University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
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 to 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?” 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 keepin' 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 arter 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, any how,” 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.