"My dear Victor," she said, "don't force too much of your society upon Edith. I know girls. Even if she were in love with you"—the young man winced—"she would grow tired of a lover who never left her sight. All women do. If you want her to grow fond of you, go away, write to her every day—not too lover-like love-letters; one may have a surfeit of sweets; just cheerful, pleasant, sensible letters—as a young man in love can write. Come down this day three weeks, and, if we are ready, take us home."
The young man made a wry face—much as he used to do when his good aunt urged him to swallow a dose of nauseous medicine.
"In three weeks! My dear Lady Helena, what are you thinking of? We are to be married the first week of September."
"October, Victor—October—not a day sooner. You must wait until Edith is completely restored. There is no such desperate haste. You are not likely to lose her."
"I am not so sure of that," he said, half sullenly under his breath; "and a postponed marriage is the most unlucky thing in the world."
"I don't believe in luck; I do in common-sense," his aunt retorted, rather sharply. "You are like a spoiled child, Victor, crying for the moon. It is Edith's own request, if you will have it—this postponement. And Edith is right. You don't want a limp, pallid, half-dying bride, I suppose. Give her time to get strong—give her time to learn to like you—your patient waiting will go far towards it. Take my word, it will be the wiser course."
There was nothing for it but obedience. He took his leave and went back to Cheshire. It was his first parting from Edith. How he felt it, no words can tell. But the fact remained—he went.
She drew a long, deep breath as she said good-by, and watched him away. Ah! what a different farewell to that other only two short weeks ago. She tried not to think of that—honestly and earnestly; she tried to forget the face that haunted her, the voice that rang in her ears, the warm hand-clasp, the kisses that sealed their parting. Her love, her duty, her allegiance, her thoughts—all were due to Sir Victor now. In the quiet days that were to be there, she would try to forget the love of her life—try to remember that of all men on earth Sir Victor Catheron was the only man she had any right to think of.
And she succeeded partly. Wandering along the tawny sands, with the blue bright sea spreading away before her, drinking in the soft salt air, Edith grew strong in body and mind once more. Charley Stuart had passed forever out of her life—driven hence by her own acts; she would be the most drivelling of idiots, the basest of traitors, to pine for him now. Her step grew elastic, her eye grew bright, her beauty and bloom returned. She met hosts of pleasant people, and her laugh came sweetly to Lady Helena's ears. Since her nephew must marry—since his heart was set on this girl—Lady Helena wished to see her a healthy and happy wife.
Sir Victor's letters came daily; the girl smiled as she glanced carelessly over them, tore them up, and answered—about half. Love him she did not; but she was learning to think very kindly of him. It is quite in the scope of a woman's complex nature to love one man passionately, and like another very much. It was Edith's case—she liked Sir Victor; and when, at the end of three weeks, he came to join them, she could approach and give him her hand with a frank, glad smile of welcome. The three weeks had been as three centuries to this ardent young lover. His delight to see his darling blooming, and well, and wholly restored, almost repaid him. And three days after the triad returned together to Powyss Place, to part, as he whispered, no more.