Part 4 (2/2)
”Pretty lady,” she whispered, ”sweet lady, whose name I most know, speak, and tell Mr. Arthur that I didn't do it. I surely didn't.”
This constant appeal to Arthur, and total disregard of herself, did not increase Mrs. Atherton's amiability, and taking Edith by the shoulder she attempted to lead her from the room.
At the door Edith stopped, and said imploringly to Arthur,
”DO you think I stole it?”
He shook his head, a movement un.o.bserved by Grace, but fraught with so much happiness for the little girl. She did not heed Grace's reproaches now, nor care if she was banished to her own room for the remainder of the day. Arthur believed her innocent; Uncle Tom believed her innocent, and Rachel believed her innocent, which last fact was proved by the generous piece of custard pie hoisted to her window in a small tin pail, said pail being poised upon the p.r.o.ngs of a long pitch-fork. The act of thoughtful kindness touched a tender chord in Edith's heart, and the pie choked her badly, but she managed to eat it all save the crust, which she tossed into the gra.s.s, laughing to see how near it came to hitting Mrs. Atherton, who looked around to discover whence it could possibly have come.
That night, just before dark, Grace entered Edith's room, and told her that as Mr. St. Claire, who left them on the morrow, had business in New York, and was going directly there, she had decided to send her with him to the Asylum. ”He will take a letter from me,” she continued, ”telling them why you are sent back, and I greatly fear it will be long ere you find as good a home as this has been to you.”
Edith sat like one stunned by a heavy blow. She had not really believed that a calamity she so much dreaded, would overtake her, and the fact that it had, paralyzed her faculties. Thinking her in a fit of stubbornness Mrs. Atherton said no more, but busied herself in packing her scanty wardrobe, feeling occasionally a twinge of remorse as she bent over the little red, foreign-looking chest, or glanced at the slight figure sitting so motionless by the window.
”Whose is this?” she asked, holding up a box containing a long, thick braid of hair.
”Mother's hair! mothers hair! for Marie told me so. You shan't touch THAT!” and like a tigress Edith sprang upon her, and catching the blue-black tress, kissed it pa.s.sionately, exclaiming, ”'Tis mother's--'tis. I remember now, and I could not think before, but Marie told me so the last time I saw her, years and years ago. Oh, mother, if I ever had a mother, where are you to- night, when I want you so much?”
She threw herself upon her humble bed, not thinking of Grace, nor yet of the Asylum, but revelling in her newborn joy. Suddenly, like a flash of lightning, an incident of the past had come back to her bewildered mind, and she knew now whose was the beautiful braid she had treasured so carefully. Long ago--oh, how long it seemed to her--there had come to the Asylum a short, dumpy woman, with a merry face, who brought her this hair in a box, telling her it was her mother's, and also that she was going to a far country, but should return again sometime--and this woman was Marie, who haunted her dreams so often, whispering to her of magnolias and cape-jessamines. All this Edith remembered distinctly, and while thinking of it she fell asleep, nor woke to consciousness even when Rachel's kind old hands undressed her carefully and tucked her up in bed, saying over her a prayer, and asking that Miss Grace's heart might relent and keep the little girl. It had not relented when morning came, and still, when at breakfast, Arthur received a letter, which made it necessary for him to go to New York by way of Albany, she did suggest that it might be too much trouble to have the care of Edith.
”Not at all,” he said; and half an hour later Edith was called into the parlor, and told to get herself in readiness for the journey.
”Oh, I can't, I can't,” cried Edith, clinging to Mrs. Atherton's skirt, and begging of her not to send her back.
”Where will you go?” asked Grace. ”I don't want you here.”
”I don't know,” sobbed Edith, uttering the next instant a scream of joy, as she saw, in the distance, the carriage from Collingwood, and knew that Richard was in it. ”To him! to him!”
she exclaimed, throwing up her arms. ”Let me go to Mr. Harrington!
He wants me, I know.”
”Are you faint?” asked Grace, as she saw the sudden paling of Arthur's lips.
”Slightly,” he answered, taking her offered salts, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the carriage until it pa.s.sed slowly by, ”I'm better now,” he said, returning the salts, and asking why Edith could not go to Collingwood.
Grace would rather she should go anywhere else, but she did not say so to Arthur. She merely replied that Edith was conceited enough to think Mr. Harrington pleased with her just because he had sometimes talked to her when she carried him flowers.
”But of course he don't care for her,” she said. ”What could a blind man do with a child like her? Besides, after what has occurred, I could not conscientiously give her a good name.”
Arthur involuntarily gave an incredulous whistle, which spoke volumes of comfort to the little girl weeping so pa.s.sionately by the window, and watching with longing eyes the Collingwood carriage now pa.s.sing from her view.
”We must go or be left,” said Arthur, approaching her gently, and whispering to her not to cry.
”Good bye, Edith,” said Mrs. Atherton, putting out her jewelled band; but Edith would not touch it, and in a tone of voice which sank deep into the proud woman's heart, she answered:
”You'll be sorry for this some time.”
Old Rachel was in great distress, for Edith was her pet; and winding her black arms about her neck, she wept over her a simple, heartfelt blessing, and then, as the carriage drove from the gate, ran back to her neglected churning, venting her feelings upon the dasher, which she set down so vigorously that the rich cream flew in every direction, bespattering the wall, the window, the floor, the stove, and settling in large white flakes upon her tawny skin and tall blue turban.
Pa.s.sing through the kitchen, Grace saw it all, but offered no remonstrance, for she knew what had prompted movements so energetic on the part of odd old Rachel. She, too, was troubled, and all that, day she was conscious of a feeling of remorse which kept whispering to her of a great wrong done the little girl whose farewell words were ringing in her ear: ”You'll be sorry for this some time.”
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