xt7t4b2x449x https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7t4b2x449x/data/mets.xml Holmes, Mary Jane, 1825-1907. 1876  books b92-242-31439753 English G.W. Carleton and Co., Publishers, : New York : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Edith Lyle  : a novel / by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. text Edith Lyle  : a novel / by Mrs. Mary J. Holmes. 1876 2002 true xt7t4b2x449x section xt7t4b2x449x 

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                  TO WHOM


           I 0RDEICA -TE

                 THIS STORY.

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      CHAPTER                                           PAGE
INTRODUCTORY.     By Esther Olivia Armstrong ....................   9
       I., and Call it Abelard .................................  to
       II.-Heloise ..........................................     14
     III.-The Day of the Funeral ............................ 21
     IV.-The Confession ......................,.,.,...... 28
       V.-Edith Lyle ........................................ 36
       VI.-The Beginning of a New Life ......      ................. 41
     VII.-Eleven Years Later....................          44
     VIII.-Mother and Daughter .............................. 51
     IX.-Godfrey Schuyler .................................. 56
       X.-Colonel Schuyler .................................. 68
       XI.-Edith's Diary .....................................     76
     XII,-Edith and her 'Mother .......................     .     St
     XJJI.-Mrs. Barrett's Lodgers .............................    84
     XIV.-Colonel Schuyler Returns ...........................    87
     XV.-Edith's Answer ...........   ......... ...............   92
     XVI.-Breaking the News......       .............. loi
   XVII.-The Bridal ........................................ io8
   XVIII.-At Oakwood after the Bridal ........................ 114
   XIX.-The Bridal Days...................              119
     XX.-On the Sea ..............................,.,.,          132
     XXI.-The Ladies at Schuyler Hill ......................... 145
     XXII.-The News at Schutyler Hill .......................... 149
   XXIII.-IMrs. Rogers and Gertie at Hampstead ................ 159
   XXIV.-Mrs. Rogers Gets Work ..........        ................  172
   XXV.-They Come ....................................,.175
   XXVI.--Howv they Received her ............................    17S
   XXVII.-After Dinner ...................................        189
 XXVIII.-One Day in Hampstead ............9............... 398
   XXIX.-The First Sunday inll ampstead ..................... 209
   XXX.-Company at Sclmyler Hill .......................... 2X7
   XXXI.-The Church Sociable ............................... 222
   XXXII.-Mrs. Rogers Speaks her Mind ....................... 230
 XXXIII.-The New Life at the Hill ........................... 234


viii                     CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER                                                 PAGE
  XXXIV.-MNary Rogers         ............ ......... 240
  XXXV.-Gertie at the Hill      .        ................... 246
  XXXVI.-After Four Years       .        .................... 256
  XXXVII.-The Travellers        .. .................. 261
XXXVIII.-Colonel Schuyler Interviews Godfrey     .    .     27;
  XXXIX.-Colcnel Schuyler Interviews Gertie      .     ............ 282
      XL.-Robert -Macpherson Interviews Gertie ............... .   288
      XLI.-A few Details of that Summer in Hampstead .......... 293
    XLII.-The Sail on the River .........   .................... 297
    XLIII.-The Course of Love does not Run Smooth .        ........ 304
    XLIV.-Godfrey and (;ertie     .        .................. 307
    Xl V.-R(ohert Macpherson and Colonel Schuyler  .   .   313
    XLVI.-Godfrey and his Father    .       ................. 315
    XLVII.-Waiting ............ ............................ 318
  XLVIII.-Giving in Marriage ..............       .................. 320
    XLIX.-Mrs. Doctor Barrett              .       .        323
        L.-The Storm Gathering                      .........330
        LI.-The Storm Bursts ...............      .................. 333
      LII.-The Battle between Life and Death     .    .     343
      LIII.-Colonel Schuyler and the Secret     .     .      348
      LIV.-fIlusband and Wife ...............       ................ 336
      LV.-The Search in London .............        ................ 364
      LVI.-Gertie ..................................... 372
    LVII.-In New York         ...................... 375
    LVIII.-Gertie and the Story ............................... 384
    LIX.-The Story in Hampstead .......    .................... 391
      LX.-Edith and Gertie.        ................................397
      LXI.-Godfrey and Gertie ................................ 401
    LXII.-The Wedding         ...................... 403
    LXIII.-Mary Rogers' Letter to Edith ...................... .    411
    LXIV., and Last................     ................. 419


            EDITH LYLE.



       S I sit here, this bright autumnal morning, and from the
       window of my room look out upon the river winding
       its way to the sea, there falls upon my ears the merry
chime of bells from the tower of the old gray church,-wedding-
bells they are,-and their echoes float across the water, and up
the mountain side, and then die away among the wooded cliffs
beyond, where the foliage has just been touched with the Octo-
ber frost, and has here and there a gay trimming of scarlet and
gold on its summer dress of green. There is a wedding at St.
Luke's to-day, and the bridal party is passing now, and I kiss
my hand to the beautiful bride, who flashes a smile at me from
those wonderful eyes of hers,-eyes so like in expression to those
of the elder lady who sits beside her, and but for whom that
wedding at St. Luke's would never have been. They are gone
now from my sight, and only the pealing of the bells is heard in
the quiet street, and as I muse upon the strange event which
has made the people of our town wild with excitement and curi-
osity, and of which I, perhaps, know quite as much as any one,
I ask myself, "' Why not write out the story, suppressing names,
and dates, and localities, and give it to the world, as a proof
that real life is sometimes stranger than fiction."
  And so, just as the sound of the marriage-bells dies away
among the distant hills, I take my pen tc begin a tale which


will have in it no part of my own life, save as it wvas sometimes
interwoven w ith. the lives of those whose history I write. aIam
only Esther Armstrong, the village school-mistress, a plain, old-
fashioned woman of thirty-five, with no incident whatever in my
life worth recording ; and so, with no thought that any one will
accuse me of egotism or conceit, I write (down

                      CHAPTER I.,

                  AND CALL IT ABELARD.

       HE Schuylers were of Holland descent, and had mar-
         ried and intermarried in England and America, and
         had in their family a title, it was said, and they
boasted of their Dutch blood, and English blood, and Amer-
can blood, and, like the famous Miss MNIcBride, "were proud
of their money and proud of their pride," and proud to be
known as "the Schuylers of New York," who had for so
many years kept themselves free from anything approaching to
lebeianism, and whose wealth and importance had been steadily
on the increase since the first English Schuyler left his ances-
tral halls in Lincolnshire across the sea. But the race was
gradually dying out, and the only male member of the direct
line in America was Colonel Howard, a proud., reticent man,
who, a few years before my story opens, had married Miss
Emily Rossiter, a lady fully tip to the Schuyler standard of moral
and social worth.
  It was true she brought with her a plain face and a brain not
overburdened with ideas, but she added to these the sum of two
hundred thousand dollars and an exclusiveness which sawv noth-
ing outside her own narrow circle of friends. At the time of
her marriage her husband, Colonel Howard Schuyler, who loved
the fresh grass and the air from the hills better than brick walls
and stony pavements, suggested that they should spend a por-
tion of the summer at his country-seat on the river, but to this
the lady weuld not listen. Hampstead was too quiet. Her



elegant laces, and satins, and diamonds, would be sadly out of
place in that rustic neighborhood, she thought; and so she went
first to Europe, and then, season after season, to Newport and
Saratoga, and had a cottage at Nahant, and climbed the White
Mountains and the Catskills, and tired herself out in her pursuit
of happiness, until, at last, broken in health and spirits, she sig-
nified a wish to go to Hampstead, where she could find the rest
she needed.
  And so one April day Colonel Schuyler came up to our little
town with a whole army of workmen, who began at once their
task of tearing down and rebuilding the old house, which had
belonged to the Schuvlers so long, and which latterly had been
unoccupied and gradually going to decay. The house, which
was very large, stood upon an eminence overlooking the town
of Hamplstead and the river below, and from this fact the place
was known as Schuyler Hill, though for years and years not a
Schuyler had lived there or manifested the slightest interest in
it. There was a time, however, within my mother's memory,
when all through the summer months high festival had been
held at the o0l place by the Schuylers, whose graves were now
in a little inclosure at the summit of the hill, where the tall
evergreens were growing, and where the weather-stained head-
stones were, with their quaint devices and eulogies of l)eol)le
dead long before I was born. Sometimes on a bright summer
afternoon I used to climb over the low railing into this yard, to
gather the roses and sweet-brier which grew there in such pro-
fusion, and, seated on the grass, I would muse upon the dead
folk wvho slept below, and wish so much for a return of the days
of which my mother had told me, when the great house was full
of higlh-born people, who made the neighborhood so gay, and
whose revellings were sometimes prolonged far into the night.
  At last, however, there was a prospect of those days coming
back again, and the whole town was alive with wonder and
curiosity when it was known that not only was the old house to
give way to a new and elegant modern structure, but that the
family was really coming there to live a good portion of the
year. Hlampstead, which had slept so long, was alive now.

l I



Property went up, and the people began to talk of a bank, and
a new hotel, and sent a petition that the express trains from
Albany should stop there, instead of thundering by on the
wings of the wind with a snort and a scream, which I thought
was tantalizing and impertinent in the extreme.  Great, too,
was the excitement and interest with regard to the new house,
which, under swift and efficient workmen, grew so rapidly that,
early in June, the framework of the tower could be seen above
the tree-tops, and was watched eagerly by the curious villagers.
  "Lady Emily," as her English maid always called her, came
up one day to see the place and give some directions with re-
gard to certain rooms intended expressly for herself, and with
her came little Godfrey, her only son, a brown-eyed, sweet-faced
boy not quite six years old. I remember just how they looked
as they drove through the town in their open barouche, Lady
Fnily in her jaunty bonnet, which I thought too small and young
for her pale, faded face, and little Godfrey in his velvet suit,
with his long hair curling on his neck.  He was a pleasant, so-
ciable child, and soon made the acquaintance of all the work-
men, but was best pleased with Abelard Lyle, the young Eng-
lishnman who was-employed upon the tower, and who at night,
when his work was done, made wonderful wagons and carts for
the pretty little lad.  All day long Godfrey played about the
building, and sometimes climbed the highest possible point, and
stood watching the men at their work below.  Especially was
he delighted with the tower where Abelard was; and one morn-
ing, the third after his arrival at Hampstead, he mounted to a
timber above the young man's head, where he stood waving his
cap and hurrahing to his mother, who was driving leisurely
about the grounds in her pony phaeton. She saw him, and with
a fiantic gesture of her hand motioned him to conme down,
while Abelard, too, called aloud to him and warned him of his
danger. How it happened Godfrey never could explain. He
only knew that he stepped backward and fell, that Abelard
caught him by the arm and threw him with a desperate effort
upon a nairow platformn, where he lay unharmed, while his
brave deliverer lay on the rubbish far below, a crushed, bleed-



ing thing ! Only a thing now,-no life, no motion, no soul, for
that had gone to God; and they took the limp, insensible ob-
ject and laid it upon the grass, which was wet with the blood
pouring from the deep wound upon the temple where a sharp
stone had struck.  [rembling with fear, little Godfrey came
down the long ladders and across the piles of boards to the
mutilated form upon the grass; and young as he was, he never
forgot the look of the pale, dead face upturned to the summer
  "Oh father!" he cried, as Colonel Schuyler came up, "he
catched me and throwd me onto the board, and tried to hold
on himself, but couldn't; and now he's dead, and I liked him
so much; what shall wve do  "
  They could do nothing but bear the poor youth to his board-
ing place near by, where they washed the blood and dirt from
his stained face and matted hair, and then began to ask where
he came from, and who his relatives were, if he had any. He
was an English boy, and had not been long in the country, some
one said; but nobody could tell anything definite concerning him
or his friends, until there stepped from the crowd an elderly,
dignified woman, whom the peol)le recognized as Mrs. Fordham,
a coml)arative stranger to them all. She, too, was English, and
she knew the youth who had lost his own life in his efforts to
save another. She had known him on the ship, she said. He
had come to America in the same vessel with herself a few
months before. If they liked, they could take him to her house
and bury him from there, as she was the only acquaintance he
seemed to have, and he had sometimes called uI)on her since
coning to Hampstead.   To this l)rol)osition the matron of
the boarding-house assented eagerly. A dead body and a fun-
eral were not at all to her taste, and besides she was not sure
as to the pay she might receive for her trouble, and she thanked
Mrs. Fordhain so cordially, and evinced so strong a desire to be
rid of her late boarder, that the matter was arranged at once,
andI Mrs. Fordham started for home to make ready for the dead
man, who had been there only the night before, and had left her
so full of life, and health, and hope for the uutried future.



                     CHAPTER II.


 j     - ; F Mrs. Fordham but little was known in Hampstead at
         that time. She had only been with us since the first
 -     of May, and soon after her coming she had said that
 if she could not have the best society she would prefer to have
 none; and as the so-called best society was a little shy of
 strangers and foreigners, she was left mostly to herself, and
was seldom seen except at church, where she was a regular
attendant, and where her daughter, a young girl of fifteen or
more, attracted much attention by the exceeding beauty of her
face, and the delicate refinement of her manner.
  Subsequently we learned more of her history, which was as
follows :
  A native of Berwick, in England, she belonged to what might
be called the "' higher poor class."  A nursery governess in her
girlhood, she had come in constant contact with many high-
born ladies who visited in the family of her employer, and whom
she watched and imitated until there was in her manner a cer-
tain dignity and air of cultivation which marked her as different
from others in her own rank of life. Exceedingly ambitious,
she refused many an offer which her companions called good,
and at the age of thirty was married to Henry Fordhaam, a poor
curate, whose parish was on the Scottish border among the
heather hills. Here, after three years of wedded life, she buried
him and returned to her lonely home in Berwick, with one only
child, a little girl, whom she called Edith Heloise.
  As the daughter of a clergyman Edith was a born lady, and
Mrs. Fordham felt all her old ambition revive, as she thought
what her daughter might one day become,-a titled lady perhaps,
and certainly the mistress of some rich man's home ; and to
this end she was carefully secluded fromt the common people
around her. and early taught to think that a brilliant future lay
before her if she would follow implicitly the inbtructiuns of her



mother. Froin a distant relative Mrs. Fordhain had received a
small annuity, on which she managed to live very comfortably
until Edith, or Heloise, as she preferred to call her, was fifteen,
when she determined upon emigrating to Anierica, where her
daughlter's chances for a high social position were greater than
in England.
  In the same vessel with her was Abelard Lyle, a young car-
penter from Alnwick, who was also going to seek his fortune in
the western world. Arrived at New York he found employment
at once on Col. Schuyler's house in Hampstead, whither, at his
instigration Mlrs. Fordham removed earlyin Iay. She was want-
ing a cottage in the country, she said, and Abelard found one for
her and persuaded her to take it, and attended himself to fit-
ting it up, and stood waiting to welcome her when she came at
last to take possession. Mrs. Fordham was very gracious and
thanked him for his though1tfulness, and said he was very good
and she should not forget his kind interest in her ; and yet there
was in her manner something which he understood, and which
made him doubly anxious to please and prol)itiate her.  He
was well enough as a friend and adviser, and during the voyage
an(l after their arrival in New York, Mrs. Fordham had found it
convenient to call upon him for hell) whenever she pleased, but
she alwxays managed to make himii feel how immeasurable was
the gulf between hinm and her daughter, whose servant he might
be, but nothing more.
  Heloise was wondrously beautiful, with an ease and grace
about her which would have become a princess.  Fromn her
fathler's side she had inherited " good blood," a fact which her
mother kept constantly before her mind. And as she talked of
the brilliant matches which had been made in the new world and
could be made again, Jieloise listened, at first quietly, with a
pcculiar look in her eyes and a bright flush on her cheek. Lat-
terly, however, there had been a worried, anxious expression on
her face when her mother wvas talking to her, and on thie morn-
ing of which I write she had left her coffee untouched and stolen
fronm the room so as not to hear what her mother was saying of
Abelard Lyle. He had called upon them the previous night,




and stayed too long and seemned too much at home, Mrs. Ford-
ham thought.
  " He is a fine young man, I know, and I respect him very
much," she said; " but he is only a carpenter, and I do not
think it well to be very intimate with him. I saw you give him
a rose. I wouldn't do it again, or encourage him to come here."
  Mrs. Fordham was talking to herself now, for Heloise was in
the garden, with her face turned toward Schuyler Hill, where
the men were already at work. She could hear the sound of
their hainmers, as stroke after stroke fell upon the heavy tim-
bers, and it seemed to her as if there were a low undertone of
music in it all, especially in the strokes which rang out from the
tall tower rising above the trees. There was a fascination about
that tower; and all during the morning, while her mother, who
had an errand in the village, was away, Heloise sat by the win-
dow, where she could see the square frame and the broad-shoul-
dered figure upon it.
  Once, when she felt sure the face was turned toward her, she
waved her handkerchief, and was rewarded with a flourish in
the air of the right arm, and then she knew that Abelard could
see her; and she sat very still, and applied herself to the ruffle
she was hemming, and thought such thoughts as made her
cheeks the color of the rose she had given to Abelard the pre-
vious night.
  And while she sat there thus, there wvas the sound of carriage-
wheels, and Lady Emily Schuvler drove slowly down the road
with her English maid in attendance. 1-leloise had seen the
lady in church the day before, but instead of staring at her as
the others had done, had shrunk from view, and was glad that
she sat behind the Schuyler pewv instead of in front of it. And
now, as the carriage camne near, she leaned back in her chair to
avoid being seen.
  Thus screened from observation, she sat waiting for it to pass,
and her heart gave a great thump when she heard it stop
directly before the house, while Mrs. Schuyler uttered an excla-
mation of delight at the roses growing so profusely in the yard.
  "Oh, Janette, how lovely those roses are ! I must have




some for my hair,-they will brighten me up at dinner, and I
am looking pale and forlorn, and that vexes Colonel Schuyler
so. I wonder if there is any one at home."
  " There must be, for both doors and windows are open.
Wait while I see."
  And, suiting the action to the word, the maid, Janette, sprang
to the ground, and, opening the gate, walked up to the door of
the room where Heloise was sitting.
  There was no help for her now. The danger, if danger there
was in seeing Mrs. Schuyler, must be met, and Heloise rose at
once, and to Janette's explanation that "L Lady Emily would like
a few of those lovely roses," she bowed assent, and went herself
to get them.
  " It may as well come first as last," she thought, and, with-
out any covering for her head, she went out into the yard, and,
gathering a bunch of the finest flowers, carried them to Mrs.
Schuyler, who looked curiously at her, while she expressed her
  Very curiously, too, Heloise looked at her, thinking it would
take more than roses to brighten up that sallow, sickly face,
and not much wondering that Colonel Schuyler did not like it.
  " I don't believe she remembered me," she said, as she re-
turned to the house and watched the carriage disappearing
from view.  "And why should she  " she continued.  " She
was not at all interested in the matter, and only thought of rme
as some common girl doing a very foolish thing, I daresay.
She looks paler than she did then, and more fretful, too.  I
wonder if she is happy with all her money  "
  And Heloise fell to speculating as to whether she could be
happy if she were Mrs. Schuyler and lived in that handsome
house on Schuyler Hill. It would be a fine thing, no doubt,
to have all the money one wanted, and not to be obliged to
turn and fix and mend the Sunday dress until there was but
little of the original left; and she tried to fancy herself the
mistress of Schuyler Hill, with Colonel Schuyler away and some
one else in his place, and her eyes went over the tree-tops to
the tall tower and the figure working there.


1 7


  "Better as it is," she thought, and leaning back in her chair
she went off into a pleasant kind of reverie, from which she was
roused by the sound of horse's feet, galloping swiftly down the
road as if on an errand of life or death.
  The rider was one of the men from Schuyler Hill, and
swiftly as he rode Heloise detected a look of terroi on his face
and wondered what had happened.
  Involuntarily she glanced again toward the tower, and missed
the form she had seen there a short time before.  But there
was nothing strange in that.  She often missed him when he
went down for nails or orders from his overseer, and she
thought no more of it until an hour later, when her mother
came up the walk, looking very red and disturbed, and asking,
  " Have you heard of the dreadful accident at the Hill "
  Heloise never could explain why it was that she seemed in-
tuitively to know that the accident had reference to the only
one through whom she could be deeply touched. But she did
know it, and her lips were pale as ashes, and trembled in a
grieved kind of way as she said: " It is Abelard."
  " Yes; who told you  " her mother asked.
  And Heloise replied:
  "No one told me.   I knew without telling.  Is he much
hurt  Where is he  "
  And she caught her bonnet from the nail and started for the
  " Stop, child.  Where are you going" Mrs. Fordham
  And Heloise replied:
  "Going to Abelard. Didn't you tell me he was hurt "
  "Yes; but,-Heloise "-and Mrs. Fordham hesitated a little,
frightened by the expression on her daughter's face, " you must
not go. There is no need; he will be here soon. I told them
to bring him, as we are the only friends he has, and I hurried
home to get the front room ready.  Abelard is dead; he fell
from the tower and was killed; there they are now."
  And pointing to the group of men coming slowly down the




road, Mrs. Fordham hastened to open her best room, and did
not see the look of unutterable anguish and horror which came
into her daughter's face when she heard the news.
  Heloise did not faint, but she uttered a low, gasping cry, and
held fast to the back of a chair, while everything turned dark
about her, and she was conscious of nothing except that in the
yard there was the tramp of feet as the men came up the walk,
bearing the body of him who had left her only the night before,
full of life and health.  Then she started, and fleeing up the
stairs to her own room, threw herself upon the bed, where she
lay listening to the sounds below, and trying to realize the full
extent of the horror which had come upon her. At last when
all was quiet, and the men were gone, she crept to the window
and looked out upon the day, which had seemed so bright to
her in the early morning, but was so dark and dreary now.
  Colonel Schuyler himself was just going through the gate, so
occupied with his own thoughts that he nearly stumbled over a
little girl who was coming into the yard, and in whom Heloise
recognized Phebe Young, the daughter of the woman with whom
Abelard had boarded. Heloise was not afraid of Phebe, but she
drew back from the window till Colonel Schuyler was out of
sight, feeling as if she almost hated him for having built the
house where Abelard lost his life.
  There was a knock at the door, and ere Heloise could answer
it little Phebe Young came in. She had caught a glimpse of He-
loise at the window, and thinking it no harm, had come straight
up to her room.
  " Please, miss," she said, laying a paper on the young girl's
lap,; w e found this under his jacket pinned tight, and ma knew
most it corned from your rose bush, for there haint no more
like it in Hampstead, and she sent it to you, cause she guesses
you liked him some."
  It was the rose Heloise had picked for Abelard and fastened
in his buttonhole the night before, when they stood for a moment
by the gate, and he told her to watch for him on the morrow as
he was to work upon the tower. Now he was dead, and the
rose, which had been so fresh and dewy then, was wilted and




crushed, and right in the centre, upon the pure white petals, was a
little drop of blood, or rather the stain of one. Abhelard's blood,
Heloise knew, and she felt a strange sickness steal over her as
she held the faded flower in her hand and gazed upon that bright
red spot, the sight of which seemed to stamip a similar mark
upon her heart, which ached and throbbed with a new pain.
  "1 Yes, Phebe, thank you; it was kind in your mother; and
now, please go; my head is aching badly," she said; ark
motioning Phebe from the room, she thrust the blood-stained
rose into her bosom and went again to her bed, where she lay
until her mother came to see what she was doing.
  There were no tears on Heloise's cheeks, no trace of them
in her eyes, but her white face told volumes to Mrs. Fordham,
who laid her hand on her daughter's hair, saying, kindly:
  "I never knew you cared so much for him. Poor boy, I am
so sorry. He looks very natural. Would you like to see him  "
  " No, mother, not now," was the answer, and that was aU
that passed between them on the subject of Abelard that
  Heloise was very sick with headache and kept her room, and
at night her mother brought her toast and tea, and tried to
make her eat, and told her how kind the Schuylers were, and
what a sweet little boy Godfrey was, and how badly he felt at
Abelard's death. He had been to see the body, and his mother
had been there, too, and Mrs. Fordham dwelt upon her fine
manners and handsome dress, and Godfrey's velvet suit and
manly face, until Heloise felt as if she should go mad, and
begged her mother to leave her.
  She hated the Schuylers one and all, for through thert
Abelard had met his death, and she did not dare look into the
future or question what it had in store for her. She only fel
that all the brightness of her life had been suddenly strickeL
out, leaving her utterly hopeless and desolate, and long afte:
her mother was asleep in the next room she lay awake wonder.
ing what she should do, and if, as she feared, it would be neces-
sary for her to tell. And even if it were not necessary, was it
right for her to withhold the secret which was torturing her so




cruelly  Was it just to Abelard, and did it not look as if she
were ashamed of the past as connected with him 
  "I am not, darling, I am not!" she moaned; "and to-rnor-
row, when they lower you into the grave, I will. be there, and,
in a voice everybody can hear, I'll tell the truth, and face the
entire world, mother and all."
  The facing mother was the hardest part of all, and Heloise
felt her pulse quicken and her head throb violently as she
fancied her mother's look of surprise and anger when she heard
the story which she meant to tell at the grave, and, while think-
ing how she should combat that anger and reproach, the early
sumnmer morning crept into her room, and she heard the
watchers with the dead go throug