WOMANHOOD.
Eight times have the Christmas fires been kindled on the hearths
of Shannondale's happy homes; eight times the bell from St Luke's
tower has proclaimed an old year dead, and a new one born; eight
times the meek-eyed daisy struggling through the April snow, has
blossomed, faded and died; eight times has summer in all her
glowing beauty sat upon the New England hills, and the mellow
autumnal light of the hazy October days falls on Collingwood for
the eighth time since last we trod the winding paths and gravelled
walks where now the yellow leaves are drifting down from the tall
old maples and lofty elms, and where myriad flowers of gorgeous
hue are lifting their proud heads unmindful of the November frosts
hastening on apace. All around Collingwood seems the same, save
that the shrubs and vines show a more luxurious growth, and the
pond a wider sweep, but within there is an empty chair, a vacant
place, for the old man has gone to join his lost ones where there
is daylight forever, and the winter snows have four times fallen
upon his grave. They missed him at first and mourned for him
truly, but they have become accustomed to live without him, and
the household life goes on much as it did before.
It is now the afternoon of a mild October day, and the doors and
windows are opened wide to admit the warm south wind, which,
dallying for a moment with the curtains of costly lace, floats on
to the chamber above, where it toys with the waving plumes a young
girl is arranging upon her riding hat, pausing occasionally to
speak to the fair blonde who sits watching her movements, and
whose face betokens a greater maturity than her own, for Grace
Atherton's family Bible says she is thirty-two, while Edith is
seventeen.
Beautiful Edith Hastings. Eight years of delicate nurture, tender
care and perfect health have ripened her into a maiden of wondrous
beauty, and far and near the people talk of the blind man's ward,
the pride and glory of Collingwood. Neither pains nor money, nor
yet severe discipline, have been spared by Richard Harrington to
make her what she is, and while her imperious temper has bent to
the one, her intellect and manners have expanded and improved
beneath this influence of the other, and Richard has not only a
plaything and pet in the little girl he took from obscurity, but
also a companion and equal, capable of entering with him the mazy
labyrinths of science, and astonishing him with the wealth of her
richly stored mind. Still, in everything pertaining to her
womanhood she is wholly feminine and simple-hearted as a child.
Now, as of old, she bounds through the spacious grounds of
Collingwood, trips over the grassy lawn, dances up the stairs, and
fills the once gloomy old place with a world of melody and
sunlight. Edith knows that she is beautiful! old Rachel has told
her so a thousand times, while Victor, the admiring valet, tells
her so every day, taking to himself no little credit for having
taught her, as he thinks, something of Parisian manners. Many are
the conversations she holds with him in his mother tongue, for she
has learned to speak that language with a fluency and readiness
which astonished her teachers and sometimes astonished herself. It
did not seem difficult to her, but rather like an old friend, and
Marie at first was written on every page of Ollendorff. But Marie
has faded now almost entirely from her mind, as have those other
mysterious memories which used to haunt her so. Nothing but the
hair hidden in the chest binds her to the past, and at this she
often looks, wondering where the head it once adorned is lying,
whether in the noisy city or on some grassy hillside where the
wild flowers she loves best are growing, and the birds whose songs
she tries to imitate, pause sometimes to warble a requiem for the
dead. Those tresses are beautiful, but not so beautiful as
Edith's. Her blue-black hair is thicker, glossier, more abundant
than in her childhood, and is worn in heavy braids or bands around
her head, adding greatly to her regal style of beauty. Edith has a
pardonable pride in her satin hair, and as she stands before the
mirror she steals an occasional glance at her crowning glory,
which is this afternoon arranged with far more care than usual;
not for any particular reason, but because she had a fancy that it
should be so.
They were going to visit Grassy Spring, a handsome country seat,
whose grounds lay contiguous to those of Collingwood, and whose
walls were in winter plainly discernible from the windows of the
upper rooms. It had recently been purchased and fitted up somewhat
after the style of Collingwood, and its owner was expected to take
possession in a few days. Edith's heart always beat faster when
she heard his name, for Arthur St. Claire was one of the links of
the past which still lingered in the remembrance. She had never
seen him since they parted in Albany, and after his leaving
college she lost sight of him entirely. Latterly, however, she had
heard from Grace, who knew but little more of him than herself,
that he was coming into their very neighborhood; that at he had
purchased Grassy Spring, and was to keep a kind of bachelor's hall
inasmuch as he had no wife, nor yet a prospect of any. So much
Edith knew and no more. She did not dare to speak of NINA, for
remembering her solemn promise, she had never breathed that name
to any living being. But the picture in the glass, as she ever
termed it, was not forgotten, and the deep interest she felt in
Grassy Spring was owing, in a great measure, to the fact that Nina
was in her mind intimately associated with the place. Sooner or
later she should meet her there, she was sure; should see those
golden curls again, and look into those soft blue eyes, whose
peculiar expression she remembered as if it were but yesterday
since they first met her view.
"It is strange your cousin never married; he must, by this time,
be nearly twenty-seven," she said to Grace, thinking the while of
Nina, and carelessly adjusting the jaunty hat upon her head.
"I think so too," returned Grace. "When quite young he was very
fond of the ladies, but I am told that he now utterly ignores
female society. Indeed, in his last letter to me, he states
distinctly that he wishes for no company except occasional calls
in a friendly way."
"Been disappointed, probably," suggested Edith, still thinking of
Nina, and wondering if Arthur did love her so very much as to put
faith in no one because of her treachery.
"It may be," said Grace; "and if so, isn't it a little queer that
he and Mr. Harrington should live so near each other; both so
eccentric; both so handsome and rich; both been disappointed; and
both so desirable as husbands?"
"Disappointed, Mrs. Atherton! Has Mr. Harrington been
disappointed?" and the rich bloom on Edith's cheek deepened to a
scarlet hue, which Grace did not fail to notice.
Her friendship for Edith Hastings had been a plant of sluggish
growth, for she could not, at once, bring herself to treat as an
equal one whom she formerly held as a servant, but time and
circumstances had softened her haughty pride, while Edith's
growing popularity, both in the village and at Collingwood,
awakened in her a deep interest for the young girl, who, meeting
her advances more than half the way, compelled her at last to
surrender, and the two were now as warm friends as individuals
well can be when there is between them so great a disparity of
years and so vast a difference in disposition. In Grace's heart
the olden love for Richard had not died out, and hitherto, it had
been some consolation to believe that no other ear would ever
listen to the words of love, to remember which continually would
assuredly drive her mad. But matters now were changed. Day by day,
week by week, month by month, and year by year, a rose had been
unfolding itself at Collingswood, and with every opening petal had
grown more and more precious to the blind man, until more than one
crone foretold the end; and Grace Atherton, grown fonder of gossip
than she was wont to be, listened to the tale, and watched, and
wondered, and wept, and still caressed and loved the bright,
beautiful girl, whom she dreaded as a powerful rival. This it was
which prompted her to speak of Richard's disappointment; and when
she saw the effect produced upon Edith, it emboldened her to go
on, and tell how, years and years ago, when Richard Harrington
first went to Europe, be had sued for the hand of a young girl
whom he met there, and who, while loving him dearly, shrank from
walking in his shadow, and gave herself to another.
"I must not tell you the name of this faithless girl," said Grace.
"It is sufficient that her refusal made Richard gloomy, eccentric
and misanthropical; in short, it nearly ruined him."
"My curse be on the woman's head who wrought this ruin, then,"
said Edith, her black eyes flashing with something of their former
fire.
She had forgotten the scene in the kitchen of Brier Hill when
Rachel whispered to her that Grace Atherton was in love, and she
had now no suspicion that the calm, white-faced woman sitting
there before her was the being she would curse. Neither was her
emotion caused, as Grace imagined, by any dread lest the early
love of Richard Harrington should stand between herself and him.
The thought that SHE could be his wife had never crossed her
brain, and her feelings were those of indignation toward a person
who could thus cruelly deceive a man as noble and good as Richard,
and of pity for him who had been so deceived.
"I will love him all the more and be the kinder to him for this
vile creature's desertion," she thought, as she beat the floor
nervously with the little prunella gaiter, and this was all the
good Grace Atherton had achieved.
Edith had cursed her to her face, and with a sigh audible only to
herself she arose and said laughingly, "It's time we were off, and
you've certainly admired that figure in the glass long enough.
What do you think of yourself, any way?"
"Why," returned Edith, in the same light, bantering tone, "I think
I'm rather jolie, as I used to say. I wonder where I picked up
that word. Victor says I must have had a French nurse, but I'm
sure I was too poor for that. I wish I knew where I did come from
and who I am. It's terrible, this uncertainty as to one's birth. I
may be marrying my brother one of these days, who knows?"
"See rather that you do not marry your father," retorted Grace,
following Edith as she tripped down the stairs and down the walk,
whipping the tufts of box as she went, and answering to Grace who
asked if she did not sometimes find her duties irksome at
Collingwood. "Never, never. The links of my chains are all made of
love and so they do not chafe. Then, too, when I remember what
Richard has done for me and how few sources of happiness he has, I
am willing to give my whole life to him, if need be. Why, Mrs.
Atherton, you can't imagine how his dark features light up with
joy, when on his return from riding or from transacting business
he hears me in the hall, and knows that I am there to meet him,"
and Edith's bright face sparkled and glowed as she thought how
often the blind man had blessed her with his sightless but
speaking eyes, when she gave up some darling project which would
take her from his side and stayed to cheer his solitude.
They had mounted their horses by this time, and at the speed which
characterized Edith's riding, dashed down the road and struck into
the woods, the shortest route to Grassy Spring. With the exception
of Collingwood, Grassy Spring was the handsomest country seat for
miles around, and thinking, as she continually did, of Nina, Edith
rather gave it the preference as she passed slowly through the
grounds and drew near to the building. Grace had seen the
housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson, a talkative old lady, who, big with the
importance of her office, showed them over the house, pointing out
this elegant piece of furniture and that handsome room with quite
as much satisfaction as if it had all belonged to herself.
In the third story, and only accessible by two flights of stairs
leading from Arthur's suite of rooms, was a large square
apartment, the door of which Mrs. Johnson unlocked with a
mysterious shake of the head, saying to the ladies, "The Lord only
knows what this place is for. Mr. St. Claire must have fixed it
himself for I found it locked tighter than a drum, but I
accidentally found on the but'ry shelf a rusty old key, that fits
it to a T. I've been in here once and bein' you're his kin,"
nodding to Grace, "and t'other one is with you, it can't do an
atom of harm for you to go. He's took more pains with this chamber
than with all the rest, and when I asked what 'twas for, he said
it was his "den," where he could hide if he wanted to."
"Don't go," whispered Edith, pulling at Grace's dress, "Mr. St.
Claire might not like it."
But Grace felt no such scruples, and was already across the
threshold, leaving Edith by the door.
"It's as bad to look in as to go in," thought Edith, and
conquering her curiosity with a mighty effort, she walked
resolutely down stairs, having seen nothing save that the carpet
was of the richest velvet and that the windows had across them
slender iron bars, rather ornamental than otherwise, and so
arranged as to exclude neither light nor air.
Grace, on the contrary, examined the apartment thoroughly,
thinking Mrs. Johnson right when she said that more pains had been
taken with this room than with all the others. The furniture was
of the most expensive and elegant kind. Handsome rosewood easy-
chairs and sofas covered with rich satin damask, the color and
pattern corresponding with the carpet and curtains. Ottomans,
divans and footstools were scattered about--pictures and mirrors
adorned the walls, while in one corner, covered with a misty veil
of lace, hung the portrait of a female in the full, rich bloom of
womanhood, her light chestnut curls falling about her uncovered
neck, and her dreamy eyes of blue having in them an expression
much like that which Edith had once observed in Nina's peculiar
eyes. The dress was quite old-fashioned, indicating that the
picture must have been taken long ago, and while Grace gazed upon
it her wonder grew as to whose it was and whence it came.
"Look at the bed," said Mrs. Johnson, and touching Grace's elbow,
she directed her attention to a side recess, hidden from view by
drapery of exquisite lace, and containing a single bed, which
might have been intended for an angel, so pure and white it looked
with its snowy covering.
"What does it mean?" asked Grace, growing more and more
bewildered, while Mrs. Johnson replied in her favorite mode of
speech.
"The Lord only knows--looks as if he was going to make it a prison
for some princess; but here's the queerest thing of all," and she
thumped upon a massive door, which was locked and barred, and
beyond which her prying eyes had never looked.
Over the door was a ventilator, and Grace, quite as curious as
Mrs. Johnson, suggested that a chair or table be brought, upon
which she, being taller than her companion, might stand and
possibly obtain a view.
"What DO you see?" asked Mrs. Johnson, as Grace, on tip-toe,
peered into what seemed to be a solitary cell, void of furniture
of every kind, save a little cot, corresponding in size with the
fairy bed in the recess, but in naught else resembling it, for its
coverings were of the coarsest, strongest materials, and the
pillows scanty and small.
Acting from a sudden impulse, Grace determined not to tell Mrs.
Johnson what she saw, and stepping down from the table, which she
quickly rolled back to its place, she said,
"It's nothing but a closet, where, I dare say, Mr. St. Claire will
keep his clothes when he occupies his den. You must not let any
one else in here, for Arthur might be offended."
Mrs. Johnson promised obedience, and turning the rusty key,
followed her visitor down the two long flights of stairs, she,
returning to her duties, while Grace went to the pleasant library,
where, with her hat and whip upon the floor, Edith sat reading the
book she had ventured to take from the well-filled shelves, and in
which she had been so absorbed as not to hear the slight rustling
in the adjoining room, where a young man was standing in the
enclosure of the deep bay window, and gazing intently at her. He
had heard from Mrs. Johnson's daughter that some ladies were going
over the house, and not caring to meet them, he stepped into the
recess of the window just as Edith entered the library. As the eye
of the stranger fell upon her, he came near uttering an
exclamation of surprise that anything so graceful, so queenly, and
withal so wondrously beautiful, should be found in Shannondale,
which, with the city ideas still clinging to him, seemed like an
out-of-the-way place, where the girls were buxom, good-natured and
hearty, just as he remembered Kitty Maynard to have been, and not
at all like this creature of rare loveliness sitting there before
him, her head inclined gracefully to the volume she was reading,
and showing to good advantage her magnificent hair.
"Who can she be?" he thought, and a thrill of unwonted admiration
ran through his veins as Edith raised for a moment her large eyes
of midnight blackness, and from his hiding-place he saw how soft
and mild they were in their expression, "Can Grace have spirited
to her retreat some fair nymph for company? Hark! I hear her
voice, and now for the solution of the mystery."
Standing back a little further, so as to escape observation, the
young man waited till Grace Atherton came near.
"Here you are," she said, "poring over a book as usual. I should
suppose you'd had enough of that to do in reading to Mr.
Harrington--German Philosophy, too! Will wonders never cease?
Arthur was right, I declare, when he dubbed you Metaphysics!"
"Edith Hastings!" The young man said it beneath his breath, while
he involuntarily made a motion forward.
"Can it be possible, and yet now that I know it, I see the little
black-eyed elf in every feature. Well may the blind man be proud
of his protege. She might grace the saloons of Versailles, and
rival the Empress herself!"
Thus far he had soliloquised, when something Grace was saying
caught his ear and chained his attention at once.
"Oh, Edith," she began, "you don't know what you lost by being
over squeamish. Such a perfect jewel-box of a room, with the
tiniest single bed of solid mahogany! Isn't it queer that Arthur
should have locked it up, and isn't it fortunate for us that Mrs.
Johnson found that rusty old key which must have originally
belonged to the door of the Den, as she says he calls it?"
Anxiously the young man awaited Edith's answer, his face aglow
with indignation and his eyes flashing with anger.
"Fortunate for YOU, perhaps," returned Edith, tying on her riding-
hat, "but I wouldn't have gone in for anything."
"Why not?" asked Grace, walking into the hall.
"Because," said Edith, "Mr. St. Claire evidently did not wish any
one to go in, and I think Mrs. Johnson was wrong in opening the
door."
"What a little Puritan it is!" returned Grace, playfully caressing
the rosy cheeks of Edith, who had now joined her in the hall.
"Arthur never will know, for I certainly shall not tell either him
or any one, and I gave Mrs. Johnson some very wholesome advice
upon that subject. There she is now in the back-yard. If you like,
we'll go round and give her a double charge."
The young man saw them as they turned the corner of the building,
and gliding from his post, he hurried up the stairs and entering
the Den, locked the door, and throwing himself upon the sofa,
groaned aloud, while the drops of perspiration oozed out upon his
forehead, and stood thickly about his lips. Then his mood changed,
and pacing the floor he uttered invectives against the meddlesome
Mrs. Johnson, who, by this one act, had proved that she could not
be trusted. Consequently SHE must not remain longer at Grassy
Spring, and while in the yard below Mrs. Johnson was promising
Grace "to be as still as the dead," Arthur St. Claire was planning
her dismissal. This done, and his future course decided upon, the
indignant young man felt better, and began again to think of Edith
Hastings, whom he admired for her honorable conduct in refusing to
enter a place where she had reason to think she was not wanted.
"Noble, high-principled girl," he said. "I'm glad I told Mr.
Harrington what I did before seeing her. Otherwise he might have
suspected that her beauty had something to do with my offer, and
so be jealous lest I had designs upon his singing-bird, as he
called her. But alas, neither beauty, nor grace, nor purity can
now avail with me, miserable wretch that I am," and again that
piteous moan, as of a soul punished before its time, was heard in
the silent room.
But hark, what sound is that, which, stealing through the iron-
latticed windows, drowns the echo of that moan, and makes the
young man listen? It is Edith Hastings singing one of her wild
songs, and the full rich melody of her wonderful voice falls upon
his ear, Arthur St. Claire bows his head upon his hands and weeps,
for the music carries him back to the long ago when he had no
terrible secret haunting every hour, but was as light-hearted as
the maiden whom, as she gallops away on her swift-footed Arabian,
he looks after, with wistful eyes, watching her until the sweep of
her long riding-skirt and the waving of her graceful plumes
disappear beneath the shadow of the dim woods, where night is
beginning to fall. Slowly, sadly, he turns from the window--
merrily, swiftly, the riders dash along, and just us the clock
strikes six, their panting steeds pause at the entrance to
Collingwood.