“Yes, if you still wish to have them,” Edith answered; and then he bent down and kissed them very devoutly, as if fearful lest his breath should blow them away.
This was a great advance on his manner with Emily. To her he had merely said “This little hand is mine,” and had put it respectfully back into her lap, reserving his right to kiss her, until she was his wife, while in Edith’s case he kissed the hands he claimed as his, and held them in his own a little awkwardly, it is true, as if he did not quite know what he was doing, but still held them and looked at them, and turned them over, and thought how shapely and pretty and white they were, and how they would be improved with the jewels he meant to put upon them. And she would be improved, too, with the rich apparel he would give her; and his heart began to swell with pride as he saw in his home, and at his table, and in society, the beautiful bride, who was sure to be a success. And, as he talked to her, and watched the color mount into her cheeks, and saw the coy drooping of her eyes, and felt her warm breath upon his face, he was conscious of being moved as he had never been moved before, and his words and tones were almost lover-like as he talked of the future, and all he meant to do to make her happy. And only once was there the slightest allusion to the past, and then Edith said to him: “And you are sure that you do not care for what has made me so unhappy?”
“Care! no. I told you as much in my letter. That is all gone by. Don’t let us mention it now, or ever,” he said, as he wound his arm around Edith, who felt that she might indeed forget the past, and take the good offered to her in the new life coming.
It was late when Col. Schuyler left her that night, and before he went he had arranged everything with that precision which marked all his actions. They were to be married very quietly within the next three weeks, and then, after a short trip into the country, go at once on shipboard, and sail for America. The bridal outfit would come from Paris, whither he would forward his order the next day. He would also write at once to Godfrey, who would join them in time to be present at the ceremony. There were to be no invited guests, and only a simple breakfast at Oakwood. The heir was there now, but he had offered the hospitality of the house to Col. Schuyler for as long a time as he chose to accept it, and when told of the projected marriage, had asked the privilege of furnishing the breakfast. Thus matters were arranged, and Edith, who had cared and thought for herself so long, was glad to leave everything to Col. Schuyler and let him plan and think for her. She was beginning to like him very much, and when he brought her the engagement ring, and she saw the superb diamond on her finger, she felt a throb of pride and quiet exultation that at last the ease and luxury which her fine tastes fitted her to appreciate and enjoy were to be hers without stint or limit. That morning, too, a French modiste came and took her measure, and when the second night of her betrothal closed in, the order was on its way to Paris for “an entire outfit for a young bride whose wealth would warrant any expenditure.”
CHAPTER XVI.
BREAKING THE NEWS.
Godfrey returned to Oakwood two weeks before the wedding, and brought with him a young artist, Robert Macpherson, whom he had found in Rome, and who had accompanied him to Russia. As he had not received his father’s letter he was ignorant of the engagement, and Colonel Schuyler blushed like a school boy, and stammered and hesitated, when he tried to tell him. Godfrey had asked for Miss Lyle, and the colonel, after replying that she was with her mother, had continued:
“My son, you may be surprised,—no, you can hardly be surprised, knowing her as you do,—when I tell you that I am,—yes, I am about to,—am going to,—give you a new mother. Yes,” and the colonel walked to the window and spat on a rosebush outside, and wiped his face, and mustering all his courage, added: “Miss Lyle has promised to be my wife, and you will agree with me, I think, that she is a remarkable,—yes, a very remarkable woman.”
He had told his story, and waited for Godfrey’s reply, which came first in a low, suppressed whistle, and then in a merry laugh as he jumped up, and giving his pants a violent shake, said: “I agree with you, father; she is a very remarkable woman, or she would not consent to be my mother and Jule’s; My! won’t she pick her eyes out, and Aunt Christine will help her. Why, she meant to have you herself!”
“Who, Christine?” Colonel Schuyler said, aghast at the very idea of wedding a woman whom he detested, even though she was a Rossiter, and the sister of his wife.