THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING.
For several weeks longer Edith continued taking lessons of Arthur,
going sometimes with Richard, but oftener alone, and feeling
always that a change had gradually come over her teacher. He was
as kind to her as ever, took quite as much pains with her, and she
was sensible of a greater degree of improvement than had marked
the days when she trembled every time he touched her hands. Still
there was a change. He did not bend over her now as he used to do;
did not lay his arm across the back of her chair, letting it some
times fall by accident upon her shoulders; did not look into her
eyes with a glance which made her blush and turn away; in short,
he did not look at her at all, if he could help it, and in this
very self-denial lay his strength. He was waging a mighty battle
with himself, and inch by inch he was gaining the victory, for
victory it would be when he brought himself to think of Edith
Hastings without a pang--to listen to her voice and look into her
face without a feeling that she must be his. He could not do this
yet, but he kept himself from telling her of his love by assuming
a reserved, studied manner, which led her at last to think he
might be angry, and one day, toward the first of March, when he
had been more than usually silent, she asked him abruptly how she
had offended, her soft eyes filling with tears as she expressed
her sorrow if by any thoughtless act she had caused him pain.
"You could not offend me, Edith," he said; "that would be
impossible, and if I am sometimes could an abstracted, it is
because I have just cause for being so. I am very unhappy, Edith,
and your visits here to me are like oases to the weary traveller.
Were it not for you I should wish to die; and yet, strange as it
may seem, I have prayed to die oftener since I knew you as you now
are than I ever did before, I committed a fatal error once and it
has embittered my whole existence. It was early in life, to,
before I ever say you, Edith."
"Why Mr. St. Claire," she exclaimed, "you were nothing but a boy
when you came to Brier Hill."
"Yes, a boy," he exclaimed, "or I had never done what I did; but
it cannot be helped, and I must abide the consequences. Now let us
talk of something else. I am going away to-morrow, and you need
not come again until I send for you; but whatever occurs, don't
think I am offended."
She could not think so when she met the olden look she ahs missed
so long, and wondering where he could be going, she arose to take
her leave. He went with her to the door, and wrung her hand
nervously, bidding her in heart a final farewell, for when they
met again a great gulf would be between them,--a gulf he had
helped to dig, and which he could not ass. Edith had intended to
ask old Judy where Arthur was going, without, however, having much
hope of success: for, since the conversation concerning Nina, Judy
had been wholly non-committal, plainly showing that she had been
trained for the occasion, but changed her mind, and rode leisurely
away, going round by Brier Hill to call upon Grace whom she had
not seen for some little time. Grace, as usual, was full of
complaints against Arthur for being so misanthropical, so cross-
grained and so queer, shutting himself up like a hermit and
refusing to see any one but herself and Edith.
"What is he going to Worcester for?" she asked, adding that one of
the negroes had told old Rachel, who was there the previous night.
But Edith did not know, unless it was to be married, and laughing
at her own joke, she bade Grace good-bye, having learned by
accident what she so much desired to know.
The next morning she arose quite early, and looking in the
direction of Grassy Spring, which, when the leaves were fallen,
was plainly discernible, she saw Arthur's carriage driving from
his gate. There was no train due at that hour, and she stood
wondering until the carriage, which, for a moment, had been hidden
from her view, appeared a second time in sight, and as it passed
the house she saw Aunt Phillis's dusky face peering from the
window. She did not see Arthur, but she was sure he was inside;
and when the horses were turned into the road, which, before the
day of cars, was the great thoroughfare between Shannondale and
Worcester, she knew he had started for the latter place in his
carriage.
"What can it be for?" she said; "and why has he taken Phillis?"
But puzzle her brain as she might, she could not fathom the
mystery, and she waited for what would next occur.
In the course of the day Victor, who, without being really
meddlesome, managed to keep himself posted with regard to the
affairs at Grassy Spring, told her that Mr. St. Claire, preferring
his carriage to the cars, had gone in it to Worcester, and taken
Phillis with him; that he would be absent some days; and that
Sophy, Phillis's daughter, when questioned as to his business, had
answered evasively,
"Gone to fetch his wife home for what I know."
"Maybe it is so," said Victor, looking Edith steadily in the face,
"Soph didn't mean me to believe it; but there's many a truth
spoken in jest."
Edith knew that, but she would not hearken for a moment to
Victor's suggestion. It made her too unhappy, and for three days
she had a fair opportunity of ascertaining the nature of her
feelings toward Arthur St. Claire, for nothing is more conducive
to the rapid development of love, than a spice of jealousy lest
another has won the heart we so much covet.
The next day, the fourth after Arthur's departure, she asked
Victor to ride with her on horseback, saying the fresh March wind
would do her good. It was nearly sunset when they started, and, as
there was a splendid moon, they continued their excursion to quite
a distance, so that it was seven ere they found themselves at the
foot of the long hill which wound past Collingwood and on to
Grassy Spring. Half way up the hill, moving very slowly, as if the
horses were jaded and tired, was a traveling carriage, which both
Edith and Victor recognized at once as belonging to Arthur St.
Claire.
"Let's overtake them," said Edith, and chirruping to Bedouin, she
was soon so near to the carriage that her quick ear caught the
sound of a low, sweet voice singing a German air, with which she
herself had always been familiar, though when she first learned it
she could not tell.
It was one of those old songs which Rachel had called weird and
wild, and now, as she listened to the plaintive tones, they
thrilled on every nerve with a strange power as if it were a
requiem sung by the dead over their own buried hopes. Nearer and
nearer Bedouin pressed to the slowly moving vehicle, until at last
she was nearly even with it.
"Look, Miss Edith!" and Victor grasped her bridle rein, directing
her attention to the arms folded upon the window and the girlish
head resting upon the arms, in the attitude of a weary child.
One little ringless, blue-veined hand was plainly discernible in
the bright moonlight, and Edith thought how small and white and
delicate it was.
"Let's go on," she whispered, and they dashed past the carriage
just as Arthur leaned forward to see who they were.
"That was a young lady," said Victor coming up with Edith, who was
riding at a headlong speed.
"Yes, I knew it," and Edith again touched Bedouin with her whip as
if the fast riding suited well her tumultuous emotions.
"His bride?" said Victor, interrogatively, and Edith replied,
"Very likely, Victor," and she stopped Bedouin short. "Victor,
don't tell any one of the lady in the carriage until it's known
for certain that there is one at Grassy Spring."
Victor could see no reason for this request, but it was sufficient
for him that Edith had made it, and he promised readily all that
she desired. They were at home by this time, and complaining of a
headache Edith excused herself earlier than usual and stole up to
her chamber where she could he alone to wonder WHO was the visitor
at Grassy Spring. It might be a bride, and it might be NINA.
Starting to her feet as the last mentioned individual came into
her mind, she walked to the window and saw just what she more than
half expected to see--a light shining through the iron lattice of
the DEN--a bright, cheerful light--and as she gazed, there crept
over her a faint, sick feeling, as if she knew of the ruin, the
desolation, the blighted hopes and beautiful wreck embodied in the
mystery at Grassy Spring. Covering her eyes with her hands the
tears trickled through her fingers, falling not so much for Arthur
St. Claire as for the plaintive singing girl shrouded in so dark a
mystery. Drying her eyes she looked again across the meadow, but
the blinds of the Den were closed, and only the moonbeams fell
where the blaze of the lamp had been.
A week went by, and though Grace came twice to Collingwood, while
Victor feigned several errands to Grassy Spring, nothing was known
of the stranger. Grace evidently had no suspicion of her
existence, while Victor declared there was no trace of a white
woman any where about the premises. Mr. St. Claire, he said, sat
in the library, his feet crossed in a chair and his hands on top
of his head as if in a brown study, while Aunt Phillis appeared
far more impatient than usual and had intimated to him plainly
that "in her 'pinion white niggers had better be at home tendin'
to thar own business, of they had any, and not pryin' into thar
neighbor's affairs."
At last Edith was surprised at receiving a note from Arthur,
saying he was ready to resume their lessons at any time. Highly
delighted with the plan Edith answered immediately that she would
come on the morrow, which was Friday. Richard did not offer to go,
owing in a great measure to the skillful management of Victor,
who, though he did not suggest Mr. Floyd and the western wood lot,
found some equally good excuse why his master's presence would,
that day of all others, be necessary at home.
The wild March winds by this time had given place to the warmer,
balmier air of April. The winter snow had melted from the
hillside, and here and there tufts of fresh young grass were seen
starting into life. It was just such a morning, in short, as is
most grateful to the young, and Edith felt its inspiriting
influence as she rode along the rather muddy road. Another there
was, too, who felt it; and as Edith sauntered slowly up the path,
entering this time upon the rear piazza instead of the front, she
heard again the soft, low voice which had sounded so mournful and
sweet when heard in the still moonlight. Looking up she saw that a
window of the Den was open, and through the lattice work a little
hand was thrust, as if beckoning her to come. Stepping bank she
tried to obtain a view of the person, but failed to do so, though
the hand continued beckoning, and from the height there floated
down to her the single word, "MIGGIE." That was all; but it
brought her hand to her head as if she had received a sudden blow.
"Miggie--Miggie," she repeated. "I HAVE heard that name before. It
must have belonged to some one in the Asylum."
A confused murmur as if of expostulation and remonstrance was now
heard--the childish hand disappeared and scarcely knowing what she
was about, Edith stepped into the hall and advanced into the
library, where she sat down to wait for Arthur. It was not long
ere he appeared, locking the door as he came in and thus cutting
off all communication between that room and the stairway leading
to the Den. Matters were, in Edith's estimation, assuming a
serious aspect, and remembering how pleadingly the name "Miggie"
had been uttered, she half-resolved to demand of Arthur the
immediate release of the helpless creature thus held in durance
vile. But he looked so unhappy, so hopelessly wretched that her
sympathy was soon enlisted for him rather than his fair captive.
Still she would try him a little and when they were fairly at work
she said to him jestingly,
"I heard it hinted that you would bring home a wife, but I do not
see her. Where is she, pray?"
Arthur uttered no sound save a stifled moan, and when Edith dared
to steal a look at him she saw that his brown hair was moist with
perspiration, which stood also in drops about his lips.
"Mr. St. Claire," she said, throwing down her pencil and leaning
back in her chair, "I can endure this no longer. What IS the
matter? Tell me. You have some great mental sorrow, I know, and I
long to share it with you--may I? Who have you up stairs and why
this mystery concerning her?"
She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked imploringly into the
face, which turned away from her, as if afraid to meet her
truthful glance. Once he thought to tell her all, but when he
remembered how beautiful she was, how much he loved her, and how
dear her society was to him, he refrained, for he vainly fancied
that a confession would drive her from him forever. He did not
know Edith Hastings; he had not yet fathomed the depths of her
womanly nature, and he could not guess how tenderly, even while
her own heart was breaking, she would have soothed his grief and
been like an angel of mercy to the innocent cause of all his woe.
"I dare not tell you," he said. "You would hate me if I did, and
that I could not endure. It may not be pleasant for you to come
here any more, and perhaps you had better not."
For a moment Edith sat motionless. She had not expected this from
Arthur, and it roused within her a feeling of resentment.
"And so you only sent for me to give me my dismissal," she said,
in a cold, icy tone. "Be it as you like. I draw tolerably well,
you say. I have no doubt I can get along alone. Send your bill at
once to Mr. Harrington. He does not like to be in debt."
She spoke proudly, haughtily, and her eyes, usually so soft in
their expression, had in them a black look of anger, which pierced
Arthur's very soul. He could not part with her THUS, and grasping
the hand reached out to take its gauntlet, he held it fast, while
he said, "What are we doing, Edith? Quarrelling? It must not be. I
suggested your giving up the lessons because I thought the
arrangement might be satisfactory to you, and not because _I_
wished it, for I do not; I cannot give up the only source of
happiness left to me. Forget what I said. Remain my pupil and I'll
try to be more cheerful in your presence. You shall NOT help to
bear my burden as you bear that of Collingwood's unfortunate
inmates."
Edith never liked to hear her relations to Richard referred to in
this manner, and she answered quickly,
"You are mistaken, Mr. St. Claire, in thinking I bear any burden
either here or elsewhere. No one ever had a happier home than I,
and there's nothing on earth I would not do for Richard."
"Would you marry him, Edith?" and Arthur scanned her closely.
"Would you be his wife if he demanded it as his right? and I think
he will do this sometime."
Edith trembled from head to foot, as she answered,
"Not if he demanded it as a right, though he might well do that,
for I owe him everything. But if he loved me, and I loved him."
She paused, and in the silence which ensued the tumultuous beating
of her heart was plainly audible. No one before had suggested to
her the possibility of her being Richard's wife, and the idea was
terrible to her. She loved him, but not as a wife should love her
husband. He loved her, too; and now, as she remembered many things
in the past, she was half convinced that she to him was dearer
than a sister, child, or friend. He had forgotten the Swedish
baby's mother. She knew he had by his always checking her when she
attempted to speak of Eloise. Out of the ashes of this early love
a later love had sprung, and SHE was possibly its object. The
thought was a crushing one, and unmindful of Arthur's presence she
laid her head upon the table and sobbed,
"It cannot be. Richard will never ask me to be his wife. Never, oh
never."
"But if he does, Edith, you will not tell him NO. Promise me that.
It's my only hope of salvation from total ruin!" and Arthur drew
so near to her that his arm found its way around her slender
waist.
Had he struck her with a glittering dagger he could not have hurt
her more than by pleading with her to be another's wife. But she
would not let him know it. He did not love her as she had
sometimes foolishly fancied he did; and lifting up her head she
answered him proudly,
"Yes, Arthur St. Claire, when Richard Harrington asks me to be his
bride I will not tell him no. Are you satisfied?"
"I am," he said, though his white lips gave the lie to the words
he uttered, and his heart smote him cruelly for his selfishness in
wishing to save himself by sacrificing Edith; and it would be a
sacrifice, he knew--a fearful sacrifice, the giving her to a blind
man, old enough to be her sire, noble, generous and good, though
he were.
It was a little singular that Arthur's arm should still linger
about the waist of one who had promised to be another's wife,
provided she were asked, but so it was; it staid there, while he
persuaded her to come again to Grassy Spring, and not to give up
the lessons so pleasant to them both.
He was bending very near to her when a sound upon the stairs
caught his ear. It was the same German air Edith had heard in the
yard, and she listened breathlessly while it came nearer to the
door. Suddenly the singer seemed to change her mind, for the music
began slowly to recede and was soon lost to hearing within the
four walls of the Den. Not a word was spoken by either Arthur or
Edith, until the latter said,
"It is time I was at home," and she arose to go.
He offered no remonstrance, but accompanying her to the gate,
placed her in the saddle, and then stood watching her as she
galloped away.