Darkness and Daylight

M >> Mary J. Holmes >> Darkness and Daylight

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DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

A Novel

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF "LENA RIVERS," "MARIAN GREY," "MEADOW BROOK,"
"HOMESTEAD," "DORA DEANE," "COUSIN MAUDE," "TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,"
"ENGLISH ORPHANS," ETC.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
I. COLLINGWOOD
II. EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD
III. GRACE ATHERTON
IV. RICHARD AND EDITH
V. VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND VISITORS AT BRIER HILL
VI. ARTHUR AND EDITH
VII. RICHARD AND ARTHUR
VIII. RICHARD AND EDITH
IX. WOMANHOOD
X. EDITH AT HOME
XI. MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING
XII. LESSONS
XIII. FRIDAY
XIV. THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING
XV. NINA
XVI. ARTHUR'S STORY
XVII. NINA AND MIGGIE
XVIII. DR. GRISWOLD
XIX. EX OFFICIO
XX. THE DECISION
XXI. THE DEERING WOODS
XXII. THE DARKNESS DEEPENS
XXIII. PARTING
XXIV. THE NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY
XXV. DESTINY
XXVI. EDITH AND THE WORLD
XXVII. THE LAND OF FLOWERS
XXVIII. SUNNYBANK
XXIX. THE SISTERS
XXX. ARTHUR AND NINA
XXXI. LAST DAYS
XXXII. PARTING WITH THE DEAD AND PARTING WITH THE LIVING
XXXIII. HOME
XXXIV. NINA'S LETTER
XXXV. THE FIERY TEST
XXXVI. THE SACRIFICE
XXXVII. THE BRIDAL
XXXVIII. SIX YEARS LATER

DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

COLLINGWOOD.

Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve long years
its massive walls of dark grey stone had frowned in gloomy silence
upon the passers-by, the terror of the superstitious ones, who had
peopled its halls with ghosts and goblins, saying even that the
snowy-haired old man, its owner, had more than once been seen
there, moving restlessly from room to room and muttering of the
darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair young wife and
her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man was not dead, but for
years he had been a stranger to his former home.

In foreign lands he had wandered--up and down, up and down--from
the snow-clad hills of Russia to where the blue skies of Italy
bent softly over him and the sunny plains of France smiled on him
a welcome. But the darkness he bewailed was there as elsewhere,
and to his son he said, at last, "We will go to America, but not
to Collingwood--not where Lucy used to live, and where the boy was
born."

So they came back again and made for themselves a home on the
shore of the silvery lake so famed in song, where they hoped to
rest from their weary journeyings. But it was not so decreed.
Slowly as poison works within the blood, a fearful blight was
stealing upon the noble, uncomplaining Richard, who had sacrificed
his early manhood to his father's fancies, and when at last the
blow had fallen and crushed him in its might, he became as
helpless as a little child, looking to others for the aid he had
heretofore been accustomed to render. Then it was that the weak
old man emerged for a time from beneath the cloud which had
enveloped him so long, and winding his arms around his stricken
boy, said, submissively, "What will poor Dick have me do?"

"Go to Collingwood, where I know every walk and winding path, and
where the world will not seem so dreary, for I shall be at home."

The father had not expected this, and his palsied hands shook
nervously; but the terrible misfortune of his son had touched a
chord of pity, and brought to his darkened mind a vague
remembrance of the years in which the unselfish Richard had
thought only of his comfort, and so he answered sadly, "We will go
to Collingwood."

One week more, and it was known in Shannondale, that crazy Captain
Harrington and his son, the handsome Squire Richard, were coming
again to the old homestead, which was first to be fitted up in a
most princely style. All through the summer months the extensive
improvements and repairs went on, awakening the liveliest interest
in the villagers, who busied themselves with watching and
reporting the progress of events at Collingwood. Fires were
kindled on the marble hearths, and the flames went roaring up the
broad-mouthed chimneys, frightening from their nests of many years
the croaking swallows, and scaring away the bats, which had so
long held holiday in the deserted rooms. Partitions were removed,
folding doors were made, windows were cut down, and large panes of
glass were substituted for those of more ancient date. The grounds
and garden too were reclaimed from the waste of briers and weeds
which had so wantonly rioted there; and the waters of the fish-
pond, relieved of their dark green slime and decaying leaves,
gleamed once more in the summer sunshine like a sheet of burnished
silver, while a fairy boat lay moored upon its bosom as in the
olden time. Softly the hillside brooklet fell, like a miniature
cascade, into the little pond, and the low music it made blended
harmoniously with the fall of the fountain not far away.

It was indeed a beautiful place; and when the furnishing process
began, crowds of eager people daily thronged the spacious rooms,
commenting upon the carpets, the curtains, the chandeliers, the
furniture of rosewood and marble, and marvelling much why Richard
Harrington should care for surroundings so costly and elegant.
Could it be that he intended surprising them with a bride? It was
possible--nay, more, it was highly probable that weary of his
foolish sire's continual mutterings of "Lucy and the darkness," he
bad found some fair young girl to share the care with him, and
this was her gilded cage.

Shannondale was like all country towns, and the idea once
suggested, the story rapidly gained ground, until at last it
reached the ear of Grace Atherton, the pretty young widow, whose
windows looked directly across the stretches of meadow and
woodland to where Collingwood lifted its single tower and its
walls of dark grey stone. As became the owner of Brier Hill and
the widow of a judge, Grace held herself somewhat above the rest
of the villagers, associating with but few, and finding her
society mostly in the city not many miles away,

When her cross, gouty, phthisicy, fidgety old husband lay sick for
three whole months, she nursed him so patiently that people
wondered if it could be she loved the SURLY DOG, and one woman,
bolder than the others, asked her if she did.

"Love him? No," she answered, "but I shall do my duty."

So when he died she made him a grand funeral, but did not pretend
that she was sorry. She was not, and the night on which she
crossed the threshold of Brier Hill a widow of twenty-one saw her
a happier woman than when she first crossed it as a bride. Such
was Grace Atherton, a proud, independent, but well principled
woman, attending strictly to her own affairs, and expecting others
to do the same. In the gossip concerning Collingwood, she had
taken no verbal part, but there was no one more deeply interested
than herself, spite of her studied indifference.

"You never knew the family," a lady caller said to her one
morning, when at a rather late hour she sat languidly sipping her
rich chocolate, and daintily picking at the snowy rolls and nicely
buttered toast, "you never knew them or you would cease to wonder
why the village people take so much interest in their movements,
and are so glad to have them back."

"I have heard their story," returned Mrs. Atherton, "and I have no
doubt the son is a very fine specimen of an old bachelor; thirty-
five, isn't he, or thereabouts?"

"Thirty-five!" and Kitty Maynard raised her hands in dismay. "My
dear Mrs. Atherton, he's hardly thirty yet, and those who have
seen him since his return from Europe, pronounce him a splendid
looking man, with an air of remarkably high breeding. I wonder if
there IS any truth in the report that he is to bring with him a
bride."

"A bride, Kitty!" and the massive silver fork dropped from Grace
Atherton's hand.

SHE was interested now, and nervously pulling the gathers of her
white morning gown, she listened while the loquacious Kitty told
her what she knew of the imaginary wife of Richard Harrington. The
hands ceased their working at the gathers, and assuming an air of
indifference, Grace rang her silver bell, which was immediately
answered by a singular looking girl, whom she addressed as Edith,
bidding her bring some orange marmalade from an adjoining closet.
Her orders were obeyed, and then the child lingered by the door,
listening eagerly to the conversation which Grace had resumed
concerning Collingwood and its future mistress.

Edith Hastings was a strange child, with a strange habit of
expressing her thoughts aloud, and as she heard the beauties of
Collingwood described in Kitty Maynard's most glowing terms, she
suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, JOLLY don't I wish I could live there,
only I'd be afraid of that boy who haunts the upper rooms."

"Edith!" said Mrs. Atherton, sternly, "why are you waiting here?
Go at once to Rachel and bid her give you something to do."

Thus rebuked the black-eyed, black-haired, black-faced little girl
waited away, not cringingly, for Edith Hastings possessed a spirit
as proud as that of her high born mistress, and she went slowly to
the kitchen, where, under Rachel's directions, she was soon in the
mysteries of dish-washing, while the ladies in the parlor
continued their conversation.

"I don't know what I shall do with that child," said Grace, as
Edith's footsteps died away. I sometimes wish I had left her where
I found her."

"Why, I thought her a very bright little creature," said Kitty,
and her companion replied,

"She's too bright, and that's the trouble. She imitates me in
everything, walks like me, talks like me, and yesterday I found
her in the drawing-room going through with a pantomime of
receiving calls the way I do. I wish you could have seen her
stately bow when presented to an imaginary stranger."

"Did she do credit to you?" Kitty asked, and Grace replied,

"I can't say that she did not, but I don't like this disposition
of hers--to put on the airs of people above her. Now if she were
not a poor--"

"Look, look!" interrupted Kitty, "that must be the five hundred
dollar piano sent up from Boston," and she directed her
companion's attention to the long wagon which was passing the
house on the way to Collingwood.

This brought the conversation back from the aspiring Edith to
Richard Harrington, and as old Rachel soon came in to remove her
mistress' breakfast, Kitty took her leave, saying as she bade her
friend good morning,

"I trust it will not be long before you know him."

"Know him!" repeated Grace, when at last she was alone. "Just as
if I had not known him to my sorrow. Oh, Richard, Richard! maybe
you'd forgive me if you knew what I have suffered," and the proud,
beautiful eyes filled with tears as Grace Atherton plucked the
broad green leaves from the grape vine over her head, and tearing
them in pieces scattered the fragments upon the floor of the
piazza. "Was there to be a bride at Collingwood?" This was the
question which racked her brain, keeping her in a constant state
of feverish excitement until the very morning came when the family
were expected.

Mrs. Matson, the former housekeeper, had resumed her old position,
and though she came often to Brier Hill to consult the taste of
Mrs. Atherton as to the arrangement of curtains and furniture,
Grace was too haughtily polite to question her, and every car
whistle found her at the window watching for the carriage and a
sight of its inmates. One after another the western trains
arrived, and the soft September twilight deepened into darker
night, showing to the expectant Grace the numerous lights shining
from the windows of Collingwood. Edith Hastings, too, imbued with
something of her mistress' spirit, was on the alert, and when the
last train in which they could possibly come, thundered through
the town, her quick ear was the first to catch the sound of wheels
grinding slowly up the hill.

"They are coming, Mrs. Atherton!" she cried; and nimble as a
squirrel she climbed the great gate post, where with her elf locks
floating about her sparkling face, she sat, while the carriage
passed slowly by, then saying to herself, "Pshaw, it wasn't worth
the trouble--I never saw a thing," she slid down from her high
position, and stealing in the back way so as to avoid the scolding
Mrs. Atherton was sure to give her, she crept up to her own
chamber, where she stood long by the open window, watching the
lights at Collingwood, and wondering if it WOULD make a person
perfectly happy to be its mistress and the bride of Richard
Harrington.

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 happy, 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.

"I'll 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 and a
bouquet of flowers to the bride. She'll deliver them better than
any one else, if I can once make her understand what I wish her to
do."

Accordingly, the next morning, as Edith sat upon the steps of the
kitchen door, talking to herself, Grace appeared before her with a
tastefully arranged bouquet, 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 her
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 blunderin'," 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 gazing 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.

Quickly withdrawing her hand and gathering up her bouquet, she
turned about and saw approaching her one of Collingwood's ghosts.
She knew him in a moment, for she had heard him described too
often to mistake that white-haired, bent old man for other than
Capt. Harrington. He did not chide her as she supposed he would,
neither did he seem in the 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 back, and her wild gipsy locks fell in
rich profusion about her face. "I don't know any boy by that name,
I'm nobody but Edith Hastings, Mrs. Atherton's waiting maid, and
she don't let me play with boys. Only Tim Doolittle and I went
huckleberrying once, but 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."

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

Curtseying 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 his feet down so carefully," she
thought, as she came nearer to him. "Maybe there are pegs in his
shoes, 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, hearing 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?" was Edith's mental comment as the
keen black eyes appeared to scan her closely.

Alas, he was not thinking of her at all, and soon resuming his
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 he did not
hear her until he reached 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 man's buff;
and she bent 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, poor blind 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 cast 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 she 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. Atherton 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? 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, 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 had 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 heard
them say that he had saved its life, and then he turned aside to
change his dripping garments and warm his icy limbs. 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 fail--slowly,
very slowly, it is true--and for years he could not believe that
Heaven had in store for him so sad a fate. But it had come at
last--daylight had faded out and the night was dark around him.
Once, in his hour of bitterest agony, he had cursed that Swedish
baby, wishing it had perished in the waters of the Rhine, ere he
saved it at so fearful a sacrifice. But he had repented of the
wicked thought; he was glad he saved the pretty Petrea's child,
even though be should never see her face again. He knew not where
she was, that girlish wife, 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 voice 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 Harrington was a dear lover of children 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, he placed the flowers therein, and thought
how carefully he would preserve them for the sake of his 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
well that she was beginning 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.

CHAPTER III.

GRACE ATHERTON.

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

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