As her mother entered the room she lifted her eyes languidly, but said nothing until she read the letter, which made her pulse quicken with a new hope and a restful feeling she had not known in years.
“What did he say to you?” she asked. “Did you talk with him? Tell me all about it, please.”
And Mrs. Barrett told her just what it seemed best to tell, and said she had taken the blame upon herself for the secrecy since Abelard’s death, and that though he was, of course, surprised and shocked, he soon recovered himself, and showed how much he was in love by his readiness to forgive and let the past fade into oblivion.
To say that Mrs. Barrett’s conscience did not disturb her a little as she thus told lie after lie would not be true; but she had committed herself too far to stop now, and then it was for her interest to prevent any conversation with regard to the past between the Colonel and Edith, and she continued:
“Oh, one thing more I must tell you. Possibly Colonel Schuyler may have said something of the kind in his letter. He is quite as averse to any allusions to the past as you can be, and said distinctly that he did not wish you to mention the subject to him. He is satisfied, and that is enough.”
Edith did not reply. She was reading the note again, and feeling a little hurt and disappointed that no direct mention had been made of Abelard.
“He might at least have been generous enough to say how grateful he was to him for having saved Godfrey’s life,” she said to her mother, who answered:
“He did say that to me, and spoke very feelingly of him, and was glad he honored his memory as he did; but you know how proud he is, and must understand that it would grate upon his pride to think his bride elect had been the wife of his servant. I think myself it would be bad taste in him to go to lauding the dead husband of the woman he intends to make his wife. You surely have no desire to praise the Lady Emily, or even to talk of her, and you must give him the same liberty of reticence.”
Edith was silenced and satisfied. If Colonel Schuyler had praised her husband to her mother, that was enough, and she appreciated the motives which kept him silent to her, and as the day wore on there crept into her heart a feeling of rest, and content, and satisfaction which she had never known before. Colonel Schuyler was a man whom she thoroughly respected and liked, and whom in time she might learn to love if she could overcome the feeling of awe with which his presence inspired her. She knew he would try to make her happy, and she more than once found herself thinking with pleasing anticipations of the beautiful home beyond the sea and the new life awaiting her. Never since the days when she arrayed herself for the coming of Abelard had she felt as much real interest in her dress as she did now when making herself ready for her lover. Choosing a pretty robe of white which had been made in Paris, she fastened a knot of lavender ribbon at her throat, and placing a white rose in her hair, was ready for him when he came at last. His wooing of Emily Rossiter had been the stiffest kind of an affair, and this, his second love-making, was stiff and formal too, as became the man. Still there was in his manner genuine kindness, and even tenderness, as he took Edith’s hands in his, and said:
“Are these dear little hands mine?”