MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.
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,
ARTHUR ST. CLAIRE."
"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," returned
Richard, adding that he himself would go with her some day to
Grassy 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 to
Worcester 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."