Darkness & Daylight: A Novel

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Chapter II. Edith Hastings Goes To Collingwood

The question Edith had asked herself, standing by her chamber window, was answered by Grace Atherton sitting near her own. " Yes, the bride of Richard Harrington must be perfectly b:ippy, if bride indeed there were." She was beginning to feel some doubt upon this point, for strain her eyes as she might, she had not been able to detect the least signs of femininity in the passing carriage, and hope whispered that the brightest dream she had ever dreamed might yet be realized.

" Til let him know to-morrow, that I'm here," she said, as she shook out her wavy auburn hair, and thought, with a glow of pride, how beautiful it was. "I'll send Edith with my compliments iind a bouquet of flowers to the bride. She'll deliver them better than any one else, if I oan once make her understand what I wish her to do."

Accordingly, the next morning, as Edith sat upon the Bteps of the kitchen door, talking to herself, Grace appeared before her with a tastefully animged bouquet,

14 DARKNESS AND DAYI.IGUT.

which she bade her take with her compliments to Mrs, Richard Harrington, if there was such a body, and to Mr. Richard Harrington if there were not.

" Do you understand ? " she asked, and Edith far more interested in her visit to Collingwood than in what she was to do when she reached there, replied,

"Of course I do; I'm to give your compliments;" and she jammed tier hand into the pocket of her gingham apron, as if to make sure the compliments were there. " I'm to give them to Mr, Richard, if there is one, and the flowers to Mrs. Richard, if there ain't ! "

Grace groaned aloud, while old Rachel, the colored cook, who on all occasions was Edith's champion, removed her hands from the dough she was kneading and coming towards them, chimed in, " She ain't fairly got it through her har, Miss Grace. She's such a substracted way with her that you mostly has to tell her twicet," and in her own peculiar style Rachel succeeded in making the " substracted " child comprehend the nature of her errand. " Now don't go to hlunderin'," was Rachel's parting injunction, as Edith left the yard and turned in the direction of Collingwood.

It was a mellow September morning, and after leaving the main road and entering the gate of Collingwood, the young girl lingered by the way, admiring the beauty of the grounds, and gating with feelings of admiration upon the massive building, surrounded by majestic maples, and basking so quietly in the warm sunlight. At the marble fountain she paused for a long, long time, talking to the golden fishes which darted so swiftly past each other, and wishing she could take them in her hand "just to see them squirm"

"I mean to catch one any way," she said, and glancing nervously at the windows to make sure no Mrs. Richard was watching her, she bared her round, plump arm, and thrust it into the water, just as a footstep sounded near.

EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD. 15

Quickly withdrawing her hand and gathering up Jier bouquet, she turned about and saw approaching her one of Collingwood's gliosis. She knew him in a moment, for she had heard him described too often to mistake that while-haired, bent old man for other than Capt. Harrington. He did not chide her as she supposed he would, neither did he seem in thb least surprised to see her there. On the contrary, his withered, wrinkled face brightened with a look of eager expectancy, as he said to her, " Little girl, can you tell me where Charlie is?"

"Charlie?" she repeated, retreating a step or two as he approached nearer and seemed about to lay his hand upon her hair, for her bonnet was hanging down her hack, and her wild gipsy locks fell in rich profusion about her face. " I don't know any boy by that name. I'm nobody hut Edith Hastings, Mrs. Atherton's waiting maid, and she don't let me play with boys. Only Tim Doolittle and I went huckleherrying once, hut I hate him, he has such great warts on his hands," and having thus given her opinion of Tim Doolittle, Edith snatched up her bonnet and placed it upon her head, for the old man was evidently determined to touch her crow-black hair.

Her answer, however, changed the current of his thoughts, and while a look of intense pain flitted across his face, he whispered mournfully, " The same old story they all tell. I might have known it, but this one looked so fresh, so truthful, that I thought maybe .she'd seen him. Mrs. Atherton's waiting maid," and he turned toward Edith — "Charlie's dead, and we all walk in darkness now, Richard and all."

Tiiis allusion to Ilk-hard reminded Edith of her errand, and thinking to herself, "I'll ask the crazy old thing if there's a lady here," she ran after him as he walked slowly away and catching him by the arm, said, "Tell me, please, is there any Mrs. Richard Harrington? "

" Not that I know of. They've kept it from me if thero

16 DAKKNEHS AND DAYLIGHT.

is, but there's Richard, he can tell you," and he pointed toward a man in a distant part of the grounds.

Curtesyi.ng to her companion, Edith ran off in the direction of the figure moving so slowly down the gravelled walk.

" I wonder what makes him set hia feet down so carefully," she thought, as she came nearer to him. " Maybe there are pegs in his shoos, just as there were in mine last winter," and the barefoot little girl glanced at her naked toes, feeling glad they were for the present out of torture.

By this time she was within a few rods of the strange acting man, who, bearing her rapid steps, stopped, and turning round with a wistful, questioning look, said,

"Who's there.? Who is it?"

The tone of his voice was rather sharp, and Edith paused suddenly, while he made an uncertain movement toward her, still keeping his ear turned in the attitude of intense listening.

" I wonder what he thinks of me r " was Edith's mental comment as the keen black eyes appeared to scan her closely.

Alas, ho was not thinking of her at all, and soon resuming liis walk, he whispered to himself, " They must have gone some other way."

Slowly, cautiously he moved on, never dreaming of the little sprite behind him, who, imitating his gait and manner, put down her chubby bare feet just when his went down, looking occasionally over her shoulder to see if her clothes swung from side to side just like Mrs. Atherton's, and treading so softly that be did not hear her until be readied the summer-house, when the cracking of a twig betrayed the presence of some one, and again that sad, troubled voice demanded, "Who is here?" while the arms were stretched out as if to grasp the intruder, whoever it might be.

Edith was growing excited. It reminded her of blind

EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLIXGWOOD. 17

man's buff, and she beat her head to elude the hand which came so near entangling itself in her hair. Again a profound silence ensued, and thinking it might have been a fancy of his brain that some one was there with him, poorbliml Richard Harrington sat down within the arbor, where the pleasant September sunshine, stealing through the thick vine leaves, fell in dancing circles upon his broad white brow, above which his jet black hair lay in rings. He was a tall, dark, handsome man, with a singular east of countenance, and Edith felt that she had never seen anything so grand, so noble, and yet so helpless as the man sitting there before her. She knew now that he was blind, and siie was almost glad that it was so, for had it been otherwise she would never have dared to scan him as she was doing now. She would not for the world have met the flash of those keen black eyes, had they not been sightless, and she quailed even now, when they were bent upon her, although she knew their glance was meaningless. It seemed to her so terrible to be blind, and she wondered why he should care to have his house and grounds so handsome when he could not see them. Still she was pleased that they were so, for there was a singular fitness, she thought, "between this splendid man and his surroundings.

" I wish he had a little girl like me to lead him and be good to him," was her next mental comment, and the wild idea crossed her brain that possibly Mrs. Athevton would let her come up to Collingwood and be his waiting maid. This brought to mind a second time the object of her being there now, and she began to devise the best plan for delivering the bouquet. " I don't believe he cares for the compliments," she said to herself, " any way, I'll keep them till another time," but the flowers ; how should she give those to him 1 She was beginning to be very much afraid of the figure sitting there so silently, and at last mustering all her courage, she gave a preliminary cough, is

' DAVI.IoriT.

which started him to his feet, and as his tall form towered above her she felt her fears come back, and scarcely knowing what she was doing she thrust the bouquet into his hand, saying as she did so, "Poor blind man, I am so sorry and I've brought you some nice flowers."

The next moment she was gone, and Richard heard the patter of her feet far up the gravelled walk ere he bad recovered from his surprise. Who was she, and why had she remembered him? The voice was very, very sweet, thrilling him with a strange melody, which carried him back to a summer sunset years ago, when on the banks of the blue Rhine he had listened to a beautiful, dark-eyed Swede singing her infant daughter to sleep. Then the river itself appeared before him, cold and grey with the November frosts, and on its agitated surface he saw a little dimpled hand disappearing from view, while the shriek of the dark-eyed Swede told that her child was gone. A plunge — a fearful struggle — and he held the limp, white object in his arms ; he bore it to the shore ; he hoard them say that ho had saved its life, and then lie turned aside to change his dripping garments and warm his icy limns. This was the first picture brought to his mind by Edith Hastings' voice. The second was a sadder one, and he groaned aloud as he remembered how from the time of the terrible cold taken then, and the severe illness which followed, his eyesight had begun to failslowly, very slowly, it is true — and for years he could not beheve that Heaven had in store for him so sad a fate. But it had como at last - daylight had faded out and the night was dark around him. Onco, in his hour of bitterest agony, he had cursed that Swedish baby wishing it had perished in the waters of tbo Rhine ero he saved it at so fearful a sacrifice. But he had repented of the wicked thought ; he was glad he saved the pretty jVetrea's child, oven though he should never see her face again. He knew not where she was, that girlish wife,

> sOT-LrtrawooD.

speaking her broken English for the sake of her American husband, who was not always as kind to her as he should have been. He had heard no tidings of her since that fatal autumn. He had scarcely thought of her for months, but she came back to him now, and it was Edith's voico which brought her.

"Poor blind man," he whispered aloud. "How like that was to Petrea, when she said of my father, ' Poor, soft, old man;' and then he wondered again who his visitor had been, and why she had left him so abruptly.

It was a child, he knew, and he prized her gift the more for that, for Richard Han-ingsou was a dear lover of chil dren, and he kissed the fair bouquet as he would not have kissed it had he known from whom it came. Rising at last from his seat, he groped his way back to the house, and ordering one of the costly vases in his room to be filled with water, be placed the flowers therein, and thought how carefully he would preserve them for the sake of bis unknown friend.

Meantime Edith kept on her way, pausing once and looking back just in .time to see Mr. Harrington kiss the flowers she had brought.

" I'm glad they please him," she said ; " but how awful it is to be blind ; " and by way of trying the experiment, she shut her eyes, and stretching out her arms, walked just as Richard, succeeding so welkthat she was begining to consider it rather agreeable than otherwise, when she unfortunately ran into a tall rose-bush, scratching her forehead, tangling her hair, and stubbing her toes against its gnarled roots. "'Taint so jolly to be blind after all," she said " I do believe I've broken my toe," and extricating herself as best she could from the sharp thorns, she ran on as fast as her feet could carry her, wondering what Mrs. Atherton would say when she heard Richard was blind, and feeling a kind of natural delight in knowing she should be the first to communicate the bad news,

DAI1KXESS AND D,

Chapter III. Gkacb Athekton

"Edith," said Mrs. Atherton, who had seen her coming, anil hastened out to meet her, "you were gone a long time, I think."

" Yes'm ," answered Edith, spitting out the bonnet strings she h ad Liccti chewing, and tossing hack the thick black locks which nearly concealed hoi- eyes from view. " Yes'm ; it took me a good while to talk to old Dark-

" Talk to whom?" asked Grace ; and Edith returned,

"I don't know what you call him if 'taint old Darkness; he kept muttering about the dark, and asked where Charlie was."

"Ole Cap'n Herrin'ton," said Rachel. "They say how't he's alius goin' on 'bout Charlie an' the dark."

This explanation was satisfactory to Grace, who proceeded next to question Edith concerning Mrs. Richard Harrington, asking if she saw her, etc.

"There ain't any such," returned Edith, "but I saw Mr. Richard. Jolly, isn't he grand? He's as tall as the ridge-pole, and "

"But what did he say to the flowers?" interrupted Grace, far more intent upon knowing how her gift had been received, than hearing described the personal appearance of one she had seen so often.

Edith felt intuitively that a narrative of the particulars attending the delivery of the bouquet would insure her a scolding, so she merely answered, " He didn't say a word, only kissed them hard, but he can't sec them, Mrs. Atherton. He can't see me, nor you, nor anybody. He's blind as a bat — "

"Blind! Richard blind! Oh, Edith;" and the bright

GRACE AT HE ETON, 21

color which had stained Grace's cheeks when she knew that Richard had kissed her flowers, faded out, leaving them of a pallid hue. Sinking into the nearest chair, she kept repeating " Blind — blind — poor, poor Richard. It cannot be. Bring me some water, Rachel, and help me to my room. This intensely hot morning makes me faint."

Rachel could not be thus easily deceived. She remembered an old house in England, looking out upon the sea, and the flirtation carried on all summer there between her mistress, then a beautiful young girl of seventeen, and the tall, handsome man, whom they called Richard Harrington. She remembered, too, the white-haired, gouty man, who, later in the autumn, came to that old house, and whose half million Grace had married, saying, by way of apology, that if Richard chose to waste his life in humoring the whims of his foolish father, she surely would not waste hers with him. She would see the world !

Alas, poor Grace. She had seen the world and paid dearly for the sight, for, go where she might, she saw always one face, one form ; heard always one voice murmuring in her ear, "Could you endure to share my burden?"

No, she could not, she said, and so she had token upon herself a burden ten-fold heavier to bear — a burden which crushed her spirits, robbed her cheek of its youthful bloom, and after which she sent no regret when at last it disappeared, leaving her free to think again of Richard Harrington. It was a terrible blow to her that he was blind, and talk as she might about the faintness of the morning, old Rachel knew the real cause of her distress, and when alone with her, said, by way of comfort,

" Law, now, Miss Grace, ' taint worth a while to take on so. Like ' nough he'll be cured —mebby it's nothin' but them fetch-ed water-falls — cat-a-rats, that's it — and ho can have 'em cut out. I wouldn't go to actio' like I was love-sick for a man I 'scarded oncet ."

Grace was far too proud to suffer even her faithful Rachel thus to address her, and turning her flashing eyes upon the old woman, she said haughtily,

" How dare you talk to me in this way — don't you know I won't allow it? Besides, what reason have you for asserting what you have?"

" What reason has I ? Plenty reason — dis chile ain't a fooi if she is a nigger, raised in Georgy, and a born slave till she was turned of thirty. Your poor marra who done sot me free, would never spoke to me that way. What reason has I ? I'se got good tnem'ry — I 'members them letters I used to tote forrid and back, over thar in England ; and how you used to watch by the winder till you seen him comin,' and then, gal-like, ran off to make him think you wasn't partie'lar 'bout seein' him. But, it passes me, what made you have ole money bags. 1 never could see inter that, when I knowd how you hiited his shiny bald head, and slunk away if he offered to tacbe you with his old, soft, nappy hands. You are glad he's in Heaven, you know you be ; and though I never said nothin', I knowd you was glad that Squire Herrin'- ton was come back to Collingwood, just as I knowd what made you choke like a chicken with the pip when Edith tolo you he was blind. Can't cheat dis chile," and adjusting her white turban with an air of injured dignity, Rachel left her mis tress, and returned to the kitchen.

"What ails Mrs. Atherton?" asked Edith, fancying it must be something serious which could keep the old negress so long from her bread,

On ordinary occasions the tolerably discreet African would have made some evasive reply, but with her feathers all ruffled, she belched out, "The upshot of the matter is, she's in love?"

" In love ? Who does Mrs. Atherton love ? "

" Him — the blind man," returned Rachel, adding fiercely, "but if you ever let her know I told you, I'll skin

GKACE ATHEETON. 23

yon alive — do you hear? Like enough she'll be for sondin' you up thar with move posies, an' if she docs, do you hold your tongue and take 'em along."

Edith had no desire to betray Rachel's confidence, and slipping one shoulder out of her low dress she darted off after a butterfly, wondering to herself if it made everybody faint and sick at their stomach to be in love ! It seemed very natural that one as rich and beautiful as Grace should love Kiebard Harrington, and the faet that she did, insensibly raised hi her estimation the poor, white-faced woman, who, in the solitude of her chamber was weeping bitterer tears than she had sheil before in years.

Could it be so ? She hoped there was some mistake — and when an hour later she heard Kitty Maynard's cheerful voice in the lower hall her heart gave a bound as she thought, " Shell know — she's heard of it by this time."

" Please may I come in ? " said Kitty, at her door. "Rachel told me you bad a headache, hut I know you won't mind me," and ere the words were half out of her mouth, Kitty's bonnet was off and she was perched upon the foot of the bed. Have you heard the news?" she began. " It's so wonderful, and so sad, too. Squire Harrington is not married; he's worse off than that — he'a hopelessly blind."

"Indeed!" and Grace Atherton's manner was very indifferent.

"Yes," Kitty continued. "His French valet, Victor, who travelled with him in Europe, told brother "Will all about it. Seven or eight years ago they were spending the summer upon the banks of the Rhine, and in a cottage near them was an American with a Swedish wife and baby. The man, it seems, was a dissipated fellow, much older than his wife, whom he Tieglceted shamefully, leaving her alone for weeks at a time. The baby's name was Eloise, and she was a great pet with Richard ^fto was fond of children. At last, one day in autumn, the little

Eloise, who had just learned to nin done, wandered off by herself to a bluff, or rock, or something, from which she fell into the river. The mother, Petrea, was close by, and her terrific shrieks brought Richard to the spot in time to save the ohild. He had not been well for several days, and the frightful cold he took induced a fever, which seemed to settle in his eyes, for ever since his sight has been failing until now it has left him entirely. But hark ! isn't some one in the next room ? " and she stepped into the adjoining apartment, just as the nimble Edith disappeared from view.

She had been sent np by Rachel with a message to Mrs. Atherton, and was just in time to hear the commencement of Kitty's story. Any thing relating to the blind tnan was interesting to her, and so she listened, her large black eyes growicg larger and blacker as the tale proceeded. It did not seem wholly new to her, that story of the drowning child — that cottage on the Rhine, and for a moment she heard a strain of low, rich music sung as a lullaby to some restless, wakeful child. Then the music, the cottage and the blue Rhine faded away. She could not recall them, but bound as by a spell she listened still, until the word Petrea dropped from Kitty's lips. Then she started suddenly. Surely, she'd heard that name before. Whose was it? When was it? Where was it? She could not tell, and she repeated it in a whisper so loud that it attracted Kitty's attention.

" I shall catch it if she finds me listening," thought Edith, as she heard Kitty's remark, and in her haste to escape she forgot, all about Petrea — all about the lullaby, and remembered nothing stive the noble deed of the heroic Richard. "What a noble man he must be," she said, " to save that baby's life, and how she would pity him if she knew it made him blind. I wonder where she is. She mst be most as big as I am now;" and if it were possible Edith's eyes grew brighter than their wont as

GEACE ATtlERTON. 25

she thought how had she been that Swedish child, she would go straight up to Collingwood and be the blind man's slave. She would read to him. She would see for him, and when he walked, she would load him so carefully, removing all the ugly pegs from his boots, and watching to see that he did not stub his toes, as she was always doing in her headlong haste. "What a great good man he is," she kept repeating, while at the same time she felt an undefinable interest in the Swedish child, whom at that very moment, Grace Atherton was cursing in her heart as the cause of Richard's misfortune.

Kitty was gone at last, and glad to be alone she wept passionately over this desolation of her hopes, wishing often that the baby had perished in the river ere it had wrought a work so sad. How she hated that Swedish mother and her child — how she hated all children then, even the black haired Edith, out in the autumn sunshine, singing to herself a long-forgotten strain, which had come back to her that morning, laden with perfume from the vine-clad hills of Ringen, and with music from the Rhine. Softly the full, rich melody came stealing through the open window, and Grace Atherton as she listened to the mournful cadence felt her heart growing less hard and bitter toward fate, toward the world, and toward the innocent Swedish babe. Then as she remembered that Richard kissed the flowers, a flush mounted to her brow. He did love her yet ; through all the dreary years of their separation he had cluug to her, and would it not atone for her former selfishness, if now that the world was dark to him, she should give herself to the task of cheering the deep darkness? It would be happiness, she thought, to be pointed out as the devoted wife of the blind man, far greater happiness to hash in the sunlight of the blind man's love, for Grace Atherton did love him, and in the might of her love she resolved upon doing that from which she would have shrunk had iie not been ;is helpless i cy Google and afflicted as he was. Edith should he the medium between them. Edith should take him flowers every day, until he signified a wish for her to come herself, when she would go, and sitting by his side, would tell him, perhaps, how sad her life had been since that choice of hers made on the shore of the deep sea. Then, if he asked her again to share his lonely lot, she would gladly lay her head upon his bosom, and whisper back the word she should have said to hiru seven years ago.

It was a pleasant, picture of the future which Grace Atherton drew as she lay watching the white clouds come and go over the distant tree tops of Collingwood, and listening to the song of Edith, still playing in the sun- Bhine, and when at dinner time she failed to appear at the ringing of the bell, and Edith was sent in quest of her, she found her sleeping quietly, dreaming of the Swedish babe and Richard Harrington.

Chapter IV. Eichard And Edith

On Richard's darkened pathway, there was now a glimmer of daylight, shed by Edith Hastings' visit, and with a vague hope that she might come again, he on the morrow groped his way to the summer house, and taking the seat where he sat the previous day, he waited and listened for the footstep on the grass which should tell him she was near. Nor did he wait long ere Edith came tripping down the walk, bringing the bouquet which Grace had prepared with so much care.

"Hist!" dropped involuntarily from her lips, when she descried him, sitting just where she had, without knowing why, expected she should find him, and her footfall

RICHARD AXD EDITH. 27

became bo light that none save the blind could have detected it.

To liiebard there was something half amusing, half ridiculous, in the conduct of the capricious child, and for the sake of knowing what she would do, he professed to be ignorant of her presence, and leaning back against the lattice, pretended to be asleep, while Edith came so near that he could hear her low breathing as she stood still to watch him. Nothing could please her more than his present attitude, for with his large bright eyes shut she dared to look at him as much and as long as she chose. He was to her now a kind of divinity, which she worshipped for the sake of the Swedish baby rescued from a watery grave, and she longed to wind her arms around his neck and tell him how she loved him for that act; but she dared not, and she contented herself with whispering softly, "If I wasn't so spunky and ngly, I'd pray every night that God would make you see again. Poor blind man."

It would be impossible to describe the deep pathos of Edith's voice as she uttered the last three words. Love, admiration, compassion and pity, all were blended in the tone, and it is not strange that it touched an answering chord in the heart of the "poor blind man." Slowly the broad chest heaved, and tears, the iirst he had shed since the fearful morning when they led him into the sunlight he felt but could not see, moistened his 'ashes, and dropped upon his face,