FRIDAY.
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.