his chin quivered, and there was in
his face the look of one fighting with some principle hard to be
overcome. In his case it was the principle of truth and right, and it
conquered every other feeling, and compelled him to answer:

“Perhaps not as you in your youth count love. Our acquaintance has
been too short for that; but I can and I will; only give me a chance.
Don’t decide now. I will not take it as a decision if you do. Wait
till my return from the Continent, and then tell me what you will do.
I had hoped to take you with me, and thought that the glories of Rome,
seen by me twice before, would gain new interest with your eyes beside
me. But my sister needs you; stay with her during my absence, and try
to like me a little, and when I come back I know I can say to you,
‘Edith Lyle, I love you.’”

I was touched and softened by his manner quite as much as by what he
said, and I replied to him, gently:

“Even then my answer must be the same. My love was buried years ago. I
have a story to tell you of the past.”

Again those dreadful fingers clutched my throat as I tried to tell him
of Abelard, and my dead baby, buried I knew not where. My voice was
gone, and my face, which was deadly pale, frightened him I know, for
he led me to the window and pushed my hair from my brow and said to
me:

“Edith, please do not distress yourself with any tale of the past. You
say you have loved and lost that love, and let that suffice. I
suspected something of the kind, but you are not less desirable to me.
_I_ have loved and lost, and in that respect we are even; so let
nothing in the past deter you from giving me the answer I so much
desire when I return to Oakwood. Godfrey is coming this way. I hear
his whistle; so good-night, and Heaven bless you, Edith.”

He pressed my hand and left the room just as Godfrey entered the door
in another direction, singing softly when he saw me:

“She sat by the door one cold afternoon,
To hear the wind blow and look at the moon;
So pensive was Edith, my dear, darling Edith.”

He did not get any farther, for something in his light badinage jarred
upon my feelings just then, and assuming a severe dignity, I said:

“You mistake the name. I am not Edith. I am Miss Lyle.”

He looked surprised an instant, and then, with a comical smile and a
shaking down of his pants, he said:

“I beg your pardon, Miss Lyle. I meant Kathleen O’Moore, of course,
but seeing you at the moment I made a mistake in the name, and no
wonder, dazed as I am with a letter just received from Alice, who
hopes I shall return from my foreign travel greatly improved in mind,
and taste, and manners, as if the latter could be improved. She sent
her picture too. Would you like to see it?”

He passed me the _carte-de-visite_, and I saw the likeness of a girl
who he said was only sixteen, but whom I should have taken for twenty,
at least, judging from the dress and the expression of the face, which
I did not like. It was too supercilious, if not insolent, to suit me,
while the turned-up nose added to the look. And still there was a
style about her which marked her as what is called a “high-bred city
girl,” and I have no doubt she will eventually become a belle, with
her immense fortune and proud, arrogant demeanor.

“What do you think of it?” Godfrey asked; and feeling sure that with
regard to her his feelings could not be wounded, I answered:

“I do not quite like her expression, and she looks too old for you.”

“Good! I’ll tell her that some time when she is nagging me
unmercifully,” Godfrey said, adding: “I had a letter from Jule too,
with her photograph, and also one of our house and grounds. This is
Julia.”

It was the face of a brunette, dark, handsome, but proud and
imperious, and I was glad that she was not to be my step-daughter.

“Jule is handsome, except her ears, which are as big as a palm-leaf
fan,” Godfrey said, and I replied:

“Yes, she is handsome, and will make a brilliant woman.”

“This is our home,” he continued, and he put into my hand a large
photograph of the house on Schuyler Hill, and a considerable portion
of the grounds.

There were the tops of the evergreens, and there was a white stone
shining through the green, and I said to Godfrey,

“Whose monument is that?”

“That? Let me see. Why, that is young Lyle’s, the man who saved my
life. You remember I told you about him? Mother’s is farther on and
out of sight.”

How faint and sick I felt to have Abelard’s grave thus brought near to
me, and there was a blur before my eyes, which, for a moment,
prevented me from seeing distinctly. Then it cleared away, and I was
able to examine the picture and see how the grounds had been improved
since that morning when Abelard’s blood was on the grass where now the
flowers were growing. It was a fine place, and as I looked at it and
thought it had been offered me, ay, might yet be mine, if I would take
it, did I feel any regret for having refused it? None whatever. If I
were to tell Col. Schuyler everything I should never go there, and if
I were to go without telling him my life would be one of wretchedness
and hatred of myself. No, better bear with poverty and servitude than
live a greater lie than I am living now. So I gave the picture back to
Godfrey, and bidding him good-night, came up to my room, where I could
be alone, to think over the events of that eventful day.

EXTRACT FROM GODFREY’S JOURNAL.

“What a regal creature Edith is! and I do believe father thinks so too, but that would be an awful match for her. Jule would scratch her eyes out, and if ever I should marry Alice, which I never shall, but if I do, and bring her home to Schuyler Hill, wouldn’t I have lively times between step-mother and wife; but that is too absurd to consider for a moment. I wish she was younger or that I was older. Let me see,—’most eighteen from ’most twenty-eight, leaves ten. No, that will never do. A man may not marry his grandmother, much less a boy, as Jule calls me in her letter, giving me all sorts of advice, and hoping I will overcome that habit of wriggling,—meaning the way I have of shaking down my pants. As if I knew when I did it. Alice’s letter was a very good one, only why need she call me “Dear Godfrey” when I’m not her Dear Godfrey, and never shall be. Why, she looks older than Miss Lyle herself in that picture, with her hair stuck on the top of her head like a heathen Chinee. I believe I’ll tear the picture up. Miss Lyle did not like it, neither do I, and I will not have it in my possession. I wonder if Miss Lyle would give me hers. I mean to ask her to-morrow.”

He did ask her and received no for his answer, and then tore up Alice’s photograph, and packed his valise, and with his father set off for Paris the following day.