But onward, upward, till the goal ye win.’”
“Those are brave, cheering words. If I could but have some kind comforter like you all the time, I could bear it better,” Editha said, with fast-dropping tears, and realizing more than she had ever done before how utterly alone she was in the world.
“My dear, you forget the great Divine Comforter. Haven’t you yet learned to trust Him?” madam asked, with great tenderness.
“You—oh, yes; at least I thought I had until this last trouble came upon me, which has made it seem almost as if ‘a blank despair like the shadow of a starless night was thrown over the world in which I moved alone.’ Many and many a time I have felt as if I must lie down like a weary child and weep out the life of sorrow which I have borne, and which I still must bear until the end,” the young girl said, with almost passionate earnestness.
“My poor child, how my heart grieves for you. Mr. Tressalia has told me something of your trouble, and I think I never knew of anything quite so sad before; but, believe me, some good must come out of it. You are young, and this sad lesson patiently learned will give you strength of character for the future, whatever it may be. You know we are told that out of sorrow we come forth purified if we bear it rightly.”
“Then I fear I shall never become purified,” Editha answered, bitterly. “I cannot bear it rightly. I am not patient. My heart is constantly rebelling against the unjustness, as it seems to me, of it all. Why did not some instinct warn me that Earle was my brother before I had learned to love him so well?” she concluded, wildly.
“Hush, dear,” madam said, with gentle reproof, but her fine face was very grave and troubled. “We cannot understand the why of a great many things; we know that they are, and we have no right to question the wisdom of anything that is beyond our comprehension; but I am greatly interested in this sorrow of yours and the young Marquis of Wycliffe. I know it will do you good to unburden your heart, and if you can trust me who am almost a stranger to you, tell me more about it.”
“You do not seem like a stranger to me. You are more like a dear, long-tried friend, and I can never tell you how comforting your kind sympathy is to me,” Editha returned, with eyes full of tears.
Madam’s only reply was a closer clasp around the slender waist, and the young girl continued:
“When we met you that day in Redwood Library at Newport, and your hand closed over mine with such a strong yet fond clasp, and you looked into my eyes in that earnest, tender way you have, I could have wound my arms about your neck and wept out my grief upon your bosom even then.”