He did not stop long after that, but calling for his bill, hurried to the station and was soon on his way to Schuyler Hill.
CHAPTER LIV.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
He found his wife asleep, with her cheek resting on one hand, her hair pushed back and lying in masses upon the pillow. He had seen her thus many times, and he paused to look at her now, and thought how fair and lovely she was even yet, with her thirty-four years and the marks of her dangerous illness. Hers was a face which does not grow old, and to him it seemed more beautiful than it had been on her bridal day, because he loved her more than he did then, and knew how sweet she was. He did not associate her in the least with Abelard Lyle when he was with her. It was some other Edith who had been the heroine of that strange romance,—it was Heloise Fordham, the girl at the cottage, who had shed such bitter tears for the young carpenter, and not his wife, lying there before him in that quiet sleep. She was Edith,—the mother of his little boy, and he stooped at last and kissed her just as tenderly as if that letter had never been read by him, and he had never heard of the Lyles who lived in Alnwick.
The kiss roused her a little, and turning upon her pillow, her lips moved, and he heard her say, “Abelard,” while a pang, keener, sharper, and different from anything he had known, shot through his heart and brought great drops of sweat to his brow and lips.
During the dreadful three days when he was “thinking it out” he had experienced no jealousy of the dead youth, or for an instant believed that Edith loved him still, or could have loved him had he lived till now and met her for the first time in the fulness of her womanhood. But she was dreaming of him sure, and Colonel Schuyler would have given much to know the nature of the dream.
She was sleeping again, and he drew a chair beside her, and with his eyes fastened upon her face, sat looking at her until he heard Gertie light the gas in the adjoining room, preparatory to putting Arthur to bed. This was something the child would allow no one else to do, and now, when this was done, he insisted upon “tissin’ mamma just once” before going to his crib.
“Yes, Gertie, let him come,” the colonel said, as he heard the clamor at the door, and in his long night-gown the boy came in, screaming with joy at sight of his father, and crying out, as he reached out his arms to touch his mother’s face:
“Oh, mamma! mamma! papa’s tome! I’se so glad!—is you?”
Edith was awake now, and started when she saw the dark figure and guessed whose it was.