For a time the colonel was silent, and never spoke a word until they reached the border of the wood through which a path led to Alnwick; then, as Edith paused a moment and looked back at the thatched roof with the creeper climbing over it, he, too, looked back and said:
“I am glad my lot was not cast among such people; I cannot say they are to my taste, especially that garrulous Mrs. Nesbit, with her fine comb and bare arms. The old lady is better, and has a good deal of natural refinement. I think our visit did her good; such people are always pleased with attention from their betters, and it certainly does us no harm to give it. Edith, my dear——” He spoke a little sternly now, and his face was overcast. “I am sorry you chose to be so quiet and reserved. It would have pleased me better if you had made an effort to be more social with them, and I really owe them so much.”
“Oh, Howard, please forgive me. It was not pride which kept me silent. I wanted to talk, but could not,” Edith said, while the tears rained over her face.
He had made her cry, and he was sorry for it at once, and made her sit down beside him on a rude bench by the path, and said he was hasty and had expected too much from her, who could not of course sympathize with his interest in the Lyles. And Edith listened to him, and felt like a felon who is hiding his secret from the world. Why had she not told him that first day of married life with him? Why had she not shrieked it in his ear and compelled him to hear it? It had been easier then, sure, than it was now, when so much had happened to make it hard, if not impossible. Yes, impossible, she said to herself, as she remembered the bare arms and the fine comb and the talkative Mrs. Nesbit. She could not declare that woman to be her sister-in-law, and she forced the secret still further down into her heart, and when her husband bade her kiss him in token of forgiveness, she kissed him twice, and there was peace between them as they walked arm in arm through the leafy woods and grassy lanes back to their rooms at Alnwick.
But Edith’s mind was not at rest. Thoughts of that white-haired, sweet-faced old lady, knitting in the sunshine, were constantly in her mind. She had been cold, almost rude to her, and she wished to make amends,—to leave, if possible, a good impression of herself in Abelard’s old home,—to have his mother’s blessing as a guaranty of happiness in the life before her, and as she lay awake many hours of the night, her thoughts gradually formed themselves into a plan she resolved to carry out. Her husband had been invited to dine at the castle with a party of American gentlemen, who were about to introduce some farming implement to the agent of the estate, who acted as host on the occasion. As no ladies were included, Edith was to be left alone for several hours, and she determined to improve the opportunity for redressing any wrong she might have done to Mrs. Lyle.
It was twelve o’clock before her husband left her, and as soon as he was gone she donned her walking-dress, and set off for the cottage near the wood. Fortunately for her Mrs. Nesbit was out, but the old lady sat knitting again on the porch, with little Godfrey Schuyler playing near her on the floor. She recognized Edith, and seemed both glad and surprised to see her.
“I wanted to come again,” Edith said, sitting down close beside the woman. “I was not feeling well when I was here yesterday, and I could not talk as I wished to do, but I did not mean it for coldness or pride. Colonel Schuyler is so grateful for what your son did for him, and I—I am interested in you, too,—more even than he can be, and if you like you may tell all about your boy who died in that dreadful manner.”
There were tears in Edith’s eyes, and her voice trembled as she spoke, while Mrs. Lyle stopped her knitting and looked curiously at her. She had thought her proud and haughty, and had felt a little hurt by her silence and reserve, while her daughter, in her coarser way, had not hesitated to call her airy and an upstart, wondering who she was to feel so much above them. That she was pretty, even Jenny conceded, while the mother thought her very beautiful and grand. “Fit to be a duchess,” was her verdict now, when she saw her again so humble and sweet, apologizing for her reserve of the day before, and asking to hear about her poor dead boy. She liked to talk of him, and once launched upon the subject did not know when to stop, but talked on and on, narrating incidents of his babyhood, boyhood and early manhood, while Edith listened with hands clasped tightly together and a heart which beat almost audibly.
“And ye are goin’ where he’s buried,” Mrs. Lyle said to her. “And if ye want an old woman’s blessin’, maylike you’ll keep his grave fresh and clean, and send me a posy from it some day.”
“I will, I promise you I will, and if I can ever tell you about that girl who loved him, I will do so,” Edith said vehemently; and then, impelled by an impulse she could not resist, she continued: “Mrs. Lyle, I want to ask you something which you’ll please keep to yourself. You are old, and I am young; you are good, and I am not, but I want to be, so much. If there was something in your life which you supposed your husband knew, and which, after you were married, you found he did not know, though through no fault of yours, and if you felt almost sure that, had he known it, he would not have married you, and might think less of you now, would you consider it your duty to tell him?”