“They are for her room. I always associate her with English violets. She is just as sweet as they are, Heaven bless her!”
There was a tremor in his voice and his hand shook as he gave me the flowers. He was taking it hard, and I pitied him so much when he said:
“There is nothing in the wide world for me to live for now; but I shall not go back to my cups. She helped make me a man, and I’ll keep so for her sake; but I tell you, Ettie, it is pretty tough sledding, and there is a lump in my heart as big as a bass drum. I wish I were dead; I do, upon my word.”
How sweet the perfume of those violets was, and how eagerly Gertie inhaled it when she came at last, and I took her to her room.
“Tom brought them. He says they are like you,” I said, while a shadow flitted over Gertie’s face, for she knew just how much Tom Barton loved her, and felt in part the burden weighing him down so heavily.
It was curious to watch Edith as she came back to her home, with something of humility and fear in her manner, as if she dreaded the meeting of her old acquaintance now that they knew of the deception which had been practised so long, and it was equally curious to see how the colonel sustained and upheld her, and stood by her, and treated her with a consideration and increased deference and tenderness which would have precluded anything like coolness or indifference on the part of his friends toward his wife had they felt disposed to manifest it, which they were not. Edith was too popular; too much a favorite with all classes at Hampstead for anything except positive wrong to make a difference now; and the very first evening of her return many of her old acquaintances came to see her and offer their congratulations for the finding of her daughter, and that daughter Gertie.
How happy we were that night when Edith and Gertie sat together upon the sofa, the daughter’s head resting upon the mother’s shoulder, and the colonel and Godfrey standing behind and bending protectingly over them. Even Julia, who had come with the party, was unusually gracious, and told me confidentially that though she would have advised secrecy with regard to Gertie’s father, she was tolerably well satisfied with matters as they were, especially as Major Camden did not care, and she should soon be away from it all.
The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Marks had no cause to complain of empty pews, for every place was filled long before the bell sounded its last note and the Schuyler carriage drew up before the door. It did not matter that the villagers had seen Edith and Gertie and Godfrey hundreds of times, there was about them now a new element of interest, and the people came from other churches to see the wonderful sight. But they were in part doomed to disappointment, for Gertie was still too weak to venture out, while Godfrey would not go without her, and so, only Edith was there, her beautiful head drooping a little, and her eyes cast timidly down as she walked to her accustomed place and dropped upon her knees, where she remained a long, long time, while all through the church there was a solemn hush as the people watched her, many with tearful eyes, and all with a feeling that they knew the nature of her prayers and sympathized with her.
CHAPTER LXII.
THE WEDDING.
