University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
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:

“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:

“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 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
Edith, 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,
any way,' 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 if 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 some one 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 she 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 every thing, 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 seem 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 mouth 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 me 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 as 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 he looked 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 one
bound from 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 think 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 a 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 he 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 bend 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 times 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. Were 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 fetch-ed
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 dont 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.”