University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
LESSONS.

Arthur St. Claire had returned from Worcester, but it
was several days ere he presented himself at Collingwood;
and Edith was beginning to think he had forgotten
her and the promised drawing lessons, when he one
evening was ushered by Victor into the parlor, where she
was singing to Richard his favorite songs. He was paler
than when she saw him before, and she fancied that he

seemed weary and worn, as if sleep and himself had been
for a long time strangers.

“Did you leave your friend better?” she asked.

“Yes, better,” he answered hurriedly, changing the
conversation to topics evidently more agreeable.

One could not be very unhappy in Edith's presence.
She possessed so much life, vivacity and vigor, that her
companions were sure to become more or less imbued with
her cheerful spirit; and as the evening advanced, Arthur
became much like the Arthur of Brier Hill memory, and
even laughed aloud on several occasions.

“I wish I was sure of finding at Grassy Spring somebody
just like you,” he said to Edith when at last he
arose to go. “You have driven away a whole army of
blues. I almost believe I'd be willing to be blind, if, by
that means, I could be cared for as Mr. Harrington is.”

“And crazy, too?” slily interrupted Edith, who was
standing near him as he leaned against the marble mantel.

“No, no — oh, heavens, no! anything but that,” and
the hand he placed in Edith's shook nervously, but soon
grew still between her soft, warm palms.

There was something life-giving in Edith's touch, as
well as soul-giving in her presence, and standing there
with his cold, nervous hand in hers, the young man felt
himself grow strong again, and full of courage to hope
for a happier future than the past had been. He knew
she could not share the future with him — but he would
have as much of her as possible, and just as she was wondering
if he would remember the lessons, he spoke of them
and asked when she could come.

“Just when Mr. Harrington thinks best,” she replied,
and thus appealed to, Richard, guided by Edith's voice,
came forward and joined them.

“Any time,” he said. “To morrow, if you like,” adding
that he believed he, too, was to be always present.

Edith's eyes sought those of Arthur, reading there a

reflection of her own secret thoughts, to wit, that three
would be one too many, but they could not tell him so and
Arthur responded at once, “Certainly, I shall expect you
both, say to-morrow at ten o'clock; I am most at leisure
then.”

The next morning, at the appointed time, Richard and
Edith appeared at Grassy Spring, where they found
Arthur waiting for them, his portfolio upon the table, and
his pencils lying near, ready to be used.

“I am afraid you'll find it tiresome, Mr. Harrington,”
he said, as he assigned his visitor a chair, and then went
back to Edith.

“I shall do very well,” answered Richard, and so he
did for that lesson, and the next, and the next, but at last, in
spite of his assertion to the contrary, he found it dull business
going to Grassy Spring twice each week, and sitting
alone with nothing to occupy his mind, except, indeed, to
wonder how near Arthur was to Edith, and if he bent over
her as he remembered seeing drawing teachers do at
school.

Richard was getting very tired of it — very weary of
listening to Arthur's directions, and to Edith's merry laughs
at her awkward blunders, and he was not sorry when one
lesson-day, the fifth since they began, Grace Atherton's
voice was heard in the hall without, asking for admission.
He had long since forgiven Grace for jilting him, and
they were the best of friends; so when she suggested
their going into the adjoining room, where it was pleasanter
and she could play to him if he liked, he readily
assented, and while listening to her lively conversation
and fine playing, he forgot the lapse of time, and was
surprised when Edith came to him with the news that it
was 12 o'clock.

“Pray, don't go yet,” said Arthur, who was loth to
part with his pupil. “You surely do not dine till three,
and I have already ordered lunch. Here it comes,” and

he pointed to the door where Phllis stood, bearing a huge
silver slaver, on which were wine and cake and fruit of
various kinds.

“Grapes,” screamed Edith, as she saw the rich purple
clusters, which had been put up for winter use by poor,
discarded Mrs. Johnson. “I really cannot go till I have
some of them,” and as there was no alternative Richard
sat down to wait the little lady's pleasure.

He did not care for lunch, but joined in the conversation,
which turned upon matrimony.

“It must be a very delightful state,” said Edith, “provided
one were well matched and loved her husband, as
I am sure I should do.”

“Supposing you didn't love him,” asked Grace, “but
had married him from force of circumstances, what then?”

“I'd kill him and the circumstances too,” answered
Edith. “Wouldn't you, Mr. St. Claire?”

“I can hardly tell,” he replied, “not having matrimony
in my mind. I shall never marry.”

“Never marry!” and the pang at Edith's heart was
discernible in her soft, black eyes, turned so quickly toward
this candidate for celibacy.

“How long since you came to that decision?” asked
Grace; and in tones which indicated truth, Arthur replied,

“Several years at least, and I have never for a moment
changed my mind.”

“Because the right one has not come, perhaps, put in
Richard, growing very much interested in the conversation.

“The right one will never come,” and Arthur spoke
earnestly. “The girl does not live who can ever be to me
a wife, were she graceful as a fawn and beautiful as —”
he glanced at Edith as if he would call her name, but
added instead — “as a Hebe, it could make no difference.
That matter is fixed, and is as changeless as the laws of
the Medes and Persians.”

“I am sorry for you, young man,” said Richard, whose
face, notwithstanding this assertion, indicated anything
but sorrow.

He could now trust Edith alone at Grassy Spring — he
need not always be bored with coming there, and he was
glad Arthur had so freely expressed his sentiments, as it
relieved him of a great burden; so, at parting, when Arthur
said to him as usual, “I'll see you again on Friday,”
he replied,

“I don't know, I'm getting so worried with these abominably
tedious lessons, that for once I'll let her come
alone.”

Alas, poor, deluded Richard! He did not know that to
attain this very object, Arthur had said what he did. It
is true, he meant every word he uttered. Matrimony and
Edith Hastings must not be thought of together. That
were worse than madness, and his better judgment warned
him not to see too much of her — told him it was better
far to have that sightless man beside them when they
met together in a relation so intimate as the teacher bears
to his pupil. But Arthur would not listen; Edith was
the first who for years had really touched a human chord
in his palsied heart, and the vibration would not cease
without a fiercer struggle than he cared to make. It
could do no harm, he said. He had been so unhappy —
was so unhappy now. Edith would, of course, be Richard's
wife; he had foreseen that from the very first — had
predicted it long ago, but ere the sacrifice was made, he
was surely pardonable if, for a little while, he gave himself
to the bewildering intoxication of basking in the sunshine
of her eyes, of bending so near to her that he could
feel her fragrant breath, and the warm glow of her cheek,
of holding those little hands a moment in his own after
he had ceased to teach the fingers how to guide the pencil.

All this passed in rapid review before his mind while

his lips uttered the words which had so delighted Richard,
and when he saw the shadow on Edith's face, his
poor, aching heart throbbed with a joy as wild and intense
as it was hopeless and insane. This was Arthur
St. Claire with Edith present, but with Edith gone, he
was quite another man. Eagerly he watched her till she
disappeared from view, then returning to the library he
sat down where she had sat — laid his head upon the
table where her hands had lain, and cursed himself
for daring to dream of love in connection with Edith Hastings.
It would be happiness for a time, he knew, to
hang upon her smile, to watch the lights and shadows of
her speaking face, to look into her eyes — those clear,
truthful eyes which had in them no guile. All this would
be perfect bliss, were it not that the end must come at
last — the terrible end — remorse bitterer than death for
him, and for her — the pure, unsullied, trusting Edith —
ruin, desolation, and madness, it might be.

“Yes, madness!” he exclaimed aloud, “hateful as the
word may sound.” And he gnashed his teeth as it dropped
from between them. “No, Edith, no. Heaven helping
me, I will not subject you to this temptation. I will not
drag you down with me, and yet, save Griswold, there
lives not the person who knows my secret. May be he
could be bought. Oh, the maddening thought. Am I a
demon or a brute?” And he leaped from his chair, cursing
himself again and again for having fallen so low as to
dream of an act fraught with so much wrong to Edith,
and so much treachery to one as fair, as beautiful as she,
and far, far more to be pitied.

Arthur St. Claire was, at heart, a noble, upright, honorable
man, and sure, at last, to choose the right, however
rugged were the road. For years he had groped in a
darkness deeper, more hopeless than that which enshrouded
the blind man, and in all that time there had shone
upon his pathway not a single ray of daylight. The past,

at which he dared not look, lay behind him a dreary
waste, and the black future stretched out before him,
years on years it might be, in which there would be always
the same old cankering wound festering in his soul.
He could not forget this plague spot. He never had forgotten
it for a single moment until he met with Edith
Hastings, who possessed for him a powerful mesmeric
charm, causing him in her presence to forget everything
but her. This fascination was sudden but not less powerful
for that. Arthur's was an impulsive nature, and it
seemed to him that he had known Edith all his life, that
she was a part of his very being. But he must forget
her now, she must not come there any more, he could not
resist her if she did; and seizing his pen he dashed off a
few lines to the effect that, for certain reasons, the drawing
lessons must henceforth be discontinued.

Arthur thought himself very strong to do so much, but
when he arose to ring for the servant who was to take
this note to Collingwood, his courage all forsook him.
Why need he cast her off entirely? Why throw away
the only chance for happiness there was left to him?
'Twas Arthur's weaker manhood which spoke, and he listened,
for Edith Hastings was in the scale, a mighty,
overwhelming weight. She might come just once more,
he said, and his heart swelled within his throat as he
thought of being alone with her, no jealous Richard hovering
near, like a dark, brooding cloud, his blind eyes
shielding her from harm even more than they could have
done had they been imbued with sight. The next time
she came, the restraint would be removed. She would
be alone, and the hot blood poured swiftly through his
veins as he thought how for one brief moment he would
be happy. He would wind his arm around that girlish
waist, where no other manly arm save that of Richard
had ever been; he would hug her to his bosom, where no
other head than hers could ever lie; he would imprint

one burning kiss upon her lips; would tell her how dear
she was to him; and then — his brain reeled and grew
dizzy as he thought that then he must bid her leave him
forever, for an interview like that must not be repeated.
But for once, just once, he would taste of the forbidden
fruit, and so the good angel of Arthur St. Claire wept
over the wayward man and then flew sadly away, leaving
him to revel in anticipations of what the next Friday
would bring him.