As she said it, and for a moment let slip the leash that held her hidden feelings, one could see that, however calm she might have been outwardly, there had been an inward gnawing all the time. A smile and bright words can mask a good deal. When she dropped them, there was visible a whiteness about the mouth, shadows under the eyes, and even a thinning of the cheeks—the work of that short time.
Hearing her aunt’s voice at the chamber-door asking admittance, Edith caught the letter up again, and her self-control with it.
Mrs. Yorke came in with an air of quiet decision, and took a seat by her niece. “I saw the outside of your letter, my dear girl, and know whom it was from,” she said; “and I have no intention of allowing you to be killed by others, or to kill yourself. I understand and respect a mother’s feelings, Edith, and I respect the obligation of a promise. But there are common sense and justice to be taken into account. Feelings, and, especially, the feelings of a young person who has scarcely learned to know herself, are not to
be weighed and measured, like iron and lumber, and stored away, and left unchanged, till called for. You know, my dear, that I have a great affection for Mr. Rowan, and would do him no unkindness nor injustice, do you not?”
“You were very kind to him, aunt,” Edith replied quietly. “I am not afraid of anything that you will say or do.”
“You need not be,” Mrs. Yorke said. “I will not ask you if you have learned to think that promise of yours a hasty one; but there are certain points which I wish to insist upon. They are of general application. Honor does not require that one should keep a bad promise. The fault, if fault there be, is in the making, not the breaking. Also, a woman cannot make a worse promise than one to marry a man whom she does not love. Many very good and pious people will tell you that esteem is enough, and that you will grow to love your husband after a time. That is false. You may learn to endure him, but it will be after all the bloom is wiped from your feelings, and love and delicacy both are dead in you. Let no one make you believe that your feelings are romantic folly. Believe, rather, that your adviser is coarse, though honest. One other dictum: there is no favor, nor obligation, nor affection which a man can confer on you, for which your hand is not too high a price to pay. Give gratitude, affection, even service, but not yourself. Do not sell your hand for any price: it should be a free gift. This is all that I can pronounce positively upon. For the rest, do not act hastily and without advice; for, aside from the question of your personal good, you might bitterly wrong some one else. If you have been hasty, it is a pity; but that cannot be helped now, and
should not be too deeply mourned. There must have been some doubt in Mr. Rowan’s mind that you did not know what you were promising, for his first word to you was, ‘Are you willing, Edith?’ Your answer was, ‘I am more than willing.’ If you deceived him then, unconsciously, from a loving and generous feeling, it was pardonable. But do not deceive him nor yourself again. He deserves from you a perfect frankness, and he has too fine a nature to take your hand if it is reluctant.”
“But, Aunt Amy,” Edith said, after a moment’s thought, “if a woman, out of gratitude, and from an utter impossibility of allowing herself to give such pain to a friend, should promise never to marry any one else, would that be right?”
“A man worthy of inspiring such a resolution would not accept the promise,” was the reply; “and the woman has no right to make it. But if she should offer to wait till he is reconciled, that might be soothing to both. Is there anything else you wish to say?”
“Nothing now, thank you, aunt. You are very kind.”