Edith Lyle

by Mary Jane Holmes

There was a great crowd at church that first Sunday after Mrs. Schuyler’s arrival in town. Perhaps it was the brightness of the day, and perhaps it was an unconfessed desire to see the bride, of whose personal appearance so many conflicting rumors were afloat. I was early at church myself, and felt nervous and excited when I knew that the Schuyler carriage had stopped at the door, and that I should soon see again the beautiful woman who had interested me so greatly. The Morrises, and Beechers, and Montgomeries, and Bartons from the Ridge, and indeed all the great families of the neighborhood, were already in their seats, and had said their prayers, and found their places, and arranged themselves comfortably and becomingly when the Schuylers came in, the colonel and his bride, with Godfrey and the young ladies following after. Edith’s dress was very plain and simple, a rich black silk, with some kind of a gauzy white scarf around her shoulders and a white chip bonnet, with lace and blue ribbons; and yet she was very elegant, as with eyes cast down and a flush on her cheek she walked up the aisle and took her seat in the Schuyler pew. There was perfect silence during the moment she was on her knees, but when she rose and threw a swift, curious glance about her we recovered ourselves and were ready for the “dearly beloved,” which I doubt if Edith heard, though she rose to her feet and let our village dressmaker, who sat behind, see just how the back of her skirt was trimmed.

Edith was not thinking of the solemn service in which she joined involuntarily, nor of the many eyes turned upon her, but of the Sundays years ago, when she was a worshipper in that same house, though not in that pew, crimson cushioned and velvet carpeted, but in the humbler seat farther back, where now by some chance little Gertie sat, her blue eyes fixed upon the bride, and her face wearing an expression of perfect content, as if she understood the general impression the lady had made.

Miss Rossiter was not there. She had told Mrs. Barton not to expect her. It would be too great a strain upon her nerves to see that doll in Emily’s place, with everybody looking at her, and some admiring her, as no doubt they would. She had called her “a doll,” and Mrs. Barton was prepared for a pink-and-white expressionless creature, with some claims to good looks, and an unmistakably lower-class air about her, but she was not prepared for this superb beauty, who took her breath away, and made her mentally revoke her promise not to call or notice her in any way. It would not do to slight that woman, who would lead Hampstead, and New York, too, if she tried, and Mrs. Barton did not propose to do it. She would rather run the risk of offending Miss Rossiter; and when at last church was out, and they were waiting for the carriages outside the door, she managed to get introduced, and presented her daughter Rosamond, who, for the remainder of the day, raved about the beauty and grace and style of Mrs. Schuyler. Little Gertie half stopped as if to claim acquaintance, but Mary Rogers led her away, and I saw the child look back several times at the lady, to whom she had not yet spoken, and whom she was to meet first at the grave of Abelard Lyle.

Godfrey had said to her, “I must go to the grave to-morrow after dinner,” and as she wished to water the flowers and root up any weed which might have come to sight since her last visit, she resolved to be there before him and enjoy his surprise. She knew dinner at Schuyler Hill was served at two o’clock on Sundays, and as Godfrey was not likely to get out before three she had plenty of time, and after her own early dinner started for the cemetery.

There was not much to be done, for the grave was like a pretty flower-bed, and after pulling a weed or two, and digging around a heliotrope, she sat down to rest at the foot of the monument.

Gertie was rather tired, and the day was warm and Godfrey long in coming, and at last she fell asleep with her head against the marble, and did not hear the sound of footsteps on the grassy path which led across the lawn to the yard.

Some one was coming, but it was not Godfrey. He was sitting with Alice upon the balcony, and asking her if she expected a new pupil at the Mission that afternoon, and if she’d like him to go with her. Colonel Schuyler was taking his Sunday nap in his easy-chair, and thus left to herself Edith had resolved upon a visit to the grave, toward which she had looked so many times since her arrival at Schuyler Hill. Only once before had she been in that yard, and that when she planted the rosebush which now twined about the monument, and made a screen from the sun for the little girl sleeping so sweetly there.

How beautiful she was, and Edith paused a moment to look at her, wondering who she was, and then concluding from the hair that it must be Gertie Westbrooke, who had thrown her the bouquet. Entering the yard she went close to the grave, marvelling to find it in such perfect order, and feeling a sense of suffocation when she saw the vase she had given Ettie Armstrong full of freshly-gathered flowers, which seemed to speak to her so plainly from the dead. Who had done this, as if in welcome to her? Was there any one in Hampstead who suspected her identity?

“Impossible,” she said to herself, as she sat down upon the iron chair which stood near the grave. “It is very strange, and this child here too asleep. What a beautiful face she has, and who is it she resembles?” Edith thought, as she marked the regular features, the transparent complexion, the long silken lashes and the glossy auburn hair of the unconscious child.