University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
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 the 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 her
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
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 Collingwood, 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, he
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 his 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 protegé. 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 as 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 as the clock strikes
six, their panting steeds pause at the entrance to Collingwood.