Edith gasped out the words and sat panting with excitement and agitation, while Mrs. Lyle considered for a moment, and then replied in the following words, which I render in good English:
“Is the something which he don’t know a sin, a crime, a wrong to him, or anybody?”
“No, not a sin, or wrong, only a mistake,” Edith replied; and the woman continued:
“Would the withholding it now do harm to any one?”
“No; on the contrary, the telling it might cause my husband to think less of me, and make us very unhappy.”
“Then if you meant no wrong, and the telling it can do no good, and might do harm, and no one is interested but yourself, keep it to yourself,” Mrs. Lyle said, while Edith felt herself growing light as air.
It was strange how much comfort she derived from Mrs. Lyle’s advice, and how much confidence she felt in the judgment of this woman, whom she had seen but once before. It was almost as if absolution had been granted her for her sins, past, present, and to come, and no religious devotee ever felt lighter and freer after a full confession than Edith did for a few moments after hearing Mrs. Lyle’s decision.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “You have done me so much good. I have been so miserable, and there was no one whom I could talk with about it. I shall not forget you, Mrs. Lyle, and sometimes I may perhaps write to you, and tell you of my home. And now I must go; but first, will you give me your blessing. I want it so much.”
And kneeling before the old lady Edith bowed her beautiful head, while a hand was laid gently on her shining hair, and a trembling voice said reverently: “Will God bless and keep my bonny child and make her a gude and happy wife, an’ gi’e her many bairns to comfort her auld age.”
She was thinking of her Abelard who died, and Edith thought of him too, and there were tears in her eyes as she rose from her knees, and, kissing the white-haired woman who had done her so much good, went out from her presence with a happier, lighter heart than she had known for many a day.