University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
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 sometimes 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 cold and 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, too, before I ever saw 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 had 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 pass. Edith had intended

to ask old Judy where Arthur was going, without, however,
having much hope of success: for, since the conversasation
concerning Nina, Judy had been wholly noncommittal,
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 fotch 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 be 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, ef
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 back
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.