It was too late for Grace to call, and bidding her companion good- bye, she galloped down the hill, while Edith, in a meditative mood, suffered her favorite Bedouin to walk leisurely up the carriage road which led to the rear of the house.
"Victor Dupres!" she exclaimed, as a tall figure emerged from the open door and came forward to meet her. "Where did you come from?"
"From New York," he replied, bowing very low, "Will Mademoiselle alight?" and taking the little foot from out the shoe he lifted her carefully from the saddle.
"Is HE here?" she asked, and Victor replied,
"Certainement; and has brought home a fresh recruit of the blues, too, judging from the length and color of his face."
"Why did he go to New York?" interrupted Edith, who had puzzled her brain not a little with regard to the business which had taken Richard so suddenly from home.
"As true as I live I don't know," was Victor's reply. "For once he's kept dark even to me, scouring all the alleys, and lanes, and poor houses in the city, leaving me at the hotel, and taking with him some of those men with brass buttons on their coats. One day when he came back he acted as if he were crazy and I saw the great tears drop on the table over which he was leaning, then when I asked 'if he'd heard bad news,' he answered, 'No, joyful news. I'm perfectly happy now. I'm ready to go home,' and he did seem happy, until we drove up to the gate and you didn't come to meet him. 'Where's Edith?' he asked, and when Mrs. Matson said you were out, his forehead began to tie itself up in knots, just as it does when he is displeased. It's my opinion, Miss Edith, that you humor him altogether too much, You are tied to him as closely as a mother to her baby."
Edith sighed, not because she felt the bonds to which Victor had alluded, but because she reproached herself for not having been there to welcome the blind man home when she knew how much he thought of these little attentions.
"I'll make amends though, now," she said, and remembering the story of his disappointment, her heart swelled with a fresh feeling of pity for the helpless Richard, who, sitting before the blazing fire in the library, did not hear the light step coming so softly toward him.
All the way from the station, and indeed all the way from New York, he had pictured to himself Edith's sylph-like form running down the steps to meet him; had felt her warm hands in his, heard her sweet voice welcoming him home again, and the world around him was filled with daylight, but Edith was the sun which shone upon his darkness. She was dearer to him now, if possible, than when he left Collingwood, for, during his absence he had learned that which, if she knew it, would bind her to him by cords of gratitude too strong to be lightly broken. SHE owed everything to him, and he, alas, he groaned when he thought WHAT he owed to her, but he loved her all the same, and this it was which added to the keenness of his disappointment when among the many feet which hastened out to meet him, he listened for hers in vain. He knew it was very pleasant in his little library whither Victor led him; very pleasant to sit in his accustomed chair, and feel the fire- light shining on his face, but there was something missing, and the blue veins were swelling on his forehead, and the lines deepening about his mouth, when a pair of soft, white arms were wound about his neck, two soft white hands patted his bearded cheeks, and a voice, whose every tone made his heart throb and beat with ecstasy, murmured in his ear,
"Dear Mr. Richard, I am so glad you've come home, and so sorry I was not here to meet you. I did not expect you to-night. Forgive me, won't you? There, let me smooth the ugly wrinkles away, they make you look so cross and old," and the little fingers he vainly tried to clasp, wandered caressingly over the knit brows, while, for the first time since people began to call her Miss Hastings, Edith's lips touched his.
Nor was she sorry when she saw how beautiful the lovelight broke all over the dark, stern face, irradiating every feature, and giving to it an expression almost divine.
"Kiss me again, Birdie," he said. "It is not often you grant me such a treat," and he held her arms about his neck until she pressed her lips once more against his own.
Then he released her, and making her sit down beside him, rested his hand upon her shining hair, while he asked her how she had busied herself in his absence, if she had missed the old dark cloud, a bit, and if she was not sorry to have him back.
He know just what her answer would be, and when it was given, he took her face between his hands, and turning it up toward him, said, "I'd give all Collingwood, darling, just to look once into your eyes and see if—-" then, apparently changing his mind, he added, "see if you are pleased with what I've brought you, look;" and taking from his pocket a square box he displayed to her view an entire set of beautiful pearls. "I wanted to buy diamonds, but Victor said pearls were more appropriate for a young girl like you. Are they becoming?" and he placed some of them amid the braids of her dark hair.
Like all girls of seventeen, Edith was in raptures, nor could he make her sit still beside him until, divested of her riding habit, she had tried the effect of the delicate ornaments, bracelets, ear-rings, necklace and all.
"I am so glad you like them," he said, and he did enjoy it very much, sitting there and listening to her as she danced about the room, uttering little girlish screams of delight, and asking Victor, when at last he came in—"if she wasn't irresistible?"
Victor FELT that she was, and in his polite French way he complimented her, until Richard bade him stop, telling him "she was already spoiled with flattery."
The pearls being laid aside and Victor gone, Edith resumed her accustomed seat upon a stool at Richard's feet, and folding both hands upon his knee, looked into his face, saying, "Well, monsieur, why did you go off to New York so suddenly? I think you might tell me now unless it's something I ought not to know."
He hesitated a moment as if uncertain whether to tell her or not; then said to her abruptly, "You've heard, I believe, of the little child whom I saved from drowning?"
"Yes," she answered. "Don't you know I told you once how I used to worship you because you were so brave. I remember, too, of praying every night in my childish way that you might some day find the little girl."
"Edith, I have found her," and the nervous hands pressed tenderly upon the beautiful head almost resting in his lap.
"Found her!" and Edith sprang to her feet, her large eyes growing larger, but having in them no shadow of suspicion. "Where did you find her? Where is she now? What is her name? Why didn't you bring her home?" and out of breath with her rapid questioning, Edith sat down again, while Richard laughingly replied, "Where shall I begin to answer all your queries? Shall I take them in order? I found out all about her in New York."
"That explains your scouring the alleys and lanes as Victor said you did," interrupted Edith, and Richard rejoined rather sharply, "What does HE know about it?"
"Nothing, nothing," returned Edith, anxious to shield Victor from his master's anger. "I asked him what you did in New York, and he told me that. Go on—what is her name?"
"Eloise Temple. Her mother was a Swede, and her father anAmerican, much older than his wife."
"Eloise—Eloise—Eloise."
Edith repealed it three times.
"Where have I heard that name before? Oh, I know. I heard Kitty Maynard telling the story to Mrs. Atherton. Where is she, did you say, and how does she look?"
"She is with the family who adopted her as their own, for her mother is dead. Eloise is an orphan, Edith," and again the broad hand touched the shining hair, pityingly this time, while the voice which spoke of the mother was sad and low.
Suddenly a strange, fanciful idea flashed on Edith's mind, and looking into Richard's face she asked, "How old is Eloise?"
"Seventeen, perhaps. Possibly, though, she's older."
"And you, Mr. Harrington—how old are you, please? I'll never tell as long as I live, if you don't want me to."
She knew he was becoming rather sensitive with regard to his age, but she thought he would not mind HER knowing, never dreaming that SHE of all others was the one from whom he would, if possible, conceal the fact that he was thirty-eight. Still he told her unreservedly, asking her the while if she did not consider him almost her grandfather.
"Why, no," she answered; "you don't look old a bit. You haven't a single grey hair.Ithink you are splendid, and so I'm sure did the mother of Eloise; didn't she?" and the roguish black eyes looked up archly into the blind man's face.
Remembering what Grace had said of his love affair in Europe many years since, and adding to that the evident interest he felt in little Eloise Temple, the case was clear to her as daylight. The Swedish maiden was the girl who jilted Richard Harrington, and hence his love for Eloise, for she knew he did love her from his manner when speaking of her and the pains he had taken to find her. He had not answered her last question yet, for he did not understand its drift, and when at last he spoke he said,
"Mrs. Temple esteemed me highly, I believe; and I admired her very much. She had the sweetest voice I ever heard, not even excepting yours, which is something like it."
Edith nodded to the bright face on the mirror opposite, and the bright face nodded back as much was to say, "I knew 'twas so."
"Was she really handsome, this Mrs. Temple?" she asked, anxious to know how Richard Harrington's early love had looked.
Instinctively the hands of the blind man met together round Edith's graceful neck, as he told her how beautiful that Swedish mother was, with her glossy, raven hair, and her large, soft, lustrous eyes, and as he talked, there crept into Edith's heart a strange, inexplicable affection for that fair young Swede, who Richard said was not as happy with her father-husband as she should have been, and who, emigrating to another land, had died of a homesick, broken heart.
"I am sorry I cursed her to-day," thought Edith, her tears falling fast to the memory of the lonely, homesick woman, the mother of Eloise.
"Had she married Richard," she thought, "he would not now be sitting here in his blindness, for SHE would be with him, and Eloise, too, or some one very much like her. I wish she were here now," and after a moment she asked why he had not brought the maiden home with him. "I should love her as much as my sister," she said; "and you'd be happier with two of us, wouldn't you?"
"No," he answered; "one young girl is enough for any house. I couldn't endure two."
"ThenIought to go away," said Edith promptly, her bosom swelling with a dread lest she should eventually have to go. "Eloise has certainly the best right here. You loved her mother, yon know, and you'd rather have her than me, wouldn't you?"
She held both his hands now within her own. She bent her face upon them, and he felt her tears trickling through his fingers. Surely he was not to blame if, forgetting himself for the moment, he wound his arms about her and hugging her to his bosom, told her that of all the world SHE was the one he most wanted there at Collingwood, there just where she was now, her head upon his shoulder, her cheek against his own. 0nce she felt slightly startled, his words were so fraught with tender passion, but regarding him as her father, or at least her elder brother, she could not believe he intended addressing her save as his sister or his child, and releasing herself from his embrace, she slid back upon her stool and said, "I'm glad you're willing I should stay. It would kill me to go from Collingwood now. I've been so happy here, and found in you so kind a FATHER."
She WOULD say that last word, and she did, never observing thatRichard frowned slightly as if it were to him an unwelcome sound.
Presently Edith went on, "I think, though, this Eloise ought to come, too, no matter how pleasant a home she has. It is her duty to care for you who lost your sight for her. Were I in her place, I should consider no sacrifice too great to atone for the past. I would do everything in the world you asked of me, and then not half repay you."
"Every thing, Edith? Did you say every thing?" and it would seem that the blind eyes had for once torn away their veil, so lovingly and wistfully they rested upon the bowed head of the young girl, who, without looking up, answered back,
"Yes, every thing. But I'm glad I am not this Eloise."
"Why, Edith, why?" and the voice which asked the question was mournful in its tone.
"Because," returned Edith, "I should not care to be under so great obligations to any one. The burden would be oppressive. I should be all the while wondering what more I could do, while you, too, would be afraid that the little kindnesses which now are prompted in a great measure by love would be rendered from a sense of gratitude and duty. Wouldn't it be so, Mr. Richard?"
"Yes, yes," he whispered. "You are right. I should be jealous that what my heart craved as love would be only gratitude. I am glad you suggested this, Edith; very, very, glad, and now let us talk no more of Eloise."
"Ah, but I must," cried Edith. "There are so many things I want to know, and you've really told me nothing. Had she brothers or sisters? Tell me that, please."
"There was a half sister, I believe, hut she is dead," saidRichard. "They are all dead but this girl. She is alive and happy,and sometime I will tell you more of her, but not now. I am sorryI told you what I have."
"So am I if I can't hear the whole," returned Edith, beginning to pout.
"I DID intend to tell you all when I began," said Richard, "but I've changed my mind, and Edith, I have faith to believe you will not repeat to any one our conversation. Neither must you tease me about this girl. It is not altogether an agreeable subject."
Edith saw that he was in earnest, and knowing how useless it would be to question him further, turned her back upon him and gazing steadily into the fire, was wondering what made him so queer, when by way of diverting her mind, he said, "Did Victor tell you that Mr. St. Claire came with us all the way from New York?"
"Mr. St. Claire, no," and Edith brightened at once, forgetting all about Eloise Temple. "Why then didn't Mrs. Atherton and I see him? We went over the house this afternoon. It's a splendid place, most as handsome us Collingwood."
"How would you like to live there?" asked Richard, playfully. "One of the proposed conditions on which I consented to receive you, was that when Mr. St. Claire had a home of his own he was to take you off my hands; at least, that was what he said, standing here where you sit; and on my way from New York he reminded me of it, inquiring for little Metaphysics, and asking if I were ready to part with her."
"Do you wish me to go and let Eloise come?" Edith asked, pettishly, and Richard replied,
"No, Edith, I need you more than Arthur ever can, and you'll stay with me, too, stay always, won't you? Promise that you will."
"Of course I shall," she answered. "I'll stay until I'm married, as I suppose I shall he sometime; everybody is."
Richard tried to be satisfied with this reply, but it grated harshly, and it seemed to him that a shadow deeper, darker than any he had ever known, was creeping slowly over him, and that Arthur St. Claire's was the presence which brought the threatening cloud. He knew this half jealous feeling was unworthy of him, and with a mighty effort he shook it off and saying to Edith, calmly, "Mr. St. Claire asked many questions concerning you and your attainments, and when I spoke of your passion for drawing, lamenting that since Miss Chapin's departure, there was in town no competent instructor, he offered to be your teacher, provided you would come up there twice a week. He is a very sensible young man, for when I hesitated he guessed at once that I was revolving the propriety of your going alone to the house of a bachelor, where there were no females except the servants, and he said to me 'You can come with her, if you like.'"
"So it's more proper for a young lady to be with two gentlemen than with one, is it?" and Edith laughed merrily, at the same time asking if Richard had accepted the offer.
"I did, provided it met your approbation," was the reply, and as Victor just then appeared, the conversation for the present ceased.
But neither Eloise nor Arthur left the minds of either Richard or Edith, and while in her sleep that night the latter dreamed of the gentle Eloise, who called her sister, and from whom Arthur St. Claire strove to part her, the former tossed restlessly upon his pillow, moaning to him-self, "I am glad I did not tell her. She must answer me for love and not for gratitude."
The next morning as the family at Collingwood sat at their rather late breakfast a note was brought to Richard, who immediately handed it to Edith. Breaking the seal, and glancing at the name at the end, she exclaimed, "It's from Mr. St. Claire, and he says,— let me see:
GRASSY SPRING, Oct. 18—
"Dear Sir:—A wholly unexpected event makes it necessary for me to be absent from home for the next few weeks. During this time my house will be shut up, and I shall be very glad if in her daily rides Miss Hastings will occasionally come round this way and see that everything is straight. I would like much to give the keys into her charge, knowing as I do that I can trust her. The books in my library are at her disposal, as is also the portfolio of drawings, which I will leave upon the writing table.
"When I return, and have become somewhat domesticated, I hope to have her for my pupil, as proposed yesterday. Please let me know at once if she is willing to take charge of my keys.
In haste,
"What does he mean?" asked Edith, as she finished reading this note aloud. "What does he wish me to do?"
"Why," returned Richard, "He is to shut up his house, which, being brick, will naturally become damp, and I suppose he wishes you to air it occasionally, by opening the windows and letting in the sunlight.
"Wishes me, in short, to perform a servant's duty," said Edith, haughtily. "Very well, I'll do it. Perhaps it will pay my TUITION in part; who knows?" and in spite of Richard's remonstrances, she seized a pen and dashed off the following:
"Mr. St. Claire:
"Dear Sir,—Miss Hastings accepts the great honor of looking after your house, and will see that nothing gets mouldy during your absence."
In haste, RICHARD HARRINGTON, "Per Edith Hastings."
"P.S. Will you have her CLEAN it before you return?"
"Edith!" and Richard's voice was very stern. "Arthur St. Claire never intended to insult you and you shall NOT send that note. Tear it up at once."
Edith stood a moment irresolute, while her eyes flashed with indignation, but she had been too long accustomed to obey the man, who, groping his way to her side, stood commandingly before her to resist his authority now, and mechanically tearing the note in pieces, she tossed them into the fire.
"Victor," said Richard, wishing to spare Edith the mortification of writing a second answer, "tell the man from Grassy Spring that Mr. St. Claire can leave his keys at Collingwood."
Victor departed with the message, and Edith, somewhat recovered from her pet, said,
"Isn't it queer, though, that Mr. St. Claire should ask to leave his keys with me? One would suppose he'd trust his cousin to rummage his goods and chattels sooner than a stranger."
"He has his reasons, I dare say, for preferring you," returnedRichard, adding that he himself would go with her some day toGrassy Spring, and assist her in airing the house.
Toward the middle of the afternoon, the keys of Collingwood were delivered to Edith, together with a sealed note, containing a single line,
"The iron broken key unlocks the DEN."
Had Arthur wished to puzzle Edith he could not have done so more effectually than he did by these few words.
"What do I care," she said, "which unlocks the Den. I certainly should not cross its threshold were the door left wide open. What does he mean?" and she was still wondering over the message when Grace Atherton was announced.
As she grew older Grace assumed a more familiar, youthful manner than had characterized her early womanhood, and now, tossing her riding hat and whip upon the bed, she sank into Edith's easy chair and began: "The funniest thing imaginable has happened at Grassy Spring. His Royal Highness, Lord St. Claire, has flown into a violent passion with Mrs. Johnson for having shown us into that room."
"Shown YOU, you mean. I didn't go in," interrupted Richard, and Grace continued, "Well, shown ME, then, though I think you might at least share in the disgrace. I never saw Arthur as indignant as he was last night when he called on me. 'Women were curious, prying creatures, anyway,' he said, 'and he had no faith in any of them.'"
"Did he say so?" asked Edith, and Grace replied, "Well, not exactly that. He did make a few exceptions, of which you are one. Mrs. Johnson must have told him that you refused to enter. What harm was there, any way, and what's the room for? I'm beginning to grow curious. Here, he's dismissed Mrs. Johnson and her daughter, telling her if he could not trust her in small matters he could not in those of greater importance, and the good soul has taken the afternoon express for Boston, where she formerly lived. She says he paid her three months' extra wages, so he was liberal in that respect; but the strangest part of all is that he is going to Florida, where he has some claim to or owns a plantation of negroes, and he intends to bring a whole cargo of them to Grassy Spring—housekeeper, cook, chambermaid, coachman, gardener, and all. Don't you think he's crazy?"
Edith thought the facts would warrant such a conclusion, and Grace went on. "I offered to take charge of his house, telling him it ought not to be shut up for several weeks, but he declined so haughtily, saying he should leave the keys with someone less curious than myself, and asked if I supposed YOU would be offended if he offered them to you. I told him no, and I dare say he will send them here, if indeed, he has not already done so. Has he?" she asked, quickly, as she saw a peculiar smile on Edith's lip.
"Yes," Edith answered, feeling the while SO glad that Richard had prevented her from sending that insulting note.
She knew now why the keys were given to her, and the fact that Arthur St. Claire trusted HER even before his own cousin, left a warm, happy spot in her heart. Upon second thought this act was not displeasing to Grace herself. It evinced a preference in Arthur for Edith Hastings, and on her way home she busied herself in building castles of the future, when Edith, as the wife of Arthur and mistress of Grassy Spring, would cease to be her rival. As Grace had said, Mrs. Johnson and Rose, her daughter, were dismissed, the house was shut up, the owner gone, the keys in Edith's possession, and for many days the leaves of crimson and of gold drifted down upon the walks and lay piled beneath the windows and upon the marble steps, where they rested undisturbed, save when the evening wind whirled them in fantastic circles and then sent them back again to their first lodging place.
Occasionally Edith, on her spirited Bedouin, rode slowly by, glancing at the grounds and garden, where so many flowers were blossoming for naught, and then gazing curiously at the latticed windows looking out toward Collingwood. She knew which ones they were, though the blinds were closed tightly over them, and she wondered if the mystery of that room would ever be revealed to her. Once, as she was riding by, she saw a stranger standing upon the steps of the front door and pulling vehemently at the silver knob which brought him no response. Reining Bedouin at the gate the waited until the gentleman, tired of ringing, came slowly down the walk, apparently absorbed in some perplexing thought. He did not see her until almost upon her, when, bowing politely, he said, "I beg your pardon, Miss, can you tell me where Mr. St. Claire's to be found?"
"He has gone to Florida," she answered, "and will not return for some weeks."
"Gone to Florida, and I not know it! That's very queer," and the stranger bit his lip with vexation.
"Did you wish particularly to see him?" asked Edith, and he replied,
"Yes, a friend lies very sick in the—" he paused a moment, looked searchingly at Edith, and added, "in Worcester. We can do nothing with her, and I have come for him."
Edith thought of NINA, thought of the Den, thought of everything, except that the man seemed waiting for her to speak.
"Won't be home for some weeks," he said at last, as she continued silent, "And you don't know where a letter would reach him?"
"No, sir, but I will deliver any message from you as soon as he returns."
The stranger scrutinized her closely a second time ere he replied,
"Tell him Griswold has been here and wishes him to come toWorcester at once."
Edith was mortal, nay more, was a genuine descendant of mother Eve, and with a feeling akin to what that fair matron must have felt when she wondered how those apples did taste, she said to the man, "Who shall I say is sick?"
"A friend," was the laconic reply, as he walked rapidly away, muttering to himself, "A pretty scrape St. Claire is getting himself into. Poor Arthur, poor Arthur."
It would seen that Edith, too, was imbued with something of the spirit which prompted him to say, "Poor Arthur," for she involuntarily sighed, and casting another glance at the windows of the den, gave loose rein to Bedouin and galloped swiftly down the road.
The next morning was clear and bright, and as Richard felt the bracing air, he said to her, "We will visit Grassy Spring to-day. It's time you gave it a little air."
The carriage was accordingly brought out, and in half an hour's time Richard and Edith were treading the deserted rooms, into which they let the warm sunlight by opening wide the windows, all save those of one chamber. Edith did not go near the Den, and she marvelled that Arthur should have given her its key, indicating which it was. She did not know that the rather peculiar young man had lain for her a snare, by which means he would surely know how far her curiosity had led her. He might have spared himself the trouble, for Edith was the soul of honor, and nothing could have induced her to cross the proscribed threshold.
"It's very pleasant here, isn't it?" Richard asked, as they went from one room to another, and he felt the soft carpets yield to his tread.
"Yes," she answered; "but not as pleasant as Collingwood. I like my own home best," and she looked into his face in time to catch the expression she loved so well—an expression of trusting, childlike happiness, touching to behold in a strong man.
He liked to know that Edith was contented with Collingwood; contented with him; and he hoped it would be so always. He could not bear the thought that he had suffered every fibre of his heart to twine and intertwine themselves around her, only to be one day broken and cast bleeding at his feet. But somehow, here at Grassy Spring, in the home of Arthur St. Claire, he felt oppressed with a dread lest this thing should be; and to Edith, when she asked what made him so pale, he said,
"It's close in here, I think. Let's hurry out into the open air."
She led him to an iron chair beneath a forest maple, and leaving him there alone went back to close the windows she had opened. One of those in the drawing-room resisted all her efforts for a time, but came down at last with a bang, causing her to start, and hit her foot against a frame which she had not before observed, but which she now saw was a portrait standing in the dark corner with its face against the wall.
"Truly there can be no harm in looking at this," she thought, and turning it to the light she stepped back to examine it.
'Twas the picture of a black-eyed, black-haired child—a little girl, scarcely three years old, judging from the baby face, and the fat, dimpled hands turning so earnestly the leaves of a picture book. One tiny foot was bare, and one encased in a red morocco shoe.
"Dear, darling baby," she said aloud, feeling an irresistible desire to hug the little creature to her bosom. "Who are you, baby? Where are you now? and how came you with Mr. St. Claire?"
She asked these questions aloud, and was answered by Richard calling from his seat beneath the maple to know why she tarried so long. With one more lingering glance at the infant, she locked the doors and hastened out to her blind charge. On three or four other occasions she came alone to Grassy Spring, opening the doors and windows, and feasting her eyes upon the beautiful little child. Edith was wonderfully in love with that picture, and many a theory she built as to the original. Grace had told her that Arthur had no sister, and this, while it tended to deepen the mystery, increased her interest.
"I'll ask him about her when he gets home," she thought; and she waited anxiously for his return, which occurred much sooner than she anticipated.
It was a cold, raw November day, and the rain was beating against the windows of the little room she called her boudoir, and where she now sat sewing, when Victor, who had been sent to Grassy Spring to see that the storm did not penetrate the western blinds, appeared before her, ejaculating, "Mon Dieu, Miss Hastings. What do you think there is over yonder at Grassy Spring? A whole swarm of niggers, and Guinea niggers at that, I do believe. Such outlandish specimens! There they sit bent up double with the cold and hovering round the kitchen fire, some on the floor, some on chairs, and one has actually taken the tin dish pan and turned it bottom side up for a stool. They come from Florida, they say, and they sorter 'long to Marsa St. Claire. They called me MARSA, too, and when Mr. St. Claire asked me how my MASTER and young lady were, the old she one who sat smoking in the corner, with a turban on her head as high as a church steeple, took the pipe from her month and actually SWORE.
"Swore, Victor!" exclaimed Edith, who had listened in amazement to his story.
"I don't know what you call it but swearing; says she, 'A white nigger, Lor'-a-mighty,' and the whole bevy of them opened their ranks for time to sit down in their circle—kind of a fellow feeling, you know," and Victor endeavored to hide the shock his pride had received by laughing loudly at the negroes' mistake.
"How did you get in?" asked Edith. "He must have been there before you."
"He had a key to the back door," returned Victor, "and I gave him up mine. He wants you to send the others. Shall I take them over?"
"Yes—no—I will go myself," said Edith, remembering Mr. Griswold, from Worcester, and the message she was to deliver.
"YOU go in this rain! Mr. Harrington won't let you," said Victor, and Edith rejoined, "I shan't ask him. I've been out in worse storms than this. Bring up Bedouin."
Victor was never happier than when obeying Edith, and in an inconceivably short space of time Bedouin stood at the back piazza, where his mistress mounted him and rode away. It was not until she had left the Collingwood grounds and was out upon the main road, that she began to feel any doubts as to the propriety of what she was doing. She had not seen Arthur St. Claire for eight years. She must, of course, introduce herself and would he not marvel to see her there in that rain, when a servant could have brought the keys its well. And the message, too—Victor might have delivered that had she been willing to trust him with it, but she was not. Arthur St. Claire had a secret of some kind; Mr. Griswold was concerned in it, and it was to guard this secret from all curious ears that she was doing what she was. Having thus settled the matter to her mind, Edith rode on, unmindful of the rain, which had partially subsided, but still dripped from her black plumes and glanced off from her velvet habit. A slight nervous trepidation seized her, however, as she drew near to Grassy Spring, and noticed the look of surprise with which a stalwart African, standing by the gate, regarded her. Riding up to him she said, good-naturedly, "How d'ye, uncle?" having learned so much of negro dialect from Rachel, who was a native of Georgia.
Immediately the ivories of the darkie became visible, and with a not ungraceful bow, he answered, "Jest tolable, thankee;" while his eyes wandered up the road, as if in quest of something they evidently did not find, for bending forward helooked curiously behind Edith, saying by way of apology, "I'se huntin' for yer little black boy; whar is he?"
"Where's who?" and in her fright, lest some one of the little "Guinea niggers" about whom Victor had told her, might be seated behind her, Edith leaped with on bound form the saddle, nearly upsetting the young man hastening out to meet her.
Southern bred as the negro was he could not conceive of a white lady's riding without an escort, and failing to see said escort, he fancied it must be some diminutive child perched upon the horse, and was looking to find him, feeling naturally curious to know how the negroes of Yankee land differed from those of Florida. All this Edith understood afterward, but she was too much excited now to thing of any thing except that she had probably made herself ridiculous in the eyes of Arthur St. Claire, who adroitly rescued her from a fall in the mud, by catching her about the waist and clasping one of her hands.
"Miss Hastings, I believe," he said, when he saw that she had regained her equilibrium, "This is a pleasure I hardly expected in this storm,—but come in. You are drenched with rain;" and still holding her hand, he led her into the library, where a cheerful fire was blazing.
Drawing a chair before it he made her sit down, while he untied and removed her hat, brushing the drops of rain from her hair, and doing it in so quiet, familiar, and withal so womanly a manner that Edith began to feel quite at home with him, and to think she had not done so foolish a thing, after all, in coming there. When sure she was comfortable, he drew a chair opposite to her, and for the first time since they met, she had a chance to see what changes eight years had wrought in one she thought so handsome, as a youth. He was larger, more fully developed than when she parted from him in Albany, and it seemed to her as if he were taller, too. He was certainly manlier in his appearance, and the incipient mustache at which her nose was once contemptuously elevated, was now rich, brown beard, adding, as some would think, to the beauty of his face, the pride of his barber, and the envy of his less fortunate comrades. He was a remarkably fine looking man, handsomer even than Richard Harrington, inasmuch as he had not about him the air of helplessness which characterized the blind man. The same old mischievous twinkle lurked in the soft brown eyes, and the corners of the mouth curved just as they used to do. But his smile was not as frequent or as joyous as of old, while on his brow there was a shadow resting—an expression of sad disquiet, as if thus early he had drank deeply from the cup of sorrow. Amid his wavy hair a line of silver was now and then discernible, and Edith thought how much faster he had grown old than Richard Harrington. And well be might, for Richard, in his blindness was happier far than Arthur St. Claire, blessed with health, and riches, and eyesight, and youth. He had no secret eating to his very heart's core, and with every succeeding year magnifying itself into a greater evil than it really was, as an error concealed is sure to do. Besides that, Richard had Edith, while Arthur, alas, poor Arthur, he had worse than nothing; and as he looked across the hearth to where Edith sat, he ceased to wonder that one who for eight years had basked in the sunshine of her presence, should be as young, as vigorous and happy as Richard had appeared to him. But he must not think of this. He professed to be a woman-hater, he who, in his early boyhood, had counted his conquests by scores; and even if he were not, beautiful Edith Hastings could never be aught to him; and he must not suffer himself for a single moment to think HOW beautiful she was, still he could not help looking at her, and not a movement of her hand or a bund of her head escaped him. But so skillfully did he manage that the deluded girl fancied he never once glanced at her, while he expressed to her his gratitude for having taken so good care of his house.
"There is one room, however, you did not open," and the eyes of brown met now the eyes of black, but were quickly withdrawn, as he continued, "I mean the one at the head of the stairs, leading from my private sitting-room."
"How do you know?" asked Edith, a suspicion of the truth flashing upon her. "Did Blue Beard lay a snare in which to catch Fatima?"
"He did," Arthur answered, "but was nearly as certain then as now that she would not fall into it. Miss Hastings, it gives me more pleasure than I can well express to find one female who is worthy to be trusted—who has no curiosity."
"But I have a heap of curiosity," returned Edith, laughingly. "I'm half crazy to know what that room is for and why you are so particular about it."
"Then you deserve more credit than I have given you," he replied, a dark shadow stealing over his handsome face.
Edith was about to ask him of the portrait in the drawing room, when he prevented her by making some playful allusion to the circumstances of their first acquaintance.
"I began to think you had forgotten me," said Edith, "though I knew you could not well forget the theft unjustly charged to me."
She hoped he would now speak of Nina, but he did not, and as she for the first time remembered Mr. Griswold, she said, after a moment's pause,
"I came near forgetting my principal errand here. I could have sent your keys, but I would rather deliver Mr. Griswold's message myself."
She expected Arthur to start, but she was not prepared for him to spring from his chair as suddenly as he did.
"Mr. Griswold!" he repeated. "Where did you see him? Has HE been here? What did he say? Tell me, Edith—Miss Hastings—I beg your pardon—tell me his errand."
He stood close to her now, and his eyes did not leave her face for an instant while she repeated the particulars of her interview with the stranger.
"And this is all—you've told me all that passed between you?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, all," she answered, pitying him, he looked so frightened, so disturbed.
Consulting his watch, he continued, "There's time, I see, if I am expeditious, I must take the next train east though I would so much rather stay and talk with you. I shall see you again, Miss Hastings. You'll come often to Grassy Spring, won't you? I need the sight of a face like yours to keep me from going MAD."
He wrung her hand and stepped into the hall just as one of the black women he had brought from Florida appeared.
"Aunt Phillis," he said, "I wish to speak with you," and going with her to the extremity of the hall, they conversed together in low, earnest tones, as if talking of some great sorrow in which both were interested.
Once Edith heard Aunt Phillis say, "Blessed lamb, that I've done toted so many tunes in these old arms. Go, Marser Arthur; never you mind old Phillis, she'll get on somehow. Mebby the young lady in thar kin show me the things and tell me the names of yer Yankee gimcracks."
"I have no doubt she will," returned Arthur, adding something in a whisper which Edith could not hear.
A moment more and Arthur passed the door, equipped with overcoat and umbrella, and she heard his rapid steps upon the back piazza as he went towards the carriage house. Aunt Phillis now re-entered the library, curtesying low to Edith, who saw upon her old black face the trace of recent tears.
"Is Mr. St. Claire's friend very sick?" Edith ventured to ask, and instantly the round bright eyes shot at her a glance of alarm, while the negress replied, "Dunno, misses. He keeps his 'fars mostly to hisself, and Phillis has done larnt not to pry."
Thus rebuked, Edith arose and began to tie on her hat preparatory to leaving.
"Come in dis way a minute, Miss," said Phillis. "We're from Floridy, and dunno more'n the dead what to do in such a shiny kitchen as Marster St. Claire done keeps."
Edith followed her to the kitchen, in which she found several dusky forms crouched before the fire, and gazing about them with a wondering look. To Edith they were exceedingly polite, and taking a seat in their midst she soon learned from a loquacious old lady, who seemed to be superannuated, that "they were all one family, she being the grandmother, Ike and Phillis the father and mother, and 'tothers the children. We're all Ber-NARDS," she said, "case that was ole marster's name, but now I dunno who we does 'long to. Some says to Marster St. Claire and some says to Miss—-"
"Mother!" and Phillis bustled up to the old lady, who, uttering a loud outcry, exclaimed,
"The Lord, Phillis; you needn't done trod on my fetched corns. I warn't a gwine to tell," and she loudly bewailed her aching foot, encased in a shoe of most wonderful make.
When the pain had partially subsided, the talkative Judy continued,
"There wasn't no sense, so I tole 'em, in 'totin' us way off here in the dead o' winter. I'se kotched a misery in my back, and got the shivers all over me. I'se too old any way to leave my cabin thar in Floridy, and I'd a heap sight rather of stayed and died on de old plantation. We has good times thar, me and Uncle Abe— that's an old colored gentleman that lives jinin', and does nothin', just as I do. He lost his wife nex Christmas'll be a year; and, bein' lonesome like, he used to come over o' nights to talk about her, and tell how mizzable it was to be alone."
"You are a widow, I presume," said Edith, her black eyes brimming with fun.
"Yes, chile, I'se been a widdy thirty year, an' Uncle Abe was such a well-to-do nigger, a trifle shaky in the legs, I know; but it don't matter. Marster St. Claire wouldn't part the family, he said, and nothin' to do but I must come. Uncle Abe's cabin was comfable enough, and thar was a hull chest of Rhody's things, a doin' nobody no good."
Aunt Judy paused, and looked into the fire as if seeing there images of the absent Abel, while Edith regarded her intently, pressing her hands twice upon her forehead, as if trying to retain a confused, blurred idea which flitted across her mind.
"Judy," she said, at last, "it seems to me I must have seen YOU somewhere before, though where, I don't know."
"Like enough, honey," returned Judy. "Your voice sounds mighty nateral, and them black eyes shine an' glisten like some oder eyes I seen somewhar. Has you been in Floridy, chile?"
"No," returned Edith; "I was born in New York City, I believe."
"Then 'taint likely we's met afore," said Judy, "though you do grow on me 'mazin'ly. You're the very spawn o' somebody. Phillis, who does the young lady look like?"
Phillis, who had been rummaging the closets and cupboards, now came forward, and scrutinizing Edith's features, said, "She favors Master Ber-nard's last wife, only she's taller and plumper."
But with the querulousness of old age Judy scouted the idea.
"Reckoned she knowed how Marster Bernard's last wife looked. 'Twan't no more like the young lady than 'twas like Uncle Abe," and with her mind thus brought back to Abel, she commenced an eulogy upon him, to which Edith did not care to listen, and she gladly followed Phillis into the pantry, explaining to her the use of such conveniences as she did not fully understand.
"Two o'clock!" she exclaimed, as she heard the silver bell from the library clock. "Richard'll think I'm lost," and bidding her new acquaintances good bye, she hurried to the gate, having first given orders for Bedouin to be brought from the stable.
"Shan't I go home wid you, Miss?" asked the negro, who held the pony; "it's hardly fittin' for you to go alone."
But Edith assured him she was not afraid, and galloped swiftly down the road, while the negro John looked admiringly after, declaring to his father, who joined him, that "she rode mighty well for a Yankee girl."
Arthur St. Claire had returned from Worcester, but it was several days ere he presented himself at Collingwood; and Edith was beginning to think he had forgotten her and the promised drawing lessons, when he one evening was ushered by Victor into the parlor, where she was singing to Richard his favorite songs. He was paler than when she saw him before, and she fancied that he seemed weary and worn, as if sleep and himself had been for a long time strangers.
"Did you leave your friend better?" she asked.
"Yes, better," he answered hurriedly, changing the conversation to topics evidently more agreeable.
One could not be very unhappy in Edith's presence. She possessed so much life, vivacity and vigor, that her companions were sure to become more or less imbued with her cheerful spirit; and as the evening advanced, Arthur became much like the Arthur of Brier Hill memory, and even laughed aloud on several occasions.
"I wish I was sure of finding at Grassy Spring somebody just like you," he said to Edith when at last he arose to go. "Yon have driven away a whole army of blues. I almost believe I'd be willing to be blind, if, by that means, I could be cared for as Mr. Harrington is."
"And crazy, too?" slily interrupted Edith, who was standing near him as he leaned against the marble mantel.
"No, no—oh, heavens, no! anything but that," and the hand he placed in Edith's shook nervously, but soon grew still between her soft, warm palms.
There was something life-giving in Edith's touch, as well as soul- giving in her presence, and standing there with his cold, nervous hand in hers, the young man felt himself grow strong again, and full of courage to hope for a happier future than the past had been. He knew SHE could not share the future with him—but he would have as much of her as possible, and just as she was wondering if he would remember the lessons, he spoke of them and asked when she could come.
"Just when Mr. Harrington thinks best," she replied, and thus appealed to, Richard, guided by Edith's voice, came forward and joined them.
"Any time," he said. "To-morrow, if you like," adding that he believed he, too, was to be always present.
Edith's eyes sought those of Arthur, reading there a reflection of her own secret thoughts, to wit, that THREE would he one too many, but they could not tell him so and Arthur responded at once, "Certainly, I shall expect you both, say to-morrow at ten o'clock; I am most at leisure then."
The next morning, at the appointed time, Richard and Edith appeared at Grassy Spring, where they found Arthur waiting for them, his portfolio upon the table, and his pencils lying near, ready to be used.
"I am afraid you'll find it tiresome, Mr. Harrington," he said, as he assigned his visitor a chair, and then went back to Edith.
"I shall do very well," answered Richard, and so he did for that lesson, and the next, and the next, but at last, in spite of his assertion to the contrary, he found it dull business going to Grassy Spring twice each week, and sitting alone with nothing to occupy his mind, except, indeed, to wonder how NEAR Arthur was to Edith, and if he bent over her as he remembered seeing drawing teachers do at school.
Richard was getting very tired of it—very weary of listening to Arthur's directions, and to Edith's merry laughs at her awkward blunders, and he was not sorry when one lesson-day, the fifth since they began, Grace Atherton's voice was heard in the hall without asking for admission. He had long since forgiven Grace for jilting him, and they were the best of friends; so when she suggested their going into the adjoining room, where it was pleasanter and she could play to him if he liked, he readily assented, and while listening to her lively conversation and fine playing, he forgot the lapse of time, and was surprised when Edith came to him with the news that it was 12 o'clock.
"Pray, don't go yet," said Arthur, who was loth to part with his pupil. "You surely do not dine till three, and I have already ordered lunch. Here it comes," and he pointed to the door where Phillis stood, bearing a huge silver salver, on which were wine and cake and fruit of various kinds.
"Grapes," screamed Edith, as she saw the rich purple clusters, which had been put up for winter use by poor, discarded Mrs. Johnson. "I really cannot go till I have some of them," and as there was no alternative Richard sat down to wait the little lady's pleasure.
He did not care for lunch, but joined in the conversation, which turned upon matrimony.
"It must be a very delightful state," said Edith, "provided one were well matched and loved her husband, as I am sure I should do."
"Supposing you didn't love him," asked Grace, "but had married him from force of circumstances, what then?"
"I'd kill him and the circumstances too," answered Edith."Wouldn't you, Mr. St. Claire?"
"I can hardly tell," he replied, "not having matrimony in my mind.Ishall never marry."
"Never marry!" and the pang at Edith's heart was discernible in her soft, black eyes, turned so quickly toward this candidate for celibacy.
"How long since you came to that decision?" asked Grace; and in tones which indicated truth, Arthur replied,
"Several years at least, and I have never for a moment changed my mind."
"Because the right one has not come, perhaps," put in Richard, growing very much interested in the conversation.
"The right one will never come," and Arthur spoke earnestly. "The girl does not live, who can ever be to me a wife, were she graceful as a fawn and beautiful as—-" he glanced at Edith as if he would call her name, but added instead—"as a Hebe, it could make no difference. That matter is fixed, and is as changeless as the laws of the Medes and Persians."
"I am sorry for you, young man," said Richard, whose face, notwithstanding this assertion, indicated anything but sorrow.
He could now trust Edith alone at Grassy Spring—he need not always be bored with coming there, and he was glad Arthur had so freely expressed his sentiments, as it relieved him of a great burden; so, at parting, when Arthur said to him us usual, "I'll see you again on Friday," he replied,
"I don't know, I'm getting so worried with these abominably tedious lessons, that for once I'll let her come alone."
Alas, poor, deluded Richard! He did not know that to attain this very object, Arthur had said what he did. It is true, he meant every word he uttered. Matrimony and Edith Hastings must not be thought of together. That were worse than madness, and his better judgment warned him not to see too much of her—told him it was better far to have that sightless man beside them when they met together in a relation so intimate as the teacher bears to his pupil. But Arthur would not listen; Edith was the first who for years had really touched a human chord in his palsied heart, and the vibration would not cease without a fiercer struggle than he cared to make. It could do no harm, he said. He had been so unhappy—was so unhappy now. Edith would, of course, be Richard's wife; he had foreseen that from the very first—had predicted it long ago, but ere the sacrifice was made, he was surely pardonable if, for a little while, he gave himself to the bewildering intoxication of basking in the sunshine of her eyes, of bending so near to her that he could feel her fragrant breath, feel the warm glow of her cheek, of holding those little hands a moment in his own after he had ceased to teach her fingers how to guide the pencil.
All this passed in rapid review before his mind while his lips uttered the words which had so delighted Richard, and when he saw the shadow on Edith's face, his poor, aching heart throbbed with a joy as wild and intense as it was hopeless and insane. This was Arthur St. Claire with Edith present, but with Edith gone, he was quite another man. Eagerly he watched her till she disappeared from view, then returning to the library he sat down where she had sat—laid his head upon the table where her hands had lain, and cursed himself for daring to dream of love in connection with Edith Hastings. It would be happiness for a time, he knew, to hang upon her smile, to watch the lights and shadows of her speaking face, to look into her eyes—those clear, truthful eyes which had in them no guile. All this would be perfect bliss, were it not that the end must come at last—the terrible end—remorse bitterer than death for him, and for her—the pure, unsullied, trusting Edith—ruin, desolation, and madness, it might be.
"Yes, MADNESS!" he exclaimed aloud, "hateful as the word may sound." And he gnashed his teeth as it dropped from between them. "No, Edith, no. Heaven helping me, I will not subject you to this temptation. I will not drag you down with me, and yet, save Griswold, there lives not the person who knows my secret. May be he could be bought. Oh, the maddening thought. Am I a demon or a brute?" And he leaped from his chair, cursing himself again and again for having fallen so low as to dream of an act fraught with so much wrong to Edith, and so much treachery to one as fair, as beautiful as she, and far, far more to be pitied.
Arthur St. Claire was, at heart, a noble, upright, honorable man, and sure, at last, to choose the right, however rugged were the road. For years he had groped in a darkness deeper, more hopeless than that which enshrouded the blind man, and in all that time there had shone upon his pathway not a single ray of daylight. The past, at which he dared not look, lay behind him a dreary waste, and the black future stretched out before him, years on years it might be, in which there would be always the same old cankering wound festering in his soul. He could NOT forget this plague spot. He never had forgotten it for a single moment until he met with Edith Hatings, who possessed for him a powerful mesmeric charm, causing him in her presence to forget everything but her. This fascination was sudden but not less powerful for that. Arthur's was an impulsive nature, and it seemed to him that he had known Edith all his life, that she was a part of his very being. But he must forget her now, she must not come there any more, he could not resist her if she did; and seizing his pen he dashed off a few lines to the effect that, for certain reasons, the drawing lessons must henceforth be discontinued.
Arthur though himself very strong to do so much, but when he arose to ring for the servant who was to take this note to Collingwood, his courage all forsook him. Why need he cast her off entirely? Why throw away the only chance for happiness there was left for him? 'Twas Arthur's weaker manhood which spoke, and he listened, for Edith Hastings was in the scale, a mighty, overwhelming weight. She might come just once more, he said, and his heart swelled within his throat as he thought of being alone with her, no jealous Richard hovering near, like a dark, brooding cloud, his blind eyes shielding her from harm even more than they could have done had they been imbued with sight. The next time she came, the restraint would be removed. She would be alone, and the hot blood poured swiftly through his veins as he thought how for one brief moment he would be happy. He WOULD wind his arm around that girlish waist, where no other manly arm save that of Richard had ever been; he WOULD hug her to his bosom, where no other head than hers could ever lie; he would imprint one burning kiss upon her lips; would tell her how dear she was to him; and then—his brain reeled and grew dizzy as he thought that THEN he must bid her leave him forever, for an interview like that must not he repeated. But for once, just once, he would taste of the forbidden fruit, and so the good angel Arthur St. Claire wept over the wayward man and then flew sadly away, leaving him to revel in anticipations of what the next Friday would bring him.
It was just beginning to be light when Edith opened her eyes, and lifting up her head, looked about the room to see if Lulu had been in to make her fire. She always awoke earlier on lesson day, so as to have a good long time TO THINK, and now as she counted the hours, one, two, three and a half, which must intervene before she saw Arthur St. Claire again, she hid her blushing face in the pillow, as if ashamed to let the gray daylight see just how happy she was. These lessons had become the most important incidents in her life, and this morning there was good cause why she should anticipate the interview. She believed Richard was not going, and though she was of course very sorry to leave him behind, she tried hard to be reconciled, succeeding so well that when at 8 o'clock she descended to the breakfast room, Victor asked what made her look so unusually bright and happy.
"I don't know," she replied, "unless it is because we are going to ride," and she glanced inquiringly at Richard, seating himself at the table.
Victor shrugged his shoulders. HE knew more than Edith thought he did, and waited like herself for Richard's answer. Richard HAD intended to remain at home, but it seemed that Edith expected him to go, by her saying WE, and rather than disappoint her he began to think seriously of martyring himself again. Something like this he said, adding that he found it vastly tedious, but was willing to endure it for Edith's sake.
"Pardonnez moi, Monsieur," said Victor, who for the sake of Edith, would sometimes stretch the truth, "I saw Mr. Floyd yesterday, and he is coming here this morning to talk with you about the west wood lot you offered for sale. Hadn't you better stay home for once and let Miss Edith go alone."
Edith gave a most grateful look t Victor, who had only substituted "this morning" for "some time to-day," the latter being what Mr. Floyd had really said.
"Perhaps I had," returned Richard. "I want so much to sell that lot, but if Edith—-"
"Never mind me, Mr. Harrington," she cried; "I have not been on Bedouin's back in so long a time that he is getting quite unmanageable, they say, and I shall be delighted to discipline him this morning; the roads are quite fine for winter, are they not Victor?"
"Never were better," returned the Frenchman; smooth and hard as a rock. "You'll enjoy it amazingly, I know. I'll tell Jake not to get out the carriage," and without waiting for an answer the politic victor left the room.
Richard had many misgivings as to the propriety of letting Edith go without him, and he was several times on the point of changing his mind, but Edith did not give him any chance, and at just a quarter before ten she came down equipped in her riding habit, and asking if he had any message for Mr. St. Claire.
"None in particular," he answered, adding that she might come back through the village and bring the mail.
Once on the back of Bedouin, who danced for a few moments like a playful kitten, Edith felt sure she was going alone, and abandoning herself to her delight she flew down the carriage road at a terrific speed, which startled even Victor, great as was his faith in his young lady's skill. But Edith had the utmost confidence in Bedouin, while Bedouin had the utmost confidence in Edith, and by the time they were out upon the main road they had come to a most amicable understanding.
"I mean to gallop round to the office now," thought Edith; "and then I shall not be obliged to hurry away from Grassy Spring."
Accordingly Bedouin was turned toward the village, and in an inconceivably short space of time she stood before the door of the post-office.
"Give me Mr. Harrington's mail, please," Edith said to the clerk who came out to meet her; "and—and Mr. St. Claire's too, I'm going up there, and can take it as well as not."
The clerk withdrew, and soon returned with papers for Richard, and a letter for Arthur. It was post-marked at Worcester, and Edith thought of Mr. Griswold, as she thrust it into her pocket, and started for Grassy Spring, where Arthur was anxiously awaiting her. Hastening out to meet her, he held her hand in his, while he led her up the walk, telling her by his manner, if by nothing else, how glad he was to see her.
"It has seemed an age since Tuesday," he said. "I only live on lesson-days. I wish it was lesson-day always."
"So do I," said Edith, impulsively, repenting her words the moment she met the peculiar glance of Arthur's eyes.
She was beginning to be afraid of him, and half wished Richard was there. Remembering his letter at last, she gave it to him, explaining how she came by it, and marvelling at the sudden whiteness of his face.
"I will wait till she is gone," he thought, as he recognized Dr. Griswold's writing, and knew well what it was about. "I won't let anything mar the bliss of the next two hours," and he laid it upon the table.
"Ain't you going to read it?" asked Edith, as earnestly as if she knew the contents of that letter would save her from much future pain. "Read it," she persisted, declaring, with pretty willfulness that she would not touch a pencil until he complied with her request.
"I suppose I must yield then," he said, withdrawing into the adjoining room, where he broke the seal and read—once—twice— three times—lingering longest over the sentences which we subjoin.
* * * "To-day, for the first time since you were here, our poor little girl spoke of you of her own accord, asking where you were and why you left her so long alone. I really think it would be better for you to take her home. She is generally quiet with you, and latterly she has a fancy that you are threatened with some danger, for she keeps whispering to herself, 'Keep Arthur from temptation. Keep him from temptation, and don't let any harm come to little MIGGIE.' Who is Miggie? I don't think I ever heard her name until within the last few days." * * *
And this it was which kept Arthur St. Claire from falling. Slowly the tears, such as strong men only shed, gathered in his eyes and dropped upon the paper. Then his pale lips moved, and he whispered sadly, "Heaven bless you, NINA, poor unfortunate Nina. Your prayer SHALL save me, and henceforth Edith shall be to me just what your darling Miggie would have been were she living. God help me to do right," he murmured, as he thought of Edith Hastings, and remembered how weak he was. That prayer of anguish was not breathed in vain, and when the words were uttered he felt himself growing strong again—strong to withstand the charms of the young girl waiting impatiently for him in the adjoining room.
There were many things she meant to say to him in Richard's absence. She would ask him about NINA, and the baby picture which had so interested her. It had disappeared from the drawing room and as yet she had found no good opportunity to question him about it, but she would do so to-day. She would begin at once so as not to forget, and she was just wondering how long it took a man to read a letter, when he came in. She saw at a glance that something had affected him, and knowing intuitively that it was not the time for idle questionings, she refrained from all remark, and the lesson both had so much anticipated, proceeded in almost unbroken silence. It was very dull indeed, she thought, not half so nice as when Richard was there, and in her pet at Arthur's coolness and silence, she made so many blunders that at last throwing pencil and paper across the room, she declared herself too stupid for any thing.
"You, too, are out of humor," she said, looking archly into Arthur's face, "and I won't stay here any longer. I mean to go away and talk with Judy about Abel."
So saying, she ran off to the kitchen where she was now a great favorite, and sitting down at Judy's feet, began to ask her of Florida and Sunnybank, her former home.
"Tell me more of the magnolias," she said, "It almost seems to me as if I had seen those beautiful white blossoms and that old house with its wide hall."
"Whar was you raised?" asked Judy, and Edith replied,
"I told you once, in New York, but I have such queer fancies, as if I had lived before I came into this world."
"Jest the way Miss Nina used to go on, muttered the old woman, looking steadily into the fire.
"Nina!" and Edith started quickly. "DID you know Nina, Aunt Judy? Do you know her now? Where is she? Who is she, and that black-eyed baby in the frame? Tell me all about them."
"All about what?" I asked Phillis, suddenly appearing and casting a warning glance at her mother, who replied, "'Bout marster's last wife, the one you say she done favors." Then, in an aside to Edith, she added, "I kin pull de wool over her eyes. Bimeby mabby I'll done tell you how that ar is de likeness of Miss Nina's half sister what is dead, and 'bout Miss Nina, too, the sweetest, most misfortinest human de Lord ever bornd."
"She isn't a great ways from here, is she?" whispered Edith, as Phillis bustled into the pantry, hurrying back ere Judy could more than shake her head significantly.
"Dear Aunt Phillis, won't you please tell Ike to bring up Bedouin," Edith said coaxingly, hoping by this ruse to get rid of the old negress; but Phillis was too cunning, and throwing up the window sash, she called to Ike, delivering the message.
Edith, however, managed slily to whisper, "In Worcester, isn't she?" while Judy as slily nodded affirmatively, ere Phillis' sharp eyes were turned again upon them. Edith's curiosity concerning the mysterious Nina was thoroughly roused, and determining to ferret out the whole affair by dint of quizzing Judith whenever an opportunity should occur, she took her leave.
"Mother," said Phillis, the moment Edith was out of hearing, "havn't you no sense, or what possessed you to talk of Miss Nina to her? Havn't you no family pride, and has you done forgot that Marster Arthur forbade our talkin' of her to strangers?"
Old Judy at first received the rebuke in silence, then bridling up in her own defense, she replied, "Needn't tell me that any good will ever come out o' this kiverin' up an' hidin', and keeping whist. It'll come out bimeby, an' then folks'll wonder what 'twas all did for. Ole marster didn't act so by Miss Nina's mother, an' I believe thar's somethin' behind, some carrying on that we don't know; but it's boun' to come out fust or last. That ar Miss Edith is a nice trim gal. I wish to goodness Marster Arthur'd done set to her. I'd like her for a mistress mighty well. I really b'lieve he has a hankerin' notion after her, too, an' it's nater that he should have. It's better for the young to marry, and the old, too, for that matter. Poor Uncle Abe! Do you s'pose, Phillis, that he goes over o' nights to Aunt Dilsey's cabin sen' we've come away. Dilsey's an onery nigger, anyhow," and with her mind upon Uncle Abel, and her possible rival Dilsey, old Judy forgot Edith Hastings, who, without bidding Arthur good morning, had gallopped home to Collingwood, where she found poor, deluded Richard, waiting and wondering at the non-appearance of Mr. Floyd, who was to buy his western wood lot.