“I must tell him,—I am able to bear it now.”
He knew she was awake, but waited for her to speak, trembling in every joint as he wondered how he should begin to say that which he was there to say, and wondering, too, how she would receive it. He had the little daisy on the table near him, and when she stirred he took it in his hand and fancied that it had grown to be the size of the magnolia blossoms he saw once in the gardens at the South. His mind was surely getting disordered, when Edith spoke and said:
“Howard, is that you? Are you watching with me?”
“Yes, Edith;” and he drew his chair closer to her, while she went on:
“Howard, do you love me, really, truly love me?”
“Yes,” he answered, “I really, truly love you. Why do you ask me, Edith?”
“Because, Howard, because I,—I,—wanted to be sure. I’ve,—there is something I must; oh, Howard, you do,—love me,—you do.”
It was a piteous cry, and had she been convicted of murder Colonel Schuyler would have stood by her with that sound in his ears. She was going to tell him, instead of his telling her! He was sure of it, and in his anxiety to know how she would begin, he resolved not to help her at first, but hear what she had to say. For a moment she lay very still, with her hands locked tightly together, and he knew that she was praying, for he caught the words “Help me,” as they came from her white lips. And heaven did help her, and the iron fingers were held back and her respiration was unimpeded, save by strong emotion when she at last began:
“Howard, do you remember the day when we were married, and I fainted in my dressing-room before going to the train?”
It was coming now, sure, and he replied: