POP ULA.R NOV ELS
By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.
All published uniform with this volume, at $1.50, and sent
free by mail on receipt of price.
I.-DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
II.-'LENA RIVERS.
IIT. —TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
IV.-MARIAN GREY.
V.-MEADOW  BROOK.
VI.-ENGLISH ORPHANS.
VII. —DORA DEANE,
VIII.-COUSIN MAUDE.
IX.-EIOMESTEAD  ON THE HILLSIDE.
MIrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer,
Her books are always entertaining, and she has the
rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their
attention to her pages with deep
and absorbing interest,
CARLE]ON, Publisher,
New York.




DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF "LENA RIVERS," " MARIAN GREY," " MEADOW BROOKS"
lIOMESTEAD," c' DORA DEANE," COUSIN MAUDE," " TE3IMPEST AND SUNSHINE, " ENGLISH ORPHANS, ETO.
NEW YORK:
CARLE TON, P UBLISHER, 413 BR O.D WA Y.
M DCCC LXIV.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18G4, by
DANIEL  IIOLMES,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Northern District of
New York.




CONTENTS.
Chap,                                                   Page
I. COLLINGWOOD..... 7
II. EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD...  13
rII. GRACE ATHERTON... 20
iV. RICHARD AND EDITH.....  26
V. VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND VISITORS AT BRIER HILL    33
VI. ARTHUR AND EDITH..47
VII. RICHARD AND ARTHUR..53
VIII. RICHARD AND EDITH..59
IX. WOMANHOOD..68
X. EDITH AT HOME..79
XI. MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.....           89
XII. LESSONS...... 104
XIII. FRIDAY........   111
XIV. THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING.... 117
XV. NINA.                                                127
XVI. ARTHUR'S STORY.                                     136
XVII. NINA AND MIGGIE.                                    150
xVIII. DR. GRISWOLD....  161
XIX. EX OFFICIO....   174
XX. THE DECISION... 181
XXI. THE DEERING WOODS....  188
XXII. THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.                               197
XXIII. PARTING.......   ~    206
XXIV. THE NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY.                            218




vi                     CONTENTS.
Chap.                                                Page
XXV. DESTINY.                                        236
XXVI. EDITH AND THE WORLD...248
XXVII. THE LAND OF FLOWERS.                            264
XXVIII. SUNNYBANK...275
XXIX. THE SISTERS.                                    284
Xxx. ARTHUR AND NINA.                                303
XXXr. LAST DAYS.                                      310
XXXII. PARTING WITH THE DEAD AND PARTING WITH THE LIVING. 320
XXXIII. HOME....... 330
XXXIV. NINA'S LETTER...   8.38
XXXV. THE FIERY TEST.                                 345
XXXVI. THE SACRIFICE....                    352
XXXVII. THE BRIDAL..                                   360
XXXVIII. SIX YEARS LATER.                                366




DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHIT.
CHAPTER I.
C OLLINGWOOD.
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 Avith
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,




8            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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




COLLINGWOOD.                  9
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 had found some fair young girl to
share the care with him, and this was her gilded cage.
Shannondale was like all country towvns, 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




10           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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 ad



COLLINGWOOD.                  11
dressed as Edith, bidding her bring some orange marmalade from an adjoining closet. Her orders were obeyed,
and then the child lingered by the dool; 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
bdy who haunts the upper rooms."
"Edith!" said MIrs. 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 walked away, not cringingiy, for Edith Hastings
possessed a spirit as proud as that of her high born mistress, and she went slowly to the lttchen, where, under
Rachel's directions, she was soon in the mysteries of dishwashing, 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 fund her in the drawing-room going through
with a pantomine 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



12           DAYLIGHT AND DARKNESS.
"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 lIarrington, 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 fiom 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 nunmerous lights
shining froth 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, Mirs. Atherton!" she cried; and




EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD.    13
nimble as a squirrel she climbed the great gatepost, 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 COtLINGWOOD.
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
oan 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,




14           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
which she bade her take with her compliments to Mrs.
RiTchard Harrington, if there was such a body, and to Mr.
Richard IIarrington 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 comning towards them, chimed in, "She ain't fairly got it
through her bar, 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 MIrs. 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 her
bouquet, she turned about and saw approaching her one
of Collingwood's ghosts. She knew him in a momenit,
for she had heard him described too often to mistake that
white-haired, bent old man for other than Capt. Ilarrington. 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




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




EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD.        17
nman's btff, 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 fdr
the, compliments," she said to herself, " any way, I'll keep
them till another time," but the flowers; how should she
give those to himl? 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,




18          lDARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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, darkeyed 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 IHastings' voice. The second was a sadder
one, and he groaned aloud as he remembered how fiom
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 coul(d
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 he should never see her face
again. He knew not where she was, that girlish wife,




EDITH IHA STINGS GOES TO 6-OLLINGWOOD.    19
speaking her broken English for the sake of her American
husband, who was not always as kind' to her as he shomlld
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 Harringson was a dear lover of ehil
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, 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 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 firom 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.




20           DArFiNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER II1.
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."
"Yes'm," answered Edith, spitting out the bonnet
strings she had been chewing, and tossing back the thick
black locks which nearly concealed her eyes from view.
" Yes'm; it took me a good while to talk to old Darkness."
"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 IHerrin'ton," said Rachel.  "They say
how't he's allus 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 see 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 ATHERTO0.                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 Hlarrington. 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 taken 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 he
can have'em cut out. I wouldn't go to actii' like I was
love-sick for a man I'scarded oncet."




22           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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 fool if she is a nigger, raised in Georgy, and a born
slave till she was turned of thirty. Your poor marm
who done sot me free, would never spoke to me that way.
What reason has I? I'se got good mem'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 partic'lar'bout seein' him. But, it
passes me, what made you have ole money bags. I never
could see inter that, when I knowd how you hated
his shiny bald head, and slunk away if he offered to
tache you with his old, soft, flappy 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
tole you he was blind. Can't cheat dis chile," and adjusting her white turban with an air of injured dignity,
Rachel left her mistress, 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




GRACE ATHERTON.                23
you alive — do you hear? Like enough she'll be for
sendin' you up thar with more posies, an' if she does, 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 Richard Harrington, and the fact that
she did, insensibly raised in her estimation the poor, whiteficed woman, who, in the solitude of her chamber was
weeping bitterer tears than she had shed 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 had a headache, but 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. Ihave 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's
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 neglected shamefully, leaving her alone for weeks at a time. The baby's name was
Eloise, and she was a great pet with Richard mo was
fond of children. At last, one day in autumn, the little




.21          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Eloise, who had just learned to rim alone, 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 child. 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 up by Rachel with a message to
nMrs. Atherton, and was just in time to hear the commencement of Kitty's story. Any thing relating to the
blind man was interesting to her, and so she listened, her
large black eyes growing 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 save the noble deed of the heroic Richard. "What a noble maln 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 nmat be most as big as I am now;" and if it were
possible Edith's eyes grew brighter than their wont as




GRACE ATHERTON.                25
she thought how had she been that Swedish child, she
would go straight up to Collingwoodl and be the blind
man's slaie. She would read to hirn. She would see
for him, and when he walked, she would lead himn 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 Bingen, 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 bask 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 he not been as helpless
2




26           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and afflicted as he was. Edith should be 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 him 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 sunshine, 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.
RICHARD AND EDITII.
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




IRICHIARD AND EDTITI.             27
became so light that none save the blind could have detected it.
To Richard 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 mnore 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, "IfI wasn't so spunky and ugly, 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 first he had shed since
the fearful morning when they led him into the sunlight
he felt but could not see, moistened his lashes, and dropped upon his face.
"He's dreaming a bad dream," Edith said, and with
her little chubby hand she brushed his tears away, cautiously, lest she should rouse him fiom his slumbers.
Softly she put back from the white forehead his glossy
hair, taking her own round comb to subdue an obdurate
lock, while he was sure that the fingers made more than
one pilgrimage to the lips as the little barber found moisture necessary to her task.




28             DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"There, 3Mr. Blindman, you look real nice," she said,
with an immense amount of satisfaction, as she stepped
back, the better to inspect the whole effect. "I'll bet
you'll wonder who's been here when you wake up, but I
shan't tell you now. Maybe, though, I'll come again tomorrow," and placing the bouquet in his hands, she ran
away.
Pausing for a moment, and looking back, she saw
Richard again raise to his lips her bouquet, and with a
palpitating heart, as she thought, "what if he wern't
asleep after all! " she ran on until Brier Hill was reached.
" Not any message this time either?" said Grace, when
told that he had kissed her flowers, and that was all.
Still this was proof that he was pleased, and the infatuated woman persisted in preparing bouquets, which
Edith daily carried to Collingwood, going always at
the same time, and finding him always in the same spot
waiting for her. As yet no word had passed between
them, for Edith, who liked the novelty of the affair, was
so light-footed that she generally managed to slip the
bouquet into his hand, and run away ere he bad time to
detain her. One morning, however, near the middle of
October, when, owing to a bruised heel, she had not been
to see him for more than a week, he sat in his accustomed
place, half-expecting her, and still thinking how improbable it was that she would come. He had become strangely
attached to the little unknown, as he termed her; he
thought of her all the day long, and when, in the chilly
evening, he sat before the glowing grate, listening to the
monotonous whisperings of his father, he wished so much
that she was there beside him. His life would not be so
dreary then, for in the society of that active, playful
child, he should forget, in part, how miserable he was.
She was blue-eyed, and golden-haired, he thought, with
soft, abundant curls veiling her sweet young face; and
he pictured to himself just how she would look, flitting




RICHARD AND EDITH.              29
through the halls, and dancing upon the green sward near
the door.
"But it cannot be," he murmured on that October
morning, when he sat alone in his wretchedness. "Nothing I've wished for most has ever come to pass. Sorrow
has been my birthright from a boy. A curse is resting
upon our household, and all are doomed who come within its shadow. First my own mother died just when I
needed her the most, then that girlish woman whom I
also called my mother; then, our darling Charlie. My
father's reason followed next, while I am hopelessly blind.
Oh, sometimes I wish that I could die."
" I-Iold your breath with all your might, and see if you
can't," said the voice of Edith Hastings, who had approached him cautiously, and heard his sad soliloquy.
Richard started, and stretching out his long arm, caught
the sleeve of the little girl, who, finding herself a captive,
ceased to struggle, and seated herself beside him as he
requested her to do.
"Be you holding your breath?" she asked, as for a
moment he did not speak, adding as he made no answer,
" Tell me when you're dead, won't you? "
Richard laughed aloud, a hearty, merry laugh, which
startled himself, it was so like an echo of the past, ere his
hopes were crushed by cruel misfortune.
"I do not care to die now that I have you," he said;
" and if you'd stay with me always, I should never be
unhappy."
" Oh, wouldn't that be jolly," cried Edith, using her
favorite expression, "I'd read to you, and sing to you,
only Rachel says my songs are weird-like, and queer, and
maybe you might not like them; but I'd fix your hair,
and lead you in the smooth places where you wouldn't
jam your heels;" and she glanced ruefully at one of hers,
bound up in a cotton rag. "I wish I could come, but
Mrs. Atherton won't let me, I know. She threatens most




30           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
every day to send me back to the Asylum,'cause I act so.
I'm her little waiting-maid, Edith Hastings."
" Waiting maid!" and the tone of Richard's voice was
indicative of keen disappointment.
The Harringtons were very proud, and Richard wouldl
once have scoffed at the idea of being particularly interested in one so far below him as a waiting-maid. He had
never thought of this as a possibility, and the child beside
him was not of quite so much consequence as she had
been before. Still he would know something of her history, and he asked her where she lived, and why she had
brought him so many flowers.
"I live with Mrs. Atherton," she replied. "She sent
the flowers, and if you'll never tell as long as you live
and breathe, I'll tell you what Rachel says. Rachel's an
old colored woman, who used to be a nigger clown South,
but she's free now, and says Mrs. Atherton loves you. I
guess she does, for she fainted most away that day I went
home and told her you were blind."
"'Mrs. Atherton!" and Richard's face grew suddenly
dark. " Who is Mrs. Atherton, child?"
"Oh-h-h!" laughed Edith deprecatingly; "don't you
know her? She's Grace Atherton- the biggest lady in
town; sleeps in linen sheets and pillow cases every night,
and washes in a bath-tub every morning."
"Grace Atherton!" and Edith quailed beneath the
fiery glance bent upon her by those black sightless eyes.
"Did Grace Atherton send these flowers to me?" and
the bright-hued blossoms dropped instantly from  his
hand.
"Yes, sir, she did. WVhat makes you tear so?  Are
you in a tantrum?" said Edith, as he sprang to his feet
and began unsteadily to pace the summer-house.
Richard I-arrington possessed a peculiar temlperament.
Grace Atherton had wounded his pride, spurned his love,
and he thought he hated her, deeming it a most unwo



RICHARD AND EDITH.               31
manly.act in her to make these overtures for a reconciliation. This was why he tore so, as Edith had expressed it,
but soon growing more calm, he determined to conceal
from the quick-witted child the cause of his agitation, and
resuming his seat beside her, he asked her many questions
concerning Grace Atherton and herself, and as he talked
he felt his olden interests in his companion gradually
coming back. What if she were now a waiting-maid, her
family might have been good, and he asked her many
things of her early life. But Edith could tell him nothing.
The Orphan Asylum was the first home of which she bhad
any vivid remembrance, though it did seem to her she
once had lived where the purple grapes were growing
rich and ripe upon the broad vine stalk, and where all the
day long there was music such as she'd never heard since,
but which came back to her sometimes in dreams, staying
long enough for her to catch the air. Her mother, the matron told her, had died in New York, and she was brought
to the Asylum by a woman who would keep her from
starvation. This was Edith's story, told without reserve
or the slightest suspicion that the proud man beside her
would think the less of her because she had been poor
and hungry. Neither did he, after the first shock had
worn away; and he soon found himself wishing again that
she would come up there and live with him. She was a
strange, odd child, he knew, and he wondered how she
looked. Ie did not believe she was golden-haired and
blue-eyed now. Still he would not ask her lest he should
receive a second disappointment, for he was a passionate
admirer of female beauty, and he could not repress a feeling of aversion for an ugly face.
" Is Mrs. Atherton handsome? " he suddenly asked, remnlebering the fresh, girlish beauty of Grace ElmendorT;
and wishing to know if it had faded.
"Oh, jolly," said Edith, "I guess she is. Such splendid
blue hair and auburn eyes."




83            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"She must be mnagnificent," returned Richard, scarcely
repressing a smile. "Give her my compliments and ask
her if she's willing nzow to share my self-imposed labor.
Mind, don't you forget a word, and go now. I'll expect
you again to-morrow with her answer."
He made a gesture for Edith to leave, and though she
wanted so much to tell him how she loved him for saving
that Swedish baby, she forbore until another time, and
ran hastily away, repeating his message as she ran lest
she should forget it.
"Sent his compliments, and says ask you if you're willing to share his - his - his - share his - now - sonething - anyway, he wants you to come up there and live,
and I do so hope you'll go. Won't it be jolly?" she exclaimed, as half out of breath she burst into the room
where Grace sat reading a letter received by the morning's mail.
"Wants me to what?" Grace asked, fancying she had
not heard aright, and as Edith repeated the message,
there stole into her heart a warm, happy feeling, such as
she had not experienced since the orange wreath crowned
her maiden brow.
Edith had not told her exactly what he said, she knew,
but it was sufficient that he cared to see her, and she resolved to gratify him, but with something of her olden
coquetry she would wait awhile and make him think she
was not coming. So she said no more to Edith upon the
subject, but told her that she was expecting her cousin
Arthur St. Claire, a student from Geneva College, that he
would be there in a day or two, and while he remained at
Brier Hill she wished Edith to try and behave herself.
"This Mr. St. Claire," said she, " belongs to one of the
most aristocratic Southern families. He is not accustomed to anything low, either in speech or manner."
" Can't I even say jolly?" asked Edith, with such a
seriously comical manner that Grace had great difficulty
to keep from smiling.




VISiTORS AT COLLITNGWOOD AND BRIER HILL.   33
"Jolly" was Edith's pet word, the one she used indiscriminately and on all occasions, sometimes as an interjection, but oftener as an adjective. If a thing suited her
it was sure to be jolly- she always insisting that'twas a
good proper word, for Marie used it and she knew. Who
Marie was she could not tell, save that'twas somebody
who once took care of her and called her jolly. It was in
vain that Grace expostulated, telling her it was a slang
phrase used only by the vulgar. Edith was inexorable,
and would not even promise to abstain from it during the
visit of Arthur St. Claire.
CHAPTER V.
VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND VISITO.RS AT BRIER HILL.
The morning came at last on which Arthur was expected, but as he did not appear, Grace gave him up until the
morrow, and toward the middle of the afternoon ordered
out her carriage, and drove slowly in the direction of Collingwood. Alighting before the broad piazza, and ascending the marble steps, she was asked by Richard's confidential servant into the parlor, where she sat waiting
anxiously while he went in quest of his master.
"A lady, sir, wishes to see you in the parlor," and Victor Dupres bowed low before Richard, awaiting his commands.
"A lady, Victor? Did she give her name?"
"Yes, sir; Atherton - Mrs. Grace Atherton, an old
friend, she said," Victor replied, marveling at the expression of his master's face, which indicated anything but
pleasure.
He had expected her —had rather anticipated her
coming; but now that she was there, he shrank from the
2*




34            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
interview. It could only result in sorrow, for Grace was
not to him now what she once had been. He could value
her, perhaps, as a firiend, but Edith's tale had told him
that he to her was more than a fiiend. Possibly this
knowledge was not as distasteful to him as he fancied it
to be; at all events, when he remembered it, he said to
Victor:
" Is the lady handsome? " feeling a glow of satisfaction
in the praises heaped upon the really beautiful Grace.
Ere long the hard expression left his face, and straightening up his manly form, he bade Victor take him to her.
As they crossed the threshold of the door, he struck his
foot against it, and instantly there rang in his ear the
words which little Edith had said to him so pityingly,
"Poor blind man!" while he felt again upon his brow the
touch of those childish fingers; and this was why the
dark, hard look came back. Edith Hastings rose up between him and the regal creature waiting so anxiously his
coming, and who, when he came and stood before her, in
his helplessness, wept like a child.
"Richard! oh, Richard! that it should be thus we
meet again!" was all that she could say, as, seizing the
groping hand, she covered it with her tears.
Victor had disappeared, and she could thus give free
vent to her emotions, feeling it almost a relief that the
eyes whose glance she once had loved to meet could not
witness her grief.
"Grace," he said at last, the tone of his voice was so
cold that she involuntarily dropped his hands and looked
him  steadily in the face. "Grace, do not aggravate my
misfortune by expressing too much sympathy. I am not
as miserable as you may think, indeed, I am not as unhappy even now as yourself."
"It's true, Richard, true," she replied, "and because I
am unhappy I have come to ask your forgiveness if ever
word or action, or taunt of mine caused you a moment's




VISITORS AT COLLINGWVOOD AND BRIER IIILL.   35
pain. I have suffered much since we parted, and my suffering has atoned for all my sin."
She ceased speaking, and softened by memories of the
past, when he loved Grace Elmendorf, Richard reached
for her hand, and holding it between his own, said to her
gently, "Grace, I forgave you years ago. I know you
have suffered much, and I am sorry for it, but we will understand each other now. You are the widow of the man
you chose, I am hopelessly blind - our possessions adjoin
each other, our houses are in sight. I want you for a
neighbor, a friend, a sister, if you like. I shall never marry. That time is past. It perished with the long ago, and
it will, perhaps, relieve the monotony of my life if I have
a female acquaintance to visit occasionally. I thank you
much for your flowers, although for a time I did not know
you sent them, for the little girl would place them in my
hands without a word and dart away before I could stop
her. Still I knew it was a child, and I preserved them
carefully for her sake until she was last here, when I
learned who. was the real donor. I am fond of flowers
and thank you for sending them. I appreciate your kindness. I like you much better than I did an hour since,
for the sound of your voice and the touch of your hands
seem to me like old familiar friends. I am glad you came
to see me, Grace. I wish you to come often, for I am
very lonely here. We will at least be friends, but nothing more. Do you consent to my terms? "
She had no alternative but to consent, and bowing her
head, she answered back, "Yes, Richard; that is all I
can expect, all I wish. I had no other intention in sending you bouquets."
IIe knew she did not tell him truly, but he pitied her
mortification, and tried to divert her mind by talking upon
indifferent subjects, but Grace was too much chagrined
and disappointed to pay much heed to what he said, and
after a time arose to go.




36            DARKINESS AND DAYTIlGIIT.
"Come again soon," he said, accompanying her to the
door, "and send up that novelty Edith, will you?"
"Edith," muttered Grace, as she swept haughtily down
the box-lined walk, and stepped into her carriage. "I'll
send her back to the Asylum, as I live. Why didn't she
tell me just how it was, and so prevent me firom  making
myself ridiculous? "
Grace was far too much disturbed to go home at once.
She should do or say something unlady-like if she did,
and she bade Tom drive her round the village, thus unconsciously giving the offending Edith a longer time in
which to entertain and amuse the guest at Brier Hill, for
Arthur St. Claire had come.
Edith was the first to spy him sauntering slowly up the
walk, and she watched him curiously as he came, mimicing his gait, and wondering if he didn't feel big.
"Nobody's afraid of you," she soliloquised, "if you do
belong to the firstest family in Virginia."  Then, hearing
Rachel, who answered his ring, bid him  walk into the
parlor and amuse himself till Mrs. Athertop came, she
thought, " Wouldn't it be jolly to go down and entertain
him myself. Let me see, what do' s Mrs. Atherton say to
the Shannondale gentlemen when they call?  Oh, I know,
she asks them if they've read tie last new novel; how
they liked it, and so on. I can do all that, and maybe he'll
think I'm a famous scholar. I mean to wear the shawl she
looks so pretty in," and going to her mistress' drawer, the
child took out and threw around her shoulders a crimson
scarf, which Grace often wore, and then descended to the
parlor, where Arthur St. Claire stood, leaning against the
marble mantel, and listlessly examining various ornaments
upon it.
At the first sight of him Edith felt her courage forsaking her, there seemed so wide a gulf between herself and
the haughty-looking stranger, and she was about to leave
the room when he called after her, bidding her stay, and
asking who she was.




VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND BRIER HILL.   37
"I'm Edith Hastings," she answered, dropping into a
chair, and awkwardly kicking her heels against the rounds
in her embarrassment at having those large, quizzical
brown eyes fixed so inquiringly upon her.
HIe was a tall, handsome young man, not yet nineteen
years of age, and in his appearance there certainly was
something savoring of the air supposed to mark the F. F.
V's. His manners were polished in the extreme, possessing, perhaps, a little too much hauteur, and impressing
the beholder with the idea that he could, if he chose, be
very cold and overbearing. His forehead, high and intellectually formed, was shaded by curls of soft brown hair,
while about his mouth there lurked a mischievous smile,
somewhat at variance with the proud curve of his upper
lip, where an incipient mustache was starting into life.
Such was Arthur St. Claire, as he stood coolly inspecting
Edith Hastings, who mentally styling him the " hatefullest upstart" she ever saw, gave him back a glance as
cool and curious as his own.
"You are an odd little thing," he said at last.
"No I ain't neither," returned Edith, the tears starting
in her flashing black eyes.
"Spunky," was the young man's next remark, as he
advanced a step or two toward her. "But don't let's
quarrel, little lady. You've come down to entertain me,
I dare say; and now tell me who you are."
His manner at once disarmed the impulsive Edith of
all prejudice, and she replied:
"I told you I was Edith Hastings, Mrs. Atherton's
waiting maid."
" Waiting maid!" and Arthur St. Claire took a step or
two backwards as he said: " Why are you in here? This
is not your place."
Edith sprang to her feet. She could not misunderstand
the feeling with which he regarded her, and with an air
of insulted dignity worthy of Grace herself, she exclaimed,




33           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Oh, how I hate you, Arthur St. Claire! At first I
thought you might be good, like Squire Harrington; but
you ain't. I can't bear you. Ugh!"
"'Squire HIarrington?  Does he live near here?" and
the face which at the sight of her anger had dimpled all
over with smiles, turned white as Arthur St. Claire asked
this question, to which Edith replied:
"Yes; he's blind, and he lives up at Collingwood.
You can see its tower now," and she pointed across the
fields.
But Arthur did not heed her, and continued to ply her
with questions concerning Mr. Harrington, asking if he
had formerly lived near Geneva, in western New York, if
he had a crazy father, and if he ever came to Brier Hill.
Edith's negative answer to this last query seemed to
satisfy him, and when, mistaking his eagerness for a desire
to see her divinity, Edith patronizingly informed him that
he might go with her some time to Collingwood, he answered her evasively, asking if Richard recognized voices,
as most blind people did.
Edith could not tell, but she presumed hedid, for he
was the smartest man that ever lived; and in her enthusiastic praises she waxed so eloquent, using, withal, so good
language, that Arthur forgot she was a waiting maid, and
insensibly began to entertain a feeling of respect for the
sprightly child, whose dark face sparkled and flashed with
her excitement. She was a curious specimen, he acknowledged, and he began adroitly to sound the depths of her
intellect. Edith took the cue at once, and not wishing to
be in the background, asked him, as she had at first intended doing, if he'd read the last new novel.
Without in the least comprehending what novel she
meant, Arthur promptly replied that he had.
"How did you like it? " she continued, adjusting her
crimson scarf as she had seen Mirs. Atherten do under
simnilar circumstances.




VISITORS AT COLLINGWVOOD AND BRIER HILL.   39
"Very much indeed," returned the young man with
imperturbable gravity, but when with a toss of her head
she asked: "Didn't you think there was too much'physics in it?" he went off into peals of laughter so loud and
long that they brought old Rachel to the door to see if
" he was done gone crazy or what."
Taking advantage of her presence, the crest-fallen
Edith crept disconsolately up the stairs, feeling that she
had made a most ridiculous mistake, and wondering what
the word could be that sounded so much like'physics,
and yet wasn't that at all. She knew she had made herself ridiculous, and was indulging in a fit of crying when
Mrs. Atherton returned, delighted to meet her young
cousin, in whom she felt a pardonable pride.
" You must have been very lonely," she said, beginning
to apologize for her absence.
"Never was less  so in my life," he replied. "Why,
I've been splendidly entertained by a little black princess,
who called herself your waiting maid, and discoursed
most eloquently of metaphysics and all that."
"' Edith, of course," said Grace. "It's just like her.
Imitated me in every thing, I dare say."
"Rather excelled you, I think, in putting on the fine
lady," returned the teasing Arthur, who saw at once that
Edith Hastings was his fair cousin's sensitive point.
"What else did she say?" asked Grace, but Arthur
generously refrained from repeating the particulars of his
interview with the little girl who, as the days went by,
interested him so much that he forgot his Virginia pride,
and greatly to Mrs. Atherton's surprise indulged with her
in more than one playfiul romp, teasingly calling her his
little "Metaphysics," and asking if she hated him still.
She did not. Next to Richard and Marie, she liked him
better than any one she had ever seen, and she was enjoyillg his society so much when a most unlucky occurrence
suddenly brought her her happiness to an end, and afforded




40            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Grace an excuse for doing what she had latterly frequently
desired to do, viz. that of sending the little girl back
to the Asylum from which she had taken her.
Owing to the indisposition of the chambermaid, Edith
was one day sent with water to MIr. St. Claire's room.
Arthur was absent, but on the table his writing desk lay
open, and Edith's inquisitive eyes were not long in spying
a handsome golden locket, left there evidently by mistake.
Two or three times she had detected him looking at this
picture, and with an eager curiosity to see it also, she took
the locket in her hand, and going to the window, touched
the spring.
It was a wondrously beautiful face which met her view
- the face of a young girl, whose golden curls rippling
softly over her white shoulders, and whose eyes of lustrous blue, reminded Edith of the angels about which
Rachel sang so devoutly every Sunday. To Edith there
was about that face a nameless but mighty fascination, a
something which made her warm blood chill and tingle
in her veins, while there crept over her a second time dim
visions of something far back in the past - of purple fruit
on vine-clad hills - of music soft and low - of days and
nights on some tossing, moving object — and then of a
huge white building, embowered in tall green trees, whose
milk-white blossoms she gathered in her hand; while distinct from all the rest was this face, on which she gazed
so earnestly. It is true that all these thoughts were not
clear to her mind; it was rather a confused mixture of
ideas, one of which faded ere another came, so that there
seemed no real connection between them; and had she
embodied them in words, they would have been recognized as the idle fancies of a strange, old-fashioned child.
But the picture -there teas something in it which held
Edith motionless, while her tongue seemed struggling to
articulate a name, but failed in the attempt; and when,
at last, her lips did move, they uttered the word Mllarie,




VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND BRIER HILL.   41
as if she, too, were associated with that sweet young face.
"Oh, but she's jolly," Edith said. "I don't wonder
Mr. Arthur loves her," and she felt her own heart throb
with a strange affection for the beautiful original of that
daguerreotype.
In the hall without there was the sound of a footstep.
It was coming to that room. It was Grace herself, Edith
thought; and knowing she would be censured for touching
what did not belong to her, she thrust the locket into her
bosom, intending to return it as soon as possible, and
springing out upon the piazza, scampered away, leaving
the water pail to betray her recent presence.
It was not Grace, as she had supposed, but Arthur St.
Claire himself, come to put away the locket, which he
suddenly remembered to have left upon the table. Great
was his consternation when he found it gone, and that no
amount of searching could bring it to light. He did not
notice the empty pail the luckless Edith had left, although
he stumbled over it twice in his feverish anxiety to find
his treasure. But what he failed to observe was discovered by Grace, whom he summoned to his aid, and who
exclaimed:
" Edith Hastings has been here! She must be the
thief! "
" Edith, Grace, Edith - it cannot be," and Arthur's face
indicated plainly the pain it would occasion him to find
that it was so.
" I hope you may be right, Arthur, but I have not so
much confidence in her as you seem to have. There she
is now," continued Grace, spying her across the yard and
calling to her to come.
Blushing, stammering, and cowering like a guilty thing,
Edith entered the room, for she heard Arthur's voice and
knew that he was there to witness her humiliation.
"Edith," said Mrs. Atherton, sternly, "what have you
been doing?"




42            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
No answer from Edith save an increase of color upon
her face, and with her suspicions confirmed, Grace went
011
"What have you in your pocket?"
"'Taint in my pocket; it's in my bosom," answered
Edith, drawing it forth and holding it to view.
"HIow dare you steal it," asked Grace, and instantly
there came into Edith's eyes the same fiery, savage gleam
from which Mrs. Atherton always shrank, and beneath
which she now involuntarily quailed.
It had never occurred to Edith that she could be accused
of theft, and she stamped at first like a little fury, then
throwing herself upon the sofa, sobbed out, "Oh, dear —
oh, dear, I wish God would let me die. I don't want to
live any longer in such a mean, nasty world. I want to
go to Heaven, where everything is jolly."
"You are a fit subject for Heaven," said Mrs. Atherton, scornfully, and instantly the passionate sobbing ceased; the tears were dried in the eyes which blazed with insulted dignity as Edith arose, and looking her mistress
steadily in the face, replied,
"I suppose you think I meant to steal and keep the
pretty picture, but the one who was in here with me knows
I didn't."
"Who was that?" interrupted Grace, her color changing visibly at the child's reverent reply.
"God was with me, and I wish he hadn't let me touch
it, but he did. It lay on the writing desk and I took it to
the window to see it. Oh, isn't she jolly?" and as she recalled the beautiful features, the hard expression left her
own, and she went on, "I couldn't take my eyes from her;
they would stay there, and I was almost going to speak
lher name, when I heard you coming, and ran away. I
meant to bring t  back, Mr. Arthur," and she turned appealingly to him. "I certainly did, and you believe me,
don't you? I never told a lie in rmy life."




VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND BRIER HILL.   43
Ere Artllur could reply, Grace chimed in.
"1Believe you?  Of course not. You stole the picture
and intended to keep it. I cannot have you longer in my
family, for nothing is safe. I shall send you back at once."
There was a look in the large eyes which turned so
hopelessly from Arthur to Grace, and from Grace back
to Arthur,; like that the hunted deer wvears when hotly
pursued in the chase. The white lips moved but uttered
no sound, and the fingers closed convulsively around the
golden locket which Arthur advanced to take away.
"Let me see her once more," she said.
HIe could not refuse her request, and touching the spring
lie held it up before her.
"Pretty lady," she whispered, "sweet lady, whose name
I most know, speak, and tell M{r. Arthur that I didn't do
it. I surely didn't."
This constant appeal to Arthur, and total disregard of
herself, did not increase IMrs. 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?"
HIe shook his head, a movement unobserved 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 Tolm 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 prongs of a long pitch-fork. This act of thoughtfiul 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 grass, laughing to
see how near it came to hitting Mrs. Atherton, who looked
around to discover whence it could possibly have come.




44           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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? "e she asked, holding up a box containing a long, thick braid of hair.
"Mother's hair! mother's 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 passionately, 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




VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND BRIER HILL.   45
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 capejessamines. 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. I-Iarrington! IIe 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 passed
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. HIarrington
pleased with her just because he had sometimes talked to
her when she carried him flowers.




46             DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
" 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
passionately by the window, and watching with longing
eyes the Collingwood carriage now passing from her view.
"We must go or be left," said 2Arthur, approaching her
gently, and whispering to her not to cry.
"Good bye, Edith," said Mrs. Atherton-, putting out
her jewelled hand; but Edith would not touch it, and in
a tone of voice which sank deep into the proud woman's
heart, she answered:
"Y5ou'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.
Passing 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."




ARTHUR AND EDITII.              47
CHAPTER VI.
ARTHUR AND EDITt.
If anything could have reconciled Edith to her fate, it
would have been the fact that she was travelling with
Arthur St. Claire, who, after entering the cars, cared for
her as tenderly as if she had been a lady of his own rank,
instead of a little disgraced waiting maid, whom he was
taking back to the Asylum. It was preposterous, he
thought, for Grace to call one as young as Edith a waiting
maid, but it was like her, he knew. It had a lofty sound,
and would impress some people with a sense of her greatness; so he could excuse it much more readily than the
injustice done to the child by charging her with a crime
of which he knew she was innocent. This it was, perhaps,
which made him so kind to her, seeking to divert her
mind from her grief by asking her many questions concerning herself and her family. But Edith did not care
to talk. All the way to Albany she continued crying;
and when, at last, they stood within the noisy depot,
Arthur saw that the tears were still rolling down her
cheeks like rain.
" Poor little girl. IHIow I pity her!" he thought, as she
placed her hand confidingly in his, and when he saw how
hopelessly she looked into his iace, as she asked, with
quivering lip, if " it wasn't ever so far to New York yet? "
the resolution he had been trying all the day to make was
fully decided upon, and when alone with Edith in the
room appropriated to her at the Delavan House, he asked
her why she supposed Richard Harrington would be willing to take her to Collingwood.
Very briefly Edith related to him the particulars of her
interviews with the blind man, saying, WVhen she had fin
ished,




H43           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Don't you believe he likes me?"
"I dare say he does," returned Arthur, at the same time
asking if she would be afraid to stay alone one night in
that great hotel, knowing he was gone? "
"Oh, bMr. Arthur, you won't leave me here?" and in
her terror Edith's arms wound themselves around the
young man's neck as if she would thus keep him there by
force.
Unclasping her hands, and holding them in his own,
Arthur said,
"Listen to me, Edith. I will take the Boston train
which leaves here very soon, and return to Shannondale,
reaching there some time to-night. I will go to Collingwood, will tell Mr. Harrington what has happened, and
ask him to take you, bringing him back here with me, if he
will        "
"And if he won't? " interrupted Edith, joy beaming in
every feature. "If he won't have me, Mr. Arthur, will
you?  Say, will you have me if he won't?"
" Yes, yes, I'll have you," returned Arthur, laughing to
himself, as he thought of the construction which might.
be put upon this mode of speech.
But a child nine and a half years old could not, he
knew, have any designs upon either himself or Richard
Harrington, even had she been their equal, which he fancied she was not. She was a poor, neglected orphan, and
as such he would care for her, though the caring compelled him to do what scarcely anything else could have
done, to wit, to seek an interview with the man who held
his cherished secret.
"Are you willing to stay here alone now?" he said
again. "I'll order your meals sent to your room, and tomorrow night I shall return."
" If I only knew you meant for sure," said Edith, trembling at the thought of being deserted in a strange city.
Suddenly she started, and looking him earnestly in the
face, said to him,




ARTHUR AND EDITH.               49
"Do you love that pretty lady in the glass - the one
Mlrs. Atherton thinks I stole?"
Arthur turned white but answered her at once.
"Yes, I love her very, very much."
"Is she your sister, Mr. Arthur? " and the searching
black eyes seemed compelling him to tell the truth.
" No, not my sister, but a dear friend."
"Where is she, Mr. Arthur? In New York?"
" No, not in New York."
" In Albany then? "
" No, not in Albany. She's in Europe with her father,"
and a shade of sadness crept over Arthur's face. "She
was hardly a young lady when this picture was taken, and
he drew the locket from its hiding place. She was only
thirteen. She's not quite sixteen now."
Edith by this time had the picture in her hand, and
holding it to the light exclaimed, " Oh, but she's so jolly,
Mr. Arthur. May I kiss her, please?"
"Certainly," he answered, and Edith's warm red lips
pressed the senseless glass, which seemed to smile upon
her.
" Pretty - pretty - pretty N-n-n-Vina!" she whispered, and in an instant Arthur clutched her so tightly that
she cried out with pain.
"Who told you her name was Nina?" he asked in
tones so stern and startling that Edith's senses all forsook
her, and trembling with fright she stammered,
"I don't know, sir - unless you did. Of course you
did, how else should I know. I never saw the lady."
Yes, how else should she know, and though he would
almost have sworn that name had never passed his lips
save in solitude, he concluded he must have dropped it
inadvertently in Edith's hearing, and still holding her by
the arm, he said, " Edith, if I supposed you would repeat
the word Nina, either at Collingwood or elsewhere, I certainly should be tempted to leave you here alone."
3




50            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"I won't, I won't, oh, Mr. Arthur, I surely won't!" and
Edith clung to him in terror. "I'll never say it — not
even to Mr. Harrington. I'll forget it, I can, I know."
"Not to Mr. Harrington of all others," thought Arthur,
but he would not put himself more in Edith's power than
he already was, and feeling that he must trust her to a
certain extent, he continued, "If you stay at Collingwood, I may sometime bring this Nina to see you, but until I do you must never breathe her name to any living
beinig, or say a word of the picture."
"But Mr. Harrington," interrupted the far-seeing Edith,
"He'll have to know why MIrs. Atherton sent me away.
" I'll attend to that," returned Arthur. "I shall tell him
it was a daguerreotype of a lady friend. There's nothing
wrong in that, is there?" he asked, as he noticed the perplexed look of the honest-hearted Edith.
"No," she answered hesitatingly. "It is a lady friend,
but - but - seems as if there was something wrong somewhere. Oh, Mr. Arthur -" and she grasped his hand as
firmly as he had held her shoulder. "You ain't going to
hurt pretty Nina, are you?  You never will do her any
harm?"
"Heaven forbid," answered Arthur, involuntarily turning away from the truthful eyes of the dark-haired maiden pleading with him not to harm the Nina who, over the
sea, never dreamed of the scene enacted in that room between the elegant Arthur St. Claire and the humble Edith
Hastings. "Heaven forbid that I should harm  her —-"
HIe said it twice, and then asked the child to swear
solemnly never to repeat that name where any one could
hear.
"I won't swear,' she said, "but I'll promise as true as
I live and breathe, and draw the breath of life, and that's
as good as a swear."
Arthur felt that it was, and with the compact thus
sealed between them, he arose to go, reaching out his
hand for the picture.




ARTHUR AND EDITH.               51
"No," said Edith, " I want her for company. I shan't
be lonesome looking in her eyes, and I know you will
come back if I keep her."
Arthur understood her meaning, and answered laughingly, "Well, keep her then, as a token that I will surely return," and pressing a kiss upon the beautiful picture,
he left the room, while Edith listened with a beating
heart, until the sound of his footsteps had died away.
Then a sense of dreariness stole over her; the tears gathered in her eyes, and she sought by a one-sided conversation with her picture to drive the loneliness away.
"Pretty Nina! Sweet Nina! Jolly Nina!" she kept
repeating. "I guess I used to see you in Heaven, before
I came down to the nasty old Asylum. And mother was
there, too, with a great long veil of hair, which came below her waist. W;Vhere was it?" she asked herself as
Nina, her mother and Marie were all mingled confusedly
together in her mind; and while seeking to solve the mystery, the darkness deepened in the room, the gas lamps
were lighted in the street, and with a fresh shudder of
loneliness Edith crept into the bed, and nestling down
among her pillows, fell asleep with Nina pressed lovingly
to her bosom.
At a comparatively early hour next morning, the door
of her room, which had been left unfastened, was opened,
and a chambermaid walked in, starting with surprise at
sight of Edith, sitting up in bed, her thick black hair falling over her shoulders, and her large eyes fixed inquiringly upon her.
"An, sure," she began, "is it a child like you staying
here alone the blessed night? Where's yer folks?"
"I hain't no folks," answered Edith, holding fast to the
locket, and chewing industriously the bit of gum which
Rachel, who knew her taste, had slipped into her pocket
at parting.
"Hain't no folks! How come you here then?" and
the girl Lois advanced nearer to the bedside.




52           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"A man brought me," returned Edith. "tHe's gone off
now, but will come again to-night."
"Your father, most likely," continued the loquacious
Lois.
" My father!" and Edith laughed scornfully. "Mr.
Arthur ain't big enough to be anybody's father - or yes,
maybe he's big enough, for he's awful tall. But he's got
the teentiest whiskers growing you ever saw," and Edith's
nose went up contemptuously at Arthur's darling mustache. "I don't believe he's twenty," she continued,
" and little girl's pa's must be older than that I guess, and
have bigger whiskers."
" How old are you?" asked Lois, vastly amused at the
quaint speeches of the child, who replied, with great
dignity,
" Going on ten, and in three years more I'll be thirteen!"
"Who are you, any way?" asked Lois, her manner
indicating so much real interest that Edith repeated her
entire history up to the present time, excepting, indeed,
the part pertaining to the locket held so vigilantly in her
hand.
She had taken a picture belonging to Mir. Arthur, she
said, and as Lois did not ask what picture, she was spared
any embarrassment upon that point.
" You're a mighty queer child," said Lois, when the
narrative was ended; "but I'll see that you have good
care till he comes back;" and it was owing, in a measure,
to her influence, that the breakfast and dinner carried up
to Edith was of a superior quality, and comprised in
quantity far more than she could eat.
Still the day dragged heavily, for Lois could not give
her much attention; and even Nina failed to entertain
her, as the western sunlight came in at her window, warning her that it was almost night.
" Will Arthur come? or if he does, will Mr. Harrington be with him? " she asked herself repeatedly, until at




RICHARD AND ARTHUR.              53
last, worn out with watching and waiting, she laid her
head upon the side of the bed, and fell asleep, resting so
quietly that she did not hear the rapid step in the hall,
the knock upon the door, the turning of the knob, or the
cheery voice which said to her:
"Edith, are you asleep?"
Arthur had come.
CHAPTER VII.
RICHARD AND ARTHUR.
It was not a common occurrence for a visitor to present
himself at Collingwood at so early an hour as that in
which Arthur St. Claire rang for admittance, and Victor,
who heard the bell, hastened in some surprise to answer it,
"Tell Mr. Harrington a stranger wishes to see him,"
said Arthur, following the polite valet into the library,
where a fire was slowly struggling into life.
"Yes, sir. What name?" and Victor waited for a
moment, while Arthur hesitated, and finally stammered
out:
"Mr. St. Claire, from Virginia."
Immediately Victor withdrew, and seeking his master,
delivered the message, adding that the gentleman seemed
embarrassed, and he wouldn't wonder if he'd come to
borrow money. -
"St. Claire - St. Claire," Richard repeated to himself.
"Where have I heard that name before?  Somewhere,
sure."
"lHe called himself a stranger, " returned Victor, adding
that a youth by that name was visiting at Brier Hill, and
it was probably of him that Mir. Harrington was thinking.
"It may be, though I've no remembrance of haying




54            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
heard that fact," returned Richard; "but, lead on," and
he took the arm of Victor, who lead him to the library
door and then, as was his custom, turned away.
More than once during the rapid journey, Arthur had
half resolved to turn back and not run the fearful risk of
being recognized by Richard Harrington, but the remembrance of Edith's mute distress should he return alone,
emboldened him to go on and trust to Providence, or, if
Providence failed, trust to Richard's generosity not to betray his secret. He heard the uncertain footsteps in the
hall, and forgetting that the eyes he so much dreaded
could not see, he pulled his coat collar up around his face
so as to conceal as much of it as possible.
"IMr. St. Claire?  Is there such a person here?" and
Richard Harrington had crossed the threshold of the door,
and with his sightless eyes rolling around the room, stood
waiting for an answer.
How well Arthur remembered that rich, full, musical
voice. It seemed to him but yesterday since he heard it
before, and he shrank more and more from the reply which
must be made to that question, and quickly, too, for the
countenance of the blind mall was beginning to wear a
look of perplexity at the continued silence.
Summoning all his courage he stepped forward and
taking the hand groping in the air, said rapidly, " Excuse me, Mr. Harrington, I hardly know what to say, I've
come upon so queer an errand. You know Edith Hastings, the little girl who lived with Mrs. Atherton?"
He thought by introducing Edith at once to divert the
blind man from himself, but Richard's quick ear had
caught a tone not wholly unfamiliar as he replied,
"Yes, I know Edith Hastings, and it seems to me I
ought to know you, too.  I've heard your name and
voice before. WVasn't it in Geneva? " and the eagle eyes
fastened themselves upon the wall just back of where
Arthur stood.




RICHARID AND ARTHUR.             55
Arthur fairly gasped for breath, and for an instant he
was as blind as Richard himself; then, catching at the
word Geneva, he answered, " Did you ever live in Geneva, sir? "
" Not in the village, but near there on the lake shore,"
answered Richard, and Arthur continued,
"You probably attended the examinations then at the
Academy, and heard me speak. I was a pupil there
nearly two years before entering the college."
Arthur fancied himself remarkably clever for having
suggested an idea which seemed so perfectly to satisfy
his companion and which was not a falsehood either.
He had been a student in the Academy for nearly two
years, had spoken at all the exhibitions, receiving the
prize at one; he had seen Richard Harrington among the
spectators, and had no doubl that Richard might have observed him, though not very closely, else he had never
put himself in his power by the one single act which was
embittering his young fife.
"It is likely you are right," said Richard, "I was often
at the examinations, and since my misfortune I find myself recognizing voices as I never could have done when
I had sight as well as hearing upon which to depend.
But you spoke of Edith Hastings. I trust no harm has
befallen the child. I am much interested in her and wonder she has not been here long ere this. What would you
tell me of her??"
Briefly Arthur related the particulars of his visit at
Brier Hill, a visit which had ended so disastrously to
Edith, and even before he reached the important point,
Richard answered promptly, " She shall come here, I need
her. I want her -want her for my sister, my child. I
shall never have another;" then pressing his hands suddenly upon his forehead, whose blue veins seemed to swell
with the intensity of his emotions, he continued. "But,
no, Mr. St. Claire. It cannot be, she is too young, too




56           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
merry-hearted, too full of life and love to be brought into
the shadow of our household. She would die upon my
hands. Her voice would grow sadder and more mournfiul
with the coming of every season, until at last when I had
learned to love her as my life, I should some morning listen
for what would never greet my ear again. It's a great
temptation, but it must not be. A crazy old man and
his blind son are not fit guardians for a child like Edith
Hastings. She must not walk in our darkness."
"But might not her presence bring daylight to that
darkness? " asked Arthur, gazing with mingled feelings
of wonder and admiration upon the singularly handsome,
noble-looking man, who was indeed walking in thick darkness.
" She might,'" said Richard. "Yes, she might bring the
fuill rich daylight to us, but on her the shadow would fall
with a fearful blackness if she linked her destiny with
mine. Young man, do you like Edith Hastings, if so, take
her yourself, and if money -"
Arthur here interrupted him with, "I have money of
my own, sir; but I have no home at present. I am a
student in college. I can do nothing with her there, but
-" and his voice sunk almost to a whisper. " Years hence,
I hope to have a home, and then, if you are tired of Edith
I will take her. Meantime keep her at Collingwood for
me. Is it a bargain?"
"You are young I think," said Richard, smiling at
Arthur's proposition, and smiling again, when in tones
apologetical, as if to be only so old were sofnething of
which he ought to be ashamed, Arthur returned,
"I am nineteen this month."
"And I was thirty, last spring," said Richard. "An
old man, you think, no doubt. But to return to Edith
Hastings. My heart wants her so much, while my better
judgment rebels against it. Will she be greatly disappointed if I refuse?"




RICIIARD AND ARTHUR.              57
"Oh, yes, yes," said Arthur, grasping the hand laying
on Richard's knee. I can't go back to her without you.
But, Mr. Harrington, before I urge it farther, let me ask
as her friend, will she come here as a servant, or an equal."
There was an upward flashing of the keen black eyes,
a flush upon the high, white forehead, and Richard impatiently stamped upon the floor as be answered proudly,
" She comes as an equal,.or not at all. She shall be as
highly educated and as thoroughly accomplished as if the
blood of the Harringtons flowed in her veins."
" Then take her," and Arthur seemed more anxious
than before. " She will do justice to your training. She
will be wondrously beautiful. She will grace the halls of
Collingwood with the air of England's queen. You will
not be ashamed of her, and who knows but some day -"
Arth~ur began to stammer, and at last managed to finish
with, "There is not such a vast difference in your ages.
Twenty-one years is nothing when weighed against the
debt of gratitude she will owe you -"
"There, I've made a fool of myself," he thought, as he
saw the forehead tie itself up in knots, and the corners of
the mouth twitch with merriment.
" By that last speech you've proved how young and romantic you are," answered Richard. " Winter and spring
go not well together. Edith Hastings will never be my
wife. But she shall come to Collingwood. I will return
with you and bring her back myself."
Ringing the bell for Victor, he bade him see that breakfast was served at once, saying that he was going with
his friend to Albany.
"Without vme?" asked Victor in much surprise, and
Richard replied,
"Yes, without you," adding in an aside to Arthur,
" Victor is so much accustomed to waiting upon me that
he thinks himself necessary to every movement, but I'd
rather travel alone with Edith, she'll do as well as Victoro*




58            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and I have a fancy to keep my movements a secret, at
least until the child is fairly in the house. It will be a
surprise to Mrs. Atherton; I'll have John drive us to
the next station, and meet me there to-morrow."
So saying, he excused himself for a few moments and
groped his way up stairs to make some necessary changes
in his dress. For several minutes Arthur was alone, and
firee to congratulate himself upon his escape firom detection.
"In my dread of recognition I undoubtedly aggravated
its chances," he thought. "Of course this Mr. Harrington did not observe me closely. It was night, and he was
almost blind, even then. My voice and manner are all
that can betray me, and as he is apparently satisfied on
that point, I have nothing further to apprehend fiom him."
Arthur liked to feel well - disagreeable reflections did
not suit his temperament, and having thus dismissed from
his mind the only thing annoying him at the present, he
began to examine the books arrayed so carefully upon the
shelves, whistling to himself as he did so, and pronouncing
Arthur St. Claire a pretty good fellow after all, if he had
a secret of which most people would not approve. He
had just reached this conclusion when Richard reappeared,
and breakfast was soon after announced by the valet,
Victor. That being over, there was not a moment to be
lost if they would reach the cars in time for the next
train, and bidding his father a kind adieu, Richard went
with Arthur to the carriage, and was driven to the depot
of the adjoining town. Miore than one passenger turned
their heads to look at the strangers as they came in, the
elder led by the younger, who yet managed so skilltilly
that but few guessed how great a calamity had befallen
the man with the dark hair, and black, glittering eyes.
Arthur took a great pride in ministering to the wants of
his companion, and in all he did there was a delicacy and
tenderness which touched a chord almost fraternal in the
heart of the blind man, who, as the day wore on, found




RICHARD AND EDITH.              59
himself drawn more and more toward his new acquaintance.
" I believe even I might be happy if both you and Edith
could live with me," he said, at last, when Albany was
reached, and they were ascending the steps to the Delevan.
"Poor little Edith," rejoined Arthur, "I wonder if she
has been very lonely? Shall we go to her at once?"
" Yes," answered Richard, and leaning on Arthur's arm,
he proceeded to the door of Edith's room.
CHAPTER VIII.
RICHARD AND EDITH.
c" Oh, Mr. Arthur, you did come back," and forgetting,
in her great joy, that Arthur was a gentleman, and she a
waiting-maid, Edith wound her arms around his neck, and
kissed him twice ere he well knew what she was doing.
For an instant the haughty young man felt a flush of
insulted dignity, but it quickly vanished when he saw the
tall form of Richard bending over the little girl and heard
him saying to her,
"Have you no welcoming kiss for me?"
"Yes, forty hundred, if you like," and in her delight
Edith danced about the room like one insane.
Thrusting the locket slily into Arthur's hand, she whispered,
"I slept with her last night, and dreamed it was not
the first time either. Will you ask her when you see her
if she ever knew me? "
"Yes, yes," he answered, making a gesture for her to
stop as Richard was about to speak.
i' E~dith, said Richard, winding his arm  around her,




60            DARKNESS ANCD DAYLIGIIT.
" Edith, I have come to take you home -to take you to
Collingwood to live with me. Do you wish to go?"
"Ain't there ghosts at Collingwood?" asked Edith,
who, now that what she most desired was just within her
reach, began like every human being to see goblins in the
path. " Ain't there ghosts, at Colling wood? - a little boy
with golden curls, and must I sleep in the chamber with
him?"
"Poor child," said Richard, "You too, have heard
that idle tale. Shall I tell you of the boy with golden
hair?" and holding her so close to him that he could feel
the beating of her heart and hear her soft, low breathing,
he told her all there wlas to tell of his half-brother Charlie,
who died just one day after his young mother, and was
buried in the same coffin.
They could not return to Collingwood that night, and
the evening was spent in the private parlor which Arthur
engaged for himself and his blind fiiend. It -was strange
how fast they grew to liking each other, and it was a
pleasant sight to look at them as they sat there in the
warm firelight which the lateness of the season made
necessary to their comfort- the one softened and toned
down by affliction and the daily cross he was compelled
to bear, the other in the first flush of youth when the
world la' all bright before him and he had naught to do
but enter the Elysian fields and pluck the fairest flowers.
It was late when they separated, but at a comparatively
early hour the next morning they assembled again, this
time to bid good-by, for their paths hereafter lay in different directions.
"You must write to me, little metaphysics," said Arthur,
as with hat and shawl in hand he stood in the depot on
the east side of the Hudson.
"Yes," rejoined Richard, "she is to be my private
amanuensis, and shall let you know of our welfare, and
now, I suppose, we must go."




IRICHARD AND EDITH.              61
It was a very pleasant ride to Edith, pleasanter than
when she came with Arthur, but a slight headache made
her drowsy, and leaning on Richard's arm she fell asleep,
nor woke until West Shannondale was reached. The
carriage was in waiting for them, and Victor sat inside.
He had come ostensibly to meet his master, but really to
see the kind of specimen he was bringing to the aristocratic halls of Collingwood.
Long and earnest had been the discussion there concerning the little lady; Mrs. Matson, the housekeeper,
sneering rather contemptuously at one who heretofore
had been a servant at Brier Hill. Victor, on the contrary, stood ready to espouse her cause, thinking within himself how he would teach her many points of etiquette of
which he knew she must necessarily be ignorant; but
firstly he would, to use his own expression, "see what
kind of metal she was made of."
Accordingly his first act at the depot was to tread upon
her toes, pretending he did not see her, but Edith knew
he did it purposely, and while her black eyes blazed with
anger, she exclaimed,
" You wretch, how dare you be so rude?"
Assisting Richard into the carriage, Victor was about
to turn away, leaving Edith to take care of herself, when
with all the air of a queen, she said to him,
"Help me in, sir. Don't you know your business!"
"Pardonnez,  moi," returned Victor, speaking in his
mother tongue, and bowing low to the indignant child,
whom he helped to a seat by Richard.
An hour's drive brought them to the gate of Collingwood, and Edith was certainly pardonable if she did cast
a glance of exultation in the direction of Brier Hill, as
they wound up the gravelled road and through the handsome grounds of what henceforth was to be her home.
"I guess Mrs. Atherton will be sorry she acted so," she
thought, and she was even revolving the expediency of




62            DARKNESS AND -DAYLIGHT.
putting on airs and not speaking to her former nlistress,
when the carriage stopped and Victor appeared at the
window all attention, and asking if he should " assist Miss
Hastings to alight."
In the door iMrs. Matson was waiting to receive them,
rubbing her gold-bowed spectacles and stroking her heavy
silk with an air which would have awed a child less selfassured than Edith. Nothing grand or elegant seemed
strange or new to her. On the contrary she took to it
naturally as if it-were her.native element, and now as she
stepped upon the marble floor of the lofty hall she involuntarily cut a pirouette, exclaiming, "Oh, but isn't this
jolly!  Seems as if I'd got back to Heaven. What a
splendid room to sing in," and she began to wai'e a wild,
impassioned air which made Richard paqse and listen,
wondering whence- came the feeling which so affected him
carrying him back to the hills of Germany.
Mrs. Matson looked shocked, Victor amused, while the
sensible driver muttered to himself as he gathered up his
reins, " That gal is just what Collingwood needs to keep
it from being a dungeon."
Mrs. Matson had seen Edith at Brier Hill, but this did
not prevent her fiom a close scrutiny as she conducted
her to the large, handsome chamber, which Richard
in his hasty directions of the previous morning had
said was to be hers, and which, with its light, tasteful
furniture, crimson curtains, and cheerful blazing fire seemed
to the delighted child a second paradise. Clapping her
hands she danced about the apartment, screaming, "It's
the jolliest place I ever was in."
" What do you mean by that word jolly?" asked Mrs.
Matson, with a great deal of dignity; but ere Edith could
reply, Victor, who came up with the foreign chest, chimed
in, " She means pretty, Madame Matson, and understands
French, no doubt. Parley vous Franpais?" and he
turned to Edith, who, while recognizing something famil



RICHARD AND EDITII.              63
iar in the sound, felt sure he was making fun of her and
answered back, "Parley voo fool! I'll tell Mr. Harrington how you tease me."
Laughing aloud at her reply, Victor put the chest ill
its place, made some remark concerning its quaint appearance, and bowed himself fiom the room, saying to her as
he shut the door,
"-Bon soir,.iademoiselle."
"I've heard that kind of talk before," thought Edith,
as she began to brush her hair, preparatory to going down
to supper, which Mrs. Mats6n said was waiting.
At the table she met with the old man, who had seen
her alight from the carriage, and had asked the mischievous
Victor, "Who was the small biped Richard had brought
home?"
"That," said Victor. "Why, that is Charlie turned
into a girl." And preposterous as the idea seemed, the
old man siezed upon it at once, smoothing Edith's hair
when he saw her, tapping her rosy cheeks, calling her
Charlie, and muttering to himself of the wonderfiul process which had transformed his fair-haired boy into a
black-haired girl.
Sometimes the utter impossibility of the thing seemed
to penetrate even his darkened mind, and then he would
whisper, "I'll make believe it's Charlie, any way," so
Charlie he persisted in calling her, and Richard encouraged him in this whim, when lie found how much satisfaction it afforded the old man to " make believe."
The day following Edith's arrival at Collingwood there
was a long consultation between Richard and Victor concerning the little girl, about whose personal appearance
the former would now know something definite.
" How does Edith Hastings look? " he asked, and after
a moment of grave deliberation, Victor replied,
" She has a fat round face, with regular features, except
that the nose turns up somewhat after the spitfire order,




64           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and her mouth is a trifle too wide. Her forehead is not
very high — it would not become her style if it were.
Her hair is splendid — thick, black and glossy as satin,
and her eyes, — there ale not words enough either in the
French or English language with which to describe her
eyes -they are so bright and deep that nobody can look
into them long without wincing. I should say, sir, if put
on oath, there was a good deal of the deuce in her eyes."
" When she is excited, you mean," interrupted Richard.
"How are they in repose? "
"They are never there," returned Victor. "They roll
and turn and flash and sparkle, and light upon one so uncomfortably, that he begins to think of all the badness he
ever did, and to wonder if those coals of fire can't ferret
out the whole thing."
"I like her eyes," said Richard, " but go on. Tell me
of her complexion."
"Black, of course," continued Victor, "but smooth as
glass, with just enough of red in it to make rouge unnecessary. On the whole I shouldn't wonder if in seven or
eight years' time she'd be as handsome as the young lady
of Collingwood ought to be."
"How should she be dressed?" asked Richard, who
knew that Victor's taste upon such matters was infallible,
his mother and sister both having been Paris mantuamakers.
"She should have scarlet and crimson and dark blue
trimmed with black," said Victor, adding that he presumed Mrs. Atherton would willingly attend to those matters.
Richard was not so sure, but he thought it worth the
while to try, and he that night dispatched Victor to Brier
Hill with a request that she would, if convenient, call
upon him at once.
"Don't tell her what I want," he said, " I wish to surprise her with a sight of Edith."
Victor promised obedience and set off for Brier Hill,




RICHARI)D AND EDITH.            65
where he found no one but Rachel, sitting before the
kitchen fire, and watching the big red apples roasting upon
the hearth.
"Miss Grace had started that morning for New York,"
she said, "and the Lord only knew when she'd come
home."
" And as he probably won't tell, I may as well go back,"
returned Victor, and bidding Rachel send her mistress to
Collingwood as soon as she should return, he bowed himself from the room.
As Rachel said, Grace had gone to New York, and the
object of her going was to repair the wrong done to Edith
Hastings, by taking her a second time from the Asylum,
and bringing her back to Brier Hill. Day and night the
child's parting words, "' You'll be sorry sometime," rang
in her ears, until she could endure it no longer, and she astonished the delighted Rachel by announcing her intention of going after the little girl. With her to will was
to do, and while Victor was reporting her absence to his
master, she, half-distracted, was repeating the words of
the matron,
" IHas not been here at all, and have not heard from her
either! What can it mean?"
The matron could not tell, and for several days Grace
lingered in the city, hoping Arthur would appear, but as
he failed to do this, she at last wrote to him at Geneva,
and then, in a sad, perplexed state of mind, returned to
Shannondale, wondering at and even chiding old Rachel
for evincing so little feeling at her disappointment.
But old Rachel by this time had her secret which she
meant to keep, and when at last Grace asked if any one
had called during her absence, she mentioned the n,mles
of every one save Victor, and then tried very hard to
think "who that'tother one was.  She knowed there
weas somebody else, but for the life of her she couldn't "Rachel did not quite dare to tell so gross a falsehood,




G6 6DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and so at this point she concluded to think, and added
suddenly,
"Oh, yes, I remember now.'Twas that tall, longhaired, scented-up, big-feelin' man they call Squire Herrin'ton's vally."
"Victor Dupres been here! " and Grace's face lighted
perceptibly.
" Yes, he said mouse-eer, or somethin' like that - meanin' the squire, in course - wanted you to come up thar as
soon as you got home, and my'pinion is that you go to
oncet.'Twont be dark this good while."
Nothing could be more in accordance with Grace's feelings than to follow Rachel's advice, and, half an hour later, Victor reported to his master that the carriage from
Brier Hill had stopped before their door. It would be
impossible to describe Mrs. Atherton's astonishment when,
on entering the parlor, the first object that met her view
was her former waiting-maid, attired in the crimson merino which Mrs. Matson, Lulu, the chambermaid, and Victor had gotten up between them; and which, though not
the best fit in the world, was, in color, exceedingly becoming to the dark-eyed child, who, perched upon the
music-stool, was imitating her own operatic songs to the
infinite delight of the old man, nodding his approval of
the horrid discords.
" Edith Hastings! " she exclaimed, What are you doing
here?" Springing from the stool and advancing towards
Grace, Edith replied,
"I live here. I'm Mr. Richard's little girl. I eat at
the table with him, too, and don't have to wash the dishes
either. I'm going to be a lady just like you, ain't I, Mr.
Harrington?" and she turned to Richard, who had entered in time to hear the last of her remarks.
There was a world of love in the sightless eyes turned
toward the little girl, and by that token, Grace Atherton
knew that Edith had spoken truly.




RICHARD AND EDITH.              67
"Run away, Edith," he said, "I wish to talk with the
lady alone."
Edith obeyed, and when she was gone Richard explained to Grace what seemed to her so mysterious, while she
in return confessed the injustice done to the child, and
told how she had sought to repair thle wrong.
"I am glad you have taken her," she said. "She will
be happier with you than with me, for she likes you best.
I think, too, she will make good use of any advantages
you may give her. She has a habit of observing closely, while her powers of imitation are unsurpassed. She
is fond of elegance and luxury, and nothing can please
her more than to be an equal in a house like this. But
what do you wish of me? What can I do to assist you? "
In a few words Richard stated his wishes that she
should attend to Edith's wardrobe, saying he had but
little faith in Mrs. Matson's taste. He could not have
selected a better person to spend his money than Grace,
who, while purchasing nothing out of place, bought always
the most expensive articles in market, and when at last
the process was ended, and the last dressmaker gone fiom
Collingwood, Victor, with a quizzical expr ession upon his
face, handed his master a bill for five hundred dollars, that
being the exact amount expended upon Edith's wardrobe.
But Richard uttered no word of complaint. During the
few weeks she had lived with him she had crept away
down into his heart just where Charlie used to be, and
there was nothing in his power to give which he would
withhold fiom her now. She shouldhave the best of teachers, he said, particularly in music, of which she was passionately fond.
Accordingly, in less than a week there came to Collingwood a Boston governess, armed and equipped with all
the accomplishments of the day; and beneath the supervision of Richard and Victor, Grace Atherton and Mrs.
Chapen, Edith's education began.




68           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER IX.
WOMANHOOD.
Eight times have the Christmas fires been kindled on
the hearths of Shannondale's happy homes; eight times
the bell from St Luke's tower has proclaimed an old year
dead, and a new one born; eight times the meek-eyed
daisy struggling through the April snow, has blossomed,
faded and died; eight times has summer in all her glowing beauty sat upon the New England hills, and the mellow autumnal light of the hazy October days falls on
Collingwood for the eighth tihne since last we trod the
winding paths and gravelled walks where now the yellow
leaves are drifting down firom the tall old maples and lofty
elms, and where myriad flowers of gorgeous hue are lifting
their proud heads unmindful of the November frosts
hastening on apace. All around Collingwood seems the
same, save that the shrubs and wines show a more luxurious growth, and the pond a wider sweep, but within there
is an empty chair, a vacant place, for the old man has gone
to join his lost ones where there is daylight forever, and
the winter snows have four times fallen upon his grave.
They missed him at, first and mourned for him truly, but
they have become accustomed to live without him, and
the household life goes on much as it did before.
It is now the afternoon of a mild October day, and the
doors and windows are opened wide to admit the warm
south wind, which, dallying for a moiment with the curtains of costly lace, floats on to the chamber above, where
it toys with the waving plumes a young girl is arranging
upon her riding hat, pausing occasionally to speak to the
fair blonde who sits watching her movements, and whose




WOMANHOOD.                   69
face betokens a greater maturity than her own, for Grace
Atherton's family Bible says she is thirty-two, while Edith
is seventeen.
Beautiful Edith Hastings. Eight years of delicate nurture, tender care and perfect health have ripened her into
a maiden of wondrous beauty, and far and near the people talk of the blind man's ward, the pride and glory of
Collingwood. Neither pains nor money, nor yet severe
discipline, have been spared by Richard Harrington to
make her what she is, and while her imperious temper
has bent to the one, her intellect and manners have expanded and improved beneath the influence of the other,
and Richard has not only a plaything and pet in the little
girl he took from obscurity, but also a companion and
equal, capable of entering with him the mazy labyrinths
of science, and astonishing him with the wealth of her
richly- stored mind. Still, in everything pertaining to her
womanhood she is wholly feminine and simple-hearted as
a child. Now, as of old, she bounds through the spacious
grounds of Collingwood, trips over the grassy lawn,
dances up the stairs, and fills the once gloomy old place
with a world of melody and sunlight. Edith knows that
she is beautiful! old Rachel has told her so a thousand
times, while Victor, the admiring valet, tells her so every
day, taking to himself no little credit for having taught
her, as he thinks, something of Parisian manners. Many
are the conversations she holds with him in his mother
tongue, for she has learned to speak that language with a
fluency and readiness which astonished her teachers and
sometimes astonished herself. It did not seem. difficult to
her, but rather like an old friend, and Marie at first was
written on every page of Ollendorff. But MZarie has faded now almost entirely from her mind, as have those other mysterious memories which used to haunt her so.
Nothing but the hair hidden in the chest binds her to the
past, and at this she often looks, wondering where the




70            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
head it once adorned is lying, whether in the noisy city
or on some grassy hillside where the wild flowers she
loves best are growing, and the birds whose songs she
tries to imitate, pause sometimes to warble a requiem for
the dead. Those tresses are beautiful, but not so beautiful
as Edith's. IHer blue-black hair is thicker, glossier, more
abundant than in her childhood, and is worn in heavy
braids or bands around her head, adding greatly to her
regal style of beauty. Edith has a pardonable pride in
her satin hair, and as she stands before the mirror she
steals an occasional glance at her crowning glory, which
is this afternoon arranged with far more care than usual;
not for any particular reason, but because she had a fanIcy
that it should be so.
They were going to visit Grassy Spring, a handsome
country seat, whose grounds lay contiguous to those of
Collingwood, and whose walls were in winter plainly discernible from the windows of the upper rooms. It had
recently been purchased and fitted up somewhat after the
style of Collingwood, and its owner was expected to take
possession in a few days. Edith's heart always beat faster when she heard his name, for Arthur St. Claire was
one of the links of the past which still lingered in her
remembrance. She had never seen him since they parted
in Albany, and after his leaving college she lost sight of
him entirely.  Latterly, however, she had heard from
Grace, who knew but little more of him than herself,
that he was coming into their very neighborhood; that
he had purchased Grassy Spring, and was to keep a kind
of bachelor's hall, inasmuch as he had no wife, nor yet a
prospect of any. So much Edith knew  and no more.
She did not dare to speak of Ni'na, for remembering her
solemn promise, she had never breathed that name to any
living being. But the picture in the glass, as she ever
termed it, was not forgotten, and the deep interest she felt
in Grassy Spring was owing, in a great measure, to the
fact that Nina was in her mind intimately associated with




WOSANHOOD.                    7!.
the place. Sooner or later she should meet her there, she
was sure; should see those golden curls again, and look
into those soft blue eyes, whose peculiar expression she
remembered as if it were but yesterday since they first
met her view.
"It is strange your cousin never married; he must, by
this time, be nearly twenty-seven," she said to Grace,
thinking the while of Nina, and carelessly adjusting the
jaunty hat upon her head.
" I think so too," returned Grace. "When quite young
he was very fond of the ladies, but I am told that he now
utterly ignores female society. Indeed, in his last letter
to me, he states distinctly that he wishes for no company
except occasional calls in a friendly way."
"Been disappointed, probably," suggested Edith, still
thinking of Nina, and wondering if Arthur did love her
so very much as to put faith in no one because of her
treachery. I
" It may be," said Grace; " and if so, isn't it a little queer
that he and Mr. Harrington should live so near each other;
both so eccentric; both so handsome and rich; both been
disappointed; and both so desirable as husbands? "
"Disappointed, MIrs. Atherton!  Has MIr. Harrington
been disappointed? " and the rich bloom on Edith's cheek
deepened to a scarlet hue, which Grace did not fail to
notice.
Her friendship for Edith Hastings had been a plant of
sluggish growth, for she could not, at once, bring herself
to treat as an equal one whom she formerly held as a servant, but time and circumstances had. softened her haughty pride, while Edith's growing popularity, both in the
village and at Collingwood, awakened in her a deep interest for the young girl, who, meeting her advances more
than half the way, compelled her at last to surrender, and
the two were now as whrm fiiends as individuals well can
be wvhen there is between them so great a disparity of




72           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
years and so vast a difference in disposition. In Grace's
heart the olden love for Richard had not died out, and
hitherto, it had been some consolation to believe that no
other ear would ever listen to the words of love, to
remember which continually would assuredly drive her
mad. But matters now were changed. Day by clay,
week by week, month by month, and year by year, a rose
had been unfolding itself at Collingwood, and with every
opening petal had grown more and more precious to the
blind man, until more than one crone foretold the end; and
Grace Atherton, grown fonder of gossip than she was
wont to be, listened to the tale, and watched, and wondered, and wept, and still caressed and loved the bright, beautiful girl, whom she dreaded as a powerful rival. This it
was which prompted her to speak of Richard's disappointment; and when she saw the effect produced upon Edith,
it emboldened her to go on, and tell how, years and years
ago, when Richard Harrington first went to Europe, he
had sued for the hand of a young girl whom he met there,
and who, while loving him dearly, shrank from walking
in his shadow, and gave herself to another.
"I must not tell you the name of this faithless girl,"
said Grace. "It is sufficient that her refusal made Richard gloomy, eccentric and misanthropical; in short, it
nearly ruined him."
"My curse be on the woman's head who wrought this
ruin, then," said Edith, her black eyes flashing with something of their former fire.
She had forgotten the scene in the kitchen of Brier Hill
when Rachel whispered to her that Grace Atherton was
in love, and she had now no suspicion that the calm, whitefaced woman sitting there before her was the being she
would curse. Neither was her emotion caused, as Grace
imagined, by any. dread lest the early love of Richard
Harrington should stand between herself and him. The
thought that she could be his wife had never crossed her




WOMANHOOD.                  73
brain, and her feelings were those of indignation toward
a person who could thus cruelly deceive a man as noble
and good as Richard, and of pity for him who had been
so deceived.
"I will love him all the more and be the kinder to him
for this vile creature's desertion," she thought, as she beat
the floor nervously with the little prunella gaiter, and this
was all the good Grace Atherton had achieved.
Edith had cursed her to her face, and with a sigh audi
blo only to herself she arose and said laughingly, "It's
time we were off, and you've certainly admired that figure
in the glass long enough. What do you think of yourself, any way?"
"Why," returned Edith, in the same light, bantering
tone, " I think I'm rather jolie, as I used to say. I wonder where I picked up that word. Victor says I must
have had a French nurse, but I'm sure I was too poor for
that. I wish I knew where I did come from and who I
am. It's terrible, this uncertainty as to one's birth. I
may be marrying my brother one of these days, who
knows?"
" See rather that you do not marry your father," retorted Grace, following Edith as she tripped down the stairs
and down the walk, whipping the tufts of box as she went,
and answering to Grace who asked if she did not sometimes find her duties irksome at Collingwood. "Never,
never. The links of my chains are all made of love
and so they do not chafe. Then, too, when I remember what Richard has done for me and how few sources
of happiness he has, I am willing to give my whole
life to him, if need be. Why, Mrs. Atherton, you can't
imagine how his dark features light up with joy, when
on his return from riding or from transacting business
he hears me in the hall, and knows that I am there to
meet him," and Edith's bright face sparkled and glowed
as she thought how often the blind man had blessed her
4




74            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
with his sightless but speaking eyes, when she gave up
some darling project which would take her from his side
and stayed to cheer his solitude.
They had mounted their horses by this time, and at
the speed which characterized Edith's riding, dashed down
the road and struck into the woods, the shortest route to
Grassy Spring.   With the exception of Collingwood,
Grassy Spring was the handsomest country scat for miles
around, and thinking, as she continually did, of Nina,
Edith rather gave it the preference as she passed slowly
through the grounds and drew near to the building.
Grace had seen the housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson, a talkative
old lady, who, big with the importance of her office,
showed them over the house, pointing out this elegant
piece of furniture and that handsome room with quite as
much satisfaction as if it had all belonged to herself:
In the third story, and only accessible by two flights
of stairs leading from Arthur's suite of rooms, was a large
square apartment, the door of which Mrs. Johnson unlocked with a mysterious shake of the head, saying to the
ladies, "The Lord only knows what this place is for.
Mr. St. Claire must have fixed it himself, for I found it
locked tighter than a drum, but I accidentally found on
the but'ry shelf a rusty old key, that fits it to a T. I've
beerr in here once and bein' you're his kin," nodding to
Grace, " and t'other one is with you, it can't do an atom
of harm for you to go. Ile's took more pains with this
chamber than with all the rest, and when I asked what'twas for, he said it was his " den," where he could hide if
he wanted to."
"Don't go," whispered Edith, pulling at Grace's dress.
"Mir. St. Claire might not like it."
But Grace felt no such scruples, and was already across
the threshold, leaving Edith by the door.
" It's as bad to look in as to go in," thought Edith, and
conquering her curiosity with a mighty effort, she walked




WOMAN-IOOD.                  75
resolutely down stairs, having seen nothing save that the
carpet was of the richest velvet and that the windows
had across them slender iron bars, rather ornamental than
otherwise, and so arranged as to exclude neither light nor
air.
Grace, on the contrary, examined the apartment thoroughly, thinking Mrs. Johnson right when she said that
more pains had been taken with this loom than with all the
others. The furniture was of the most expensive and elegant kind. Handsome rosewood easy-chairs and sofas
covered with rich satin damask, the color and pattern corresponding with the carpet and curtains. Ottomans, divans and footstools were scattered about - pictures and
mirrors adorned the walls, while in one corner, covered
with a misty veil of lace, hung the portrait of a female in
the full, rich bloom of womanhood, her light chestnut
curls falling about her uncovered neck, and her dreamy
eyes of blue having in them an expression much like that
which Edith had once observed in Nina's peculiar.eyes.
The dress was quite old-fashioned, indicating that the picture must have been taken long ago, and while Grace gazed upon it her wonder grew as to whose it was and whence
it came.
"Look at the bed," said Mrs. Johnson, and touching
Grace's elbow, she directed her attention to a side recess,
hidden from view by drapery of exquisite lace, and containing a single bed, which might have been intended for
an angel, so pure and white it looked with its snowy covering.
"What does it mean?" asked Grace, growing more
and more bewildered, while Mrs. Johnson replied in her
favorite mode of speech.
"The Lord only knows -looks as if he was going to
make it a prison for some princess; but here's the queerest
thing of all," and she thumped upon a massive door, which
was locked and barred, and beyond which her prying eyes
had never looked.




76           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Over the door was a ventilator, and Grace, quite as curious as MrI'S. Johnson, suggested that a chair or table be
brought, upon which she, being taller than her companion, might stand and possibly obtain a view.
" What do you see? " asked Mrs. Johnson, as Grace, on
tip-toe, peered into what seemed to be a solitary cell, void
of furniture of every kind, save a little cot, corresponding
in size with the fairy bed in the recess, but in naught else
resembling it, for its coverings were of the coarsest,
strongest materials, and the pillows scanty and small.
Acting from a sudden impulse, Grace determined not to
tell Mrs. Johnson what she saw, and stepping down from
the table, which she quickly rolled back to its place, she
said,
"It's nothing but a closet, where, I dare say, Mr. St.
Claire will keep his clothes when he occupies his den.
You must not let any one else in here, for Arthur might
be offended."
Mrs. Johnson promised obedience, and turning the rusty key, followed her visitor down the two long flights of
stairs, she, returning to her duties, while Grace went to
the pleasant library, where, with her hat and whip upon
the floor, Edith sat reading the book she had ventured to
take from the well-filled shelves, and in which she had
been so absorbed as not to hear the slight rustling in the
adjoining room, where a young man was standing in the
enclosure of the deep bay window, and gazing intently at
her. ITe had heard fiom Mrs. Johnson's daughter that
some ladies were going over the house, and not caring to
meet them, he stepped into the recess of the window just
as Edith entered the library. As the eye of the stranger
fell upon her, he came near uttering an exclamation of
surprise that anything so graceful, so queenly, and withal
so wondrously beautiful, should be found in Shannondale,
which, with his city ideas still clinging to him, seemed
like an out-of-the-way place, where the girls were buxom,




WOMANHOOD.                  77
good-natured and hearty, just as he remembered Kitty
Maynard to have been, and not at all like this creature of
rare loveliness sitting there before him, her head inclined
gracefully to the volume she was reading, and showing to
good advantage her magnificent hair.
"Who can she be?" he thought, and a thrill of unwonted admiration ran through his veins as Edith raised
for a moment her large eyes of midnight blackness, and
from his hiding-place he saw how soft and mild they were
in their expression. " Can Grace have spirited to her retreat some fair nymph for company? Hark! I hear her
voice, and now for the solution of the mystery."
Standing back a little further, so as to escape observation, the young man waited till Grace Atherton came
near.
" Here you are," she said, " poring over a book as usual.
I should suppose you'd had enough of that to do in reading to Mr. Harrington - German Philosophy, too! Will
wonders never cease? Arthur was right, I declare, when
he dubbed you Metaphysics!"
" Edith Hastings!" The young man said it beneath his
breath, while he involuntarily made a motion forward.
" Can it be possible, and yet now that I know it, I see
the little black-eyed elf in every feature. Well may the
blind man be proud of his proteg6. She might grace the
saloons of Versailles, and rival the Empress herself! "
Thus far he had soliloquised, when something Grace
was saying caught his ear and chained his attention at
once.
"Oh, Edith," she began, "you don't know what you
lost by being over squeamish. Such a perfect jewel-box
of a room, with the tiniest single bed of solid mahogany!
Isn't it queer that Arthur should have locked it up, and
isn't it fortunate for us that Mrs. Johnson found that rusty old key which must have originally belonged to the
door of the Den, as she says he calls it? "




78           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGiIT.
Anxiously the young man awaited Edith's answer, his
face aglow with indignation and his eyes flashing with anger.
"Fortunate for you, perhaps," returned Edith, tying on
her riding-hat, "but I wouldn't have gone in for anything."
" Why not? " asked Grace, walking into the hall.
" Because," said Edith, " MIr. St. Claire. evidently did not
wish any one to go in, and I think Mrs. Johnson was
wrong in opening the door."
"What a little Puritan it is! " returned( Grace, playfully
caressing the rosy cheeks of Edith, who had now joined
her in the hall. " Arthur never will lknow, for I certainly shall not tell either him or any one, and I gave Mrs.
Johnson some very wholesome advice upon that subject.
There she is now in the back-yard. If you like, we'll go
round and give her a double charge."
The young man saw them as they turned the corner of
the building, and gliding fiom his post, he hurried up the
stairs and entering the -Den, locked the door, and throwing himself upon the sofa, groaned aloud, while the drops
of perspiration oozed out upon his forehead, and stood
thickly about his lips. Then his mood changed, and pacing the floor he uttered invectives against the meddlesome
MrIts. Johnson, who, by this one act, had proved that she
could not be trusted. Consequently she must not remain
longer at Grassy Spring, and while in the yard below Mlrs.
Johnson was promising Grace " to be as still as the dead,"
Arthur St. Claire was planning her dismissal. This done,
and his future course decided upon, the indignant young
man felt better, and began again to think of Edith Hastings, whom he admired for her honorable conduct in refihsing to enter a place where she had reason to think she
was not wanted.
"Noble, high-principled girl," he said. "I'm glad I told
Mlr. Harrington what I did before seeing her. Otherwise




EDITH AT HO0ME                  79
he might have suspected that her beauty had something
to do with my offer, and so be jealous lest I had designs
upon' his singing-bird, as he called her. But alas, neither
beauty, nor grace, nor purity can now avail with me, miserable wretch that I am," and again that piteous moan, as
of a soul punished before its time, was heard in the silent
room.
But hark, what sound is that, which, stealing through
the iron-latticed windows, drowns the echo of that moan,
and makes the young man listen? It is Edith Hastings
singing one of her wild songs, and as the full rich melody
of her wonderful voice -falls upon his ear, Arthur St.
Claire bows his head upon his hands and weeps, for the
music carries him back to the long ago when he had no
terrible secret haunting every hour, but was as lighthearted as the maiden whom, as she gallops away on her
swift-footed Arabian, he looks after, with wistful eyes,
watching her until the sweep of her long riding-skirt and
the waving of her graceful plumes disappear beneath the
shadow of the dim woods, where night is beginning to
fall. Slowly, sadly, he turns from the window —merrily,
swiftly, the riders dash along, and just as the clock strikes
six, their panting steeds pause at the entrance to Collingwood.
CHAPTER X.
EDITTI AT HOME
It was too late for Grace to call, and bidding her companion good-bye, she galloped down the hill, while Edith,
in a meditative mood, suffered her favorite.Bedouin to
walk leisurely up the carriage road which led to the rear
of the house.




80           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
" Victor Dupres! " she exclaimed, as a tall figure emerged from the open door and came forward to meet her.
"Where did you come from?"
"From  New York," he replied, bowing very low.
"Will Mademoiselle alight?" and taking the little foot
from out the shoe he lifted her carefully from the saddle.
"Is he here?" she asked, and Victor replied,
" Certainement; and has brought home a fresh recruit
of the blues, too, judging from the length and color of
his face."
"Why did he go to New York?" interrupted Edith,
who had puzzled her brain not a little with regard to the
business which had taken Richard so suddenly from home.
"As true as I live I don't know," was Victor's reply.'For once he's kept dark even to me, scouring all the
alleys, and lanes, and poor houses in the city, leaving me at
the hotel, and taking with him some of those men with brass
buttons on their coats. One day when he came back he
acted as if he were crazy and I saw the great tears drop
on the table over which he was leaning, then when I
asked' if he'd heard bad news,' he answered,' No, joyful
news. I'm perfectly happy now. I'm ready to go home,'
and he did seem happy, until we drove up to the gate and
you didn't come to meet him.'Where's Edith?' he
asked, and when lMrs. Matson said you were out, his forehead began to tie itself up in knots, just as it does when
he is displeased. It's my opinion, Miss Edith, that you
humor him altogether too much. You are tied to him as
closely as a mother to her baby."
Edith sighed, not because she felt the bands to which
Victor had alluded, but because she reproached herself
for not having been there to welcome the blind man home
when she knew how much he thought of these little
attentions.
"I'll make amends though, now," she said, and remembering the story of his disappointment, her heart swelled




EDITH AT HOMIE.               81.
with a fresh feeling of pity for the helpless Richard, who,
sitting before the blazing fire in the library, did not hear
the light step coming so softly toward him.
All the way fiom the station, and indeed all the way
from New York, he had pictured to himself Edith's sylphlike form running down the steps to meet him; had felt
her warm hands in his, heard her sweet voice welcoming
him home again, and the world around him was filled with
daylight, for Edith was the sun which shone upon his
darkness. She was dearer to him now, if possible, than
when he left Collingwood, for, during his absence he had
learned that which, if she knew it, would bind her to him
by cords of gratitude too strong to be lightly broken.
She owed everything to him, and he, alas, he groaned
when he thought what he owed to her, but he loved her,
all the same, and this it was which added to the keenness
of his disappointment when among the many feet which
hastened out to meet him, he listened for hers in vain.
I-e knew it was very pleasant in his little library whither
Victor led him; very pleasant to sit in his accustomed
chair, and feel the fire-light shining on his face, but there
was something missing, and the blue veins were swelling
on his forehead, and the lines deepening about his mouth,
when a pair of soft, white arms were wound about his
neck, two soft white hands patted his bearded cheeks, and
a voice, whose every tone made his heart throb and beat
with ecstasy, murmured in his ear,
" Dear Mr. Richard, I am so glad you've come home,
and so sorry I was not here to meet you. I did not
expect you to-night. Forgive me, won't you? There,
let me smooth the ugly wrinkles away, they make you
look so cross and old," and the little fingers he vainly
tried to clasp, wandered caressingly over the knit brows,
while, for the first time since people began to call her Miss
Hastings, Edith's lips touched his.
Nor was she sorry when she saw how beautiful the love



82            DARKNE3S   AND DAYLIGHT.
light broke all over the dark, stern face, irradiating every
feature, and giving to it an expression almost divine.' "Kiss me again, Birdie," he said. " It is not often you
grant me such a treat," and he held her arms about his
neck until she pressed her lips once more against his own.
Then he released her, and making her sit down beside
him, rested his hand upon her shining hair, while he asked
her how she had busied herself in his absence, if she had
missed the old dark cloud, a bit, and if she was not sorry
to have him back.
He knew just what her answer would be, and when it was
given, he took her face between his hands, and turning it
up toward him, said, "I'd give all Collingwood, darling,
just to look once into your eyes and see if -." then,
apparently changing his mind, he added, "see if you are
pleased with what I've brought you, look;" and taking
from his pocket a square box he displayed to her view an
entire set of beautiful pearls. "I wanted to buy diamonds, but Victor said pearls were more appropriate for
a young girl like you. Are they becoming?" and he
placed some of them amid the braids of her dark hair.
Like all girls of seventeen, Edith was in raptures, nor
could he make her sit still beside him until, divested of
her riding habit, she had tried the effect of the delicate
ornaments, bracelets, ear-rings, necklace and all.
"I am so glad you like them," he said, and he did enjoy
it very much, sitting there and listening to her as she
danced about the room, uttering little girlish screams of
delight, and asking Victor, when at last he came in -
"if she wasn't irresistible? "
Victor felt that she was, and in his polite French way
he complimented her, until Richard bade him stop, telling
him "' she was already spoiled with flattery."
The pearls being laid aside and Victor gone, Edith
resumed her accustomed seat upon a stool at Richard's
feet, and foldincg both hands upon his knee, looked into




EDITH AT HIOME.               83
his face, saying, " Well, monsieur, why did you go off to
New York so suddenly? I think you might tell me now
unless it's something I ought not to know."
IHe hesitated a moment as if uncertain whether to tell
her or not; then said to her abruptly, "You've heard,
I believe, of the little child whom I saved from drowning?"
"Yes," she answered. "Don't you know I told you
once how I used to worship you because you were so
brave. I remember, too, of praying every night in my
childish way that you might some day find the little girl."
"Edith, I have found her," and the nervous hands
pressed tenderly upon the beautiful head almost resting
in his lap.
"Found her!" and Edith sprang to her feet, her large
eyes growing larger, but having in them no shadow of
suspicion. "Where did you find her? Where is she now?
What is her name?  Why didn't you biing her home? "
and out of breath with her rapid questioning, Edith sat
down again, while Richard laughingly replied, "WVVhere
shall I begin to answer all your queries?  Shall I take
them in order? I found out all about her in New York."
" That explains your scouring the alleys and lanes as
Victor said you did," interrupted Edith, and Richardl
rejoined rather sharply, " What does he know about it? "
"Nothing, nothing," returned Edith, anxious to shield
Victor from his master's anger. "I asked him what you
did in New York, and he told me that. Go on - what
is her name?"
"Eloise Temple. Her mother was a Swede, and her
father an American, much older than his wife."
"Eloise - Eloise - Eloise."
Edith repeated it three times.
"Where have I heard that name before? Oh, 1 know.
I heard Kitty Maynard telling the story to Mrs. Atherton.
Where is she, did you say, and how does she look? "
"She is with the family who adopted her as their own,




84           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
for her mother is dead. Eloise is an orphan, Edith," and
again the broad hand touched the shining hair, pityingly
this time, while the voice which spoke of the mother was
sad and low.
Suddenly a strange, fanciful idea flashed on Edith's mind,
and looking into Richard's face she asked, "Lo-ow old is
Eloise? "
"Seventeen, perhaps. Possibly, though, she's older."
" And you, Mr. Harrington - how old are you, please?
I'll never tell as long as I live, if you don't want me to."
She knew he was becoming rather sensitive with regard
to his age, but she thought he would not mind her knowing, never dreaming that she of all others was the one
from whom he would, if possible, conceal the fact that he
was thirty-eight. Still he told her unreservedly, asking
her the while if she did not consider him almost her
grandfather."
" Why, no," she answered; " you don't look old a bit.
You haven't a single grey hair. Ithink you are splendid,
and so I'm sure did the mother of Eloise; didn't she?"
and the roguish black eyes looked up archly into the
blind man's face.
Remembering what Grace had said of his love affair in
Europe many years since, and adding to that the evident
interest he felt in little Eloise Temple, the case was clear
to her as daylight. The Swedish maiden was the girl who
jilted Richard Harrington, and hence his love for Eloise,
for she knew he did love her from his manner when speaking of her and the pains he had taken to find her. He
had not answered her last question yet, for he did not understand its drift, and when at last he spoke he said,
"Mrs. Temple esteemed me highly, I believe; and I admired her very much. She had the sweetest voice I ever
heard, not even excepting yours, which is something like
it."
Edith nodded to the bright face on the mirror oppo



EDITH AT HOME.                85
site, and the bright face nodded back as much as to say,
"I knew'twas so."   /
"Was she really handsome, this Mrs. Temple?" she
asked, anxious to know how Richard Harrington's early
love had looked.
Instinctively the hands of the blind man met together
round Edith's graceful neck, as he told her how beautiful
that Swedish mother was, with her glossy, raven hair, and
her large, soft, lustrous eyes, and as he talked, there crept
into Edith's heart a strange, inexplicable affection for that
fair young Swede, who Richard said was not as happy
with her father-husband as she should have been, and who,
emigrating to another land, had died of a homesick, broken heart.
"I am sorry I cursed her to-day," thought Edith, her
tears falling fast to the memory of the lonely, homesick
woman, the mother of Eloise.
"Had she married Richard," she thought, "he would
not now be sitting here in his blindness, for she would
be with him, and Eloise, too, or some one very much like
her. I wish she were here now," and after a moment she
asked why he had not brought the maiden home with
him. "I should love her as much as my sister," she said;
" and you'd be happier with two of us, wouldn't you?"
" No," he answered; " one young girl is enough for any
house. I couldn't endure two."
" Then I ought to go away," said Edith promptly, her
bosom swelling with a dread lest she should eventually
have to go. "Eloise has certainly the best right here.
You loved her mother, you know, and you'd rather have
her than me, wouldn't you? "
She held both his hands now within her own. She
bent her face upon them, and he felt her tears trickling
through his fingers. Surely he was not to blame if, forgetting himself for the moment, he wound his arms about
her and hugging her to his bosom, told her that of all the




86           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHlT.
world she was the one he most wanted there at Collingwood, there just where she was now, her head upon his
shoulder, her cheek against his own. Once she felt slightly startled, his words were so fraught with tender passion, but regaiding him as her father, or at least her elder
brother, she could not believe he intended addressing her
save as his sister or his child, and releasing herself firom
his embrace, she slid bask upon her stool and said, "I'm
glad you're willing I should stay. It would kill me to go
fromn Collingwood now. I've been so happy here, and
found in you so kind a father."
She would say that last word, and she did, never observing that Richard frowned slightly as if it were to him an
unwelcome sound.
Presently Edith went on, " I think, though, this Eloise
ought to come, too, no matter how pleasant a home she
has. It is her duty to care for you who lost your sight
for her. Were I in her place, I should consider no sacrifice too, great to atone for the past. I would do everything in the world you asked of me, and then not half repay you."
"Every thing, Edith?  Did you say every thing?"
and it would seem that the blind eyes had for once torn
away their veil, so lovingly and wistfully they rested upon
the bowed head of the young girl, who, without looking
up, answered back,
"Yes, every thing. But I'm glad I am not this Eloise."
"Why, Edith, why? " and the voice which asked the
question was mournful in its tone.
" Because, returned Edith, "I should not care to be under so great obligations to any one. The burden would
be oppressive. I should be all the while wondering what
more I could do, while you, too, would be afraid that the
little kindnesses which now are prompted in a great measure by love would be rendered from a sense of gratitude
and duty. Wouldn't it be so, Mr. Richard?"




EDITH AT HOME.                87
"Yes, yes," he whispered. You are righlt. I should be
jealous that what my heart craved as love would be only
gratitude. I am glad you suggested this, Edith; very,
very glad, and now let us talk no more of Eloise."
"Ah, but I must," cried Edith. "There are so many
things I want to know, and you've really told me nothing.
Had she brothers or sisters? Tell me that, please."
"There was a half sister, I believe, but she is dead,"
said Richard. "They are all'dead but this girl. She is
alive and happy, and sometime I will tell you more of her,
but not now. I am sorry I told you what I have."
" So am I if I can't hear the whole," returned Edith,
beginning to pout.
"I did intend to tell you all when I began," said Richard, "but I've changed my mind, and Edith, I have faith
to believe you will not repeat to any one our conversation. Neither must you tease me about this girl. It is
not altogether an agreeable subject."
Edith saw that he was in earnest, and knowing how
useless it would be to question him further, turned heri
back upon him and gazing steadily into the fire, was wondering what made him so queer, when by way of diverting her mind, he said, "Did Victor tell you that Mr. St.
Claire came with us all the way from New York? "
"Mr. St. Claire, no," and Edith brightened at once,
forgetting all about Eloise Temple. "Why then didn't
IMrs. Atherton and I see him? We went over the house
this afternoon. It's a splendid place, most as handsome
as Collingwood."
" How would you like to live there? " asked Richard,
playfully. "One of the proposed conditions on which I
consented to receive you, was that when Mr. St. Claire had
a home of his own he was to take you off my hands; at
least, that was what he said, standing here where you sit;
and on my way from New York he reminded me of it,
inquiring for little Metaphysics, and asking if I were ready
to part with her."




88           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Do you wish me to go and let Eloise come?" Edith
asked, pettishly, and Richard replied,
"No, Edith, I need you more than Arthur ever can,
and you'll stay with me, too, stay always, won't you?
Promise that you will."
"Of course I shall," she answered. "I'll stay until I'm
married, as I suppose I shall be sometime; everybody is."
Richard tried to be satisfied with this reply, but it grated harshly, and it seemed to him that a shadow deeper,
darker than any he had ever known, was creeping slowly
over him, and that Arthur St. Claire's was the presence
which brought the threatening cloud. He knew this half
jealous feeling was unworthy of him, and with a mighty
effort he shook it off, and saying to Edith, calmly, " Mr. St.
Claire asked many questions concerning you and your attainments, and when I spoke of your passion for drawing,
lamenting that since Miss Chapin's departure, there was
in town no competent instructor, he offered to be your
teacher, provided you would come up there twice a week.
lie is a very sensible young man, for when I hesitated he
guessed at once that I was revolving the propriety of
your going alone to the house of a bachelor, where there
were no females except the servants, and he said to me,'You can come with her, if you like."'
"' So it's more proper for a young lady to be with two
gentlemen than with one, is it?" and Edith laughed merrily, at the same time asking if Richard had accepted the
offer.
"I did, provided it met your approbation," was the reply, and as Victor just then appeared, the conversation
for the present ceased.
But neither Eloise nor Arthur left the minds of either
IRichard or Edith, and while in her sleep that night the
latter dreamed of the gentle Eloise, who called her sister,
and from whom Arthur St. Claire strove to part her, the
former tossed restlessly upon his pillow, moaning to him



MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.           89
self, "I am glad I did not tell her. She must answer me
for love and not for gratitude."
CHAPTER XI.'MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.
The next morning as the family at Collingwood sat at
their rather late breakfast a note was brought to Richard,
who immediately handed it to Edith. Breaking the seal,
and glancing at the name at the end, she exclaimed, "It's
from Mr. St. Claire, and he says, — let me see:
" GRASSY SPRING, Oct. 18"Dear Sir:-A  wholly unexpected event makes it
necessary for me to be absent from home for the next few
weeks. During this time my house will be shut up, and
I shall be very glad if in her daily rides Miss Hastings
will occasionally come round this way and see that every
thing is straight. I would like much to give the keys into
her charge, knowing as I do that I can trust her. The books
in my library are at her disposal, as is also the portfolio
of drawings, which I will leave upon the writing table.
"When I return, and have become somewhat domesti.
cated, I hope to have her for my pupil, as proposed yesterday. Please let me know at once if she is willing to take
charge of my keys.
In haste,
ARTHUR ST. CLAIRE."
"What does he mean?" asked Edith, as she finished
reading this note aloud. "What does he wish me to do?"
" Why," returned Richard, "He is to shut up his house,
which, being brick, will naturally become damp, and I
suppose he wishes you to air it occasionally, by opening
the windows and letting in the sunlight.




90           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGI1T.
"Wishes me, in short, to perform a servant's duty,"
said Edith, haughtily. "Very well, I'll do it. Perhaps it
will pay my tuition in part; who knows? " and in spite of
Richard's remonstrances, she seized a pen and dashed off
the following:
"MAIR. ST CLAIRE:
" Dear Sir, - Miss Hastings accepts the great honor of
looking after your house, and will see that nothing gets
mouldy during your absence.
"In haste,
RICHARD HARRINGTON,
" Per Edith Hastings."
"P. S. Will you have her clean it before you return? "
"Edith! " and Richard's voice was very stern. " Arthur
St. Claire never intended to insult you, and you shall not
send that note. Tear it up at once."
Edith stood a moment irresolute, while her eyes flashed
with indignation, but she had been too long accustomed
to obey the man, who, groping his way to her side, stood
commandingly before her to resist his authority now,
and mechanically tearing the note in pieces, she tossed
them into the fire.
4"Victor;" said Richard, wishing to spare Edith the
mortification of writing a second answer, "tell the man
from Grassy Spring that Mr. St. Claire can leave his
keys at Collingwood."
Victor departed with the message, and Edith, somewhat recovered from her pet, said,
" Isn't it queer, though, that Mr. St. Claire should ask
to leave his keys with me? One would suppose he'd trust
his cousin to rummage his goods and chattels sooner than
a stranger."
"He has his reasons, I dare say, for preferring you,"
returned Richard, adding that he himself would go with




MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.           91
her some day to Grassy Spring, and assist her in airing
the house.
Toward the middle of the afternoon, the keys of Collingwood were delivered to Edith, together with a sealed
note, containing a single line,
" The broken key unlocks the _Den."
IIad Arthur wished to puzzle Edith he could not have
done so more effectually than he did by these few words.
"What do I care," she said, "which unlocks the Denl
I certainly should not cross its threshold were the door
left wide open. What does he mean?" and she was still
wondering over the message when Grace Athevton was
announced.
As she grew older Grace assumed a more familiar,
youthful manner than had characterized her early womanhood, and now, tossing her riding hat and whip upon the
bed, she sank into Edith's easy chair and began: "The
funniest thing imaginable has happened at Grassy Spring.
His Royal Highness, Lord St. Claire, has flownn into a violent passion with Mrs. Johnson for having shown us into
that room."
"Shown you, you mean. I didn't go in," interrupted
Edith, and Grace continued, " Well, shown me, then,
though I think you might at least share in the disgrace. I
never saw Arthur as indignant as he was last night when
he called on me.' Women were curious, prying creatures,
any way,' he said,'and he had no faith in any of them."'
"Did he say so?" asked Edith, and Grace replied,
", Well, not exactly that. He did make a few exceptions,
of which you are one. Mrs. Johnson must have told him
that you refused to enter. What harm was there, any
way, and what's the room for? I'm beginning to grow
curious. Here, he's dismissed Mrs. Johnson and her
daughter, telling her if he could not trust her in small
matters he could not in those of greater importance, and
the good soul has taken the afternoon express for Boston,




92            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
where she formerly lived. She says he paid her three
months' extra wages, so he was liberal in that respect;
but the strangest part of all is that he is going to Florida,
where he has some claim to or owns a plantation of negroes, and he intends to bring a whole cargo of them to
Grassy Spring -housekeeper, cook, chambermaid, coachman, gardener, and all. Don't you think he's crazy? "
Edith thought the facts would warrant such a conclusion, and Grace went on. "I offered to take charge of
his house, telling him it ought not to be shut up for several weeks, but he declined so haughtily, saying he should
leave the keys with some one less curious than myself,
and asked if I supposed you would be offended if he offered them to you. I told him no, and I dare say he will
send them here, if, indeed, he has not already done so.
Has he?" she asked, quickly, as she saw a peculiar smile
on Edith's lip.
" Yes," Edith answered, feeling the while so glad that
Richard had prevented her from sending that insulting
note.
She knew now why the keys were given to her, and the
fact that Arthur St. Claire trusted her even before his own
cousin, left a warm, happy spot in her heart. Upon second thought this act was not displeasing to Grace herself.
It evinced a preference in Arthur for Edith Hastings, and
on her way home she busied herself in building castles of
the future, when Edith, as the wife of Arthur and mistress of Grassy Springy would cease to be her rival. As
Grace had said, Mrs. Johnson and Rose, her daughter, were
dismissed, the house was shut up, the owner gone, the
keys in Edith's possession, and for many days the leaves
of crimson and of gold drifted down upon the walks and
lay piled beneath the windows and upon the marble steps,
where they rested undisturbed, save when the evening
wind whirled them in fantastic circles and then sent them
back again to their first lodging place.




MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.           93
Occasionally Edith, on her spirited Bedouin, rode slowly by, glancing at the grounds and garden, where so many
flowers were blossoming for naught, and then gazing curiously at the latticed windows looking out toward Collingwood. She knew which ones they were, though the blinds
were closed tightly over them, and she wondered if the
mystery of that room would ever be revealed to'her.
Once, as she was riding by, she saw a stranger standing
upon the steps of the front door and pulling vehemently
at the silver knob which brought him no response. Reining Bedouin at the gate she waited until the gentleman,
tired of ringing, came slowly down the walk, apparently
absorbed in some perplexing thought. He did not see her
until almost upon her, when, bowing politely, he said, " I
beg your pardon, Miss. Can you tell me where Mr. St.
Claire's to be found?"
" He has gone to Florida," she answered, " and will not
return for some weeks."
"Gone to Florida, and I not know it! That's very
queer," and the stranger bit his lip with vexation.
"Did you wish particularly to see him!" asked Edith,
and he replied,
"Yes, a friend lies very sick in the -" he paused a
moment, looked searchingly at Edith, and added, "in
Worcester. We can-do nothing with her, and I have
come for him."
Edith thought of Nina, thought of the Den, thought
of every thing, except that the man seemed waiting for
her to speak.
"Won't be home for some weeks," he said at last, as
she continued silent, "And you don't know where a letter would reach him?"
"No, sir, but I will deliver any message from you as
soon as he returns."
The stranger scrutinized her closely a second time ere
he replied,




94           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
" Tell him Griswold has been here and wishes him to
come to Worcester at once."
Edith was mortal, nay more, was a genuine descendant
of mother Eve, and with a feeling akin to what that fair
matron must have felt when she wondered how those apples did taste, she said to the man, "Who shall I say is
sick?"
"A friend," was the laconic reply, as he walked rapidly
away, mluttering to himself, "A pretty scrape St. Claire is
getting himself into. Poor Arthur, poor Arthur."
It would seem that Edith, too, was imbued with something of the spirit which prompted him to say, "Poor
Arthur," for she involuntarily sighed, and casting another
glance at the windows of the den, gave loose rein to Bedouin and galloped swiftly down the road.
The next morning was clear and bright, and as Richard
felt the bracing air, he said to her, "We will visit Grassy
Spring to-day. It's time you gave it a little air."
The carriage was accordingly brought out, and in half
an hour's time Richard and Edith were treading the deserted rooms, into which they let the warm  sunlight by
opening wide the windows, all save those of one chamber.
Edith did not go near the Den, and she marvelled that
Arthur should have given her its key, indicating which it
was. She did not know that the rather peculiar young
man had lain for her a snare, by which means he would
surely know how far her curiosity had led her. He might
have spared himself the trouble, for Edith was the soul
of honor, and nothing could have induced her to cross the
proscribed threshold."
"It's very pleasant here, isn't it?" Richard asked, as
they went from one room to another, and lie felt the soft
carpets yield to his tread.
"Yes," she answered; "but not as pleasant as Collingwood. I like my own home best," and she looked into
his face in time to catch the expression she loved so well




]M~ATTE'RS AT GRASSY SPRING.        95
— an expression of' trusting, childlike happiness, touching
to behold in a strong man.
He liked to know that Edith was contented with Collingwood; contented with him; and he hoped it would
be so always. He could not bear the thought that he had
suffered every fibre of his heart to twine and intertwine
themselves around her, only to be one day broken and
cast bleeding at his feet. But somehow, here at Grassy
Spring, in the home of Arthur St. Claire, he felt oppressed with a dread lest this thing should be; and to Edith,
when she asked what made him so pale,.he said,
"It's close in here, I think. Let's hurry out into the
open air."
She led him to an iron chair beneath a forest maple,
and leaving him there alone went back to close the windows she had opened. One of those in the drawing-room
resisted all her efforts for a time, but came down at last
with a bang, causing her to start, and hit her foot against
a frame, which she had not before observed, but which
she now saw was a portrait standing in the dark corner
with its face against the wall.
" Truly there can be no harm in looking at this," she
thought, and turning it to the light she stepped back to
examine it.'Twas the picture of a black-eyed, black-haired child
— a little girl, scarcely three years old, judging from the
baby face, and the fat, dimpled hands turning so earnestly
the leaves of a picture book. One tiny foot was bare, and
one encased in a red morocco shoe.
"Dear, darling baby," she said aloud, feeling an irresistible desire to hug'the little creature to her bosom,
"Who are you, baby?  Where are you now? and how
came you with Mr. St. Claire?"
She asked these questions aloud, and was answered by
Richard calling from his seat beneath the maple to know
why she tarried so long. With one more lingering glsnce




96          DARKNESS AEND DAYLIGHT,
at the infant, she locked the doors and hastened out to
her blind charge. On three or four other occasions she
came alone to Grassy Spring, opening the doors and windows, and feasting her eyes upon the beautiful little child.
Edith was wonderfully in love with that picture, and
many a theory she built as to the original. Grace had
told her that Arthur had no sister, and this, while it tended to deepen the mystery, increased her interest.
" I'll ask him about her when he gets home," she thought;
and she waited anxiously for his return, which occurred
much sooner than she anticipated.
It was a cold, raw November day, and the rain was
beating against the windows of the little room she called
her boudoir, and where she now sat sewing, when Victor,
who had been sent to Grassy Spring to see that the storm
did not penetrate the western blinds, appeared before her,
eJaculating, "Mon.Dieu, Miss Hastings. What do you
think there is over yonder at Grassy Spring? A whole
swarm of niggers, and Guinea niggers at that, I do believe. Such outlandish specimens! There they sit bent
up double with the cold and hovering round the kitchen
fire, sonle on the floor, some on chairs, and one has actually taken the tin dish pan and turned it bottom side up
for a stool. They come from Florida, they say, and they
sorter'long to Marsa St. Claire. They called me marsa,
too, and when Mr. St. Claire asked me how my master
and young lady were, the old she one who sat smoking in
the corner, with a turban on her head as high as a church
steeple, took the pipe from her mouth and actually swore.
"Swore, Victor!" exclaimed Edith, who had listened
in amazement to his story.
"' I don't know what you call it but swearing; says she,'A white nigger, Lor'-a-mighty,' and the whole bevy of
them opened their ranks for me to sit down in their circle
- kind of a fellow feeling, you know," and Victor endeavored to hide the shock his pride had received by laughing loudly at the negroes' mistake.




MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.           97
"How did you get in? " asked Edith. "He must have
been there before you."
"He had a key to the back door," returned Victor,
"and I gave him up mine. He wants you to send the
others. Shall I take them over? "
" Yes - no - I will go myself," said Edith, remembering Mr. Griswold, from Worcester, and the message she
was to deliver.
"You go in this rain! Mr. Harrington won't let you,"
said Victor, and Edith rejoined, " I shan't ask him. "I've
been out in worse storms than this. Bring up Bedouin."
Victor was never happier than when obeying Edith,
and in an inconceivably short space of time Bedouin stood
at the back piazza, where his mistress mounted him and
rode away. It was not until she had left the Collingwood
grounds and was out upon the main road, that she began
to feel any doubts as to the propriety of what she was
doing. She had not seen Arthur St. Claire for eight years.
She must, of course, introduce herself, and would he not
marvel to see her there in that rain, when a servant could
have brought the keys as well. And the message, too -
Victor might have delivered that had she been willing to
trust him with it, but she was not. Arthur St. Claire had
a secret of some kind; Mr. Griswold was concerned in it,
and it was to guard this secret from all curious ears that
she was doing what she was. Having thus settled the
matter to her mind, Edith rode on, unmindful of the rain,
which had partially subsided, but still dripped from her
black plumes and glanced off from her velvet habit. A
slight nervous trepidation seized her, however, as she drew
near to Grassy Spring, and noticed the look of surprise
with which a stalwart African, standing by the gate, regarded her. Riding up to him she said, good-naturedly,
"How d'ye, uncle?" having learned so much of negro
dialect from Rachel, who was a native of Georgia.
Immediately the ivories of the darkie became visible,
6




98            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and with a not ungraceful bow, he answered, "Jest tolable, thankee;" while his eyes wandered up the road, as
if in quest of something they evidently did not find, for
bending forward he looked curiously behind Edith, saying by way of apology, "I'se huntin' for yer little black
boy; whar is he? "
"Where's who?" and in her fiight, lest some one of
the little " Guinea niggers" about whom Victor had told
her, might be seated behind her, Edith leaped with one
bound from the saddle, nearly upsetting the young man
hastening out to meet her.
Southern bred as the negro was he could not conceive
of a white lady's riding without an escort, and failii  to
see said escort, he fancied it must be some diminutive
child perched upon the horse, and was looking to find
him, feeling naturally curious to know how the negroes
of Yankee land differed fiom those of Florida. All this
Edith understood afterward, but she was too much excited now to think of any thing except that she had probably made herself ridiculous in the eyes of Arthur
St. Claire, who adroitly rescued her from  a fall in the
mud, by catching her about the waist and clasping one
of her hands.
"'Miss Hastings, I believe," he said, when he saw that
she had regained her equilibriumn, "This is a pleasure I
hardly expected in this stormn,-but come in. You are
drenched with rain;" and still holding her hand, he led
her into the library, where a cheerful fire was blazing.
Drawing a chair before it he made her_ sit down, while
he untied and removed her hat, brushing the drops of
rain from her hair, and doing it in so quiet, familiar, and
withal so womanly a manner that Edith began to feel
quite at home with him, and to think she had not done
so foolish a thing, after all, in coming there. When sure
she was comfortable, he drew a chair opposite to her, and
for the first time since they met, she hlad a chance to see




MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.            99
what changes eight years had wrought in one she thought
so handsome as a youth. He was larger, more fully developed than when she parted from him in Albany, and it
seemed to her as if he were taller, too. He was certainly
manlier in his appearance, and the incipient mustache at
which her nose was once contemptuously elevated, was
now a rich, brown beard, adding, as some would think, to
the beauty of his face, the pride of his barber, and the
envy of his less fortunate comrades. He was a remarkably fine looking man, handsomer even than Richard Harrington, inasmuch as he had not about him the air of helplessness which characterized the blind man. The same
old mischievous twinkle lurked in the soft brown eyes,
and the corners of the mouth curved just as they used to
do. But his smile was not as frequent or as joyous as of
old, while on his brow there was a shadow resting —an
expression of sad disquiet, as if thus early he had drank
deeply fiom the cup of sorrow. Amid his wavy hair a
line of silver was now and then discernible, and Edith
thought how much faster he had grown old than Richard
Harrington. And well he might, for Richard, in his
blindness, was happier far than Arthur St. Claire, blessed
with'health, and riches, and eyesight, and youth. He had
no secret eating to his very heart's core, and with every
succeeding year magnifying itself into a greater evil than
it really was, as ail error concealed is sure to do. Besides
that, Richard had Edith, while Arthur, alas, poor Arthur,
he had worse than nothing; and as he looked across the
hearth to where Edith sat, he ceased to wonder that one
who for eight years had basked in the sunshine of her
presence, should be as young, as vigorous and happy as
Richard had appeared to him. But he must not think
of this. He professed to be a woman-hater, he who, in
his early boyhood, had counted his conquests by scores;
and even if he were not, beautiful Edith Hastings could
never be aught to him; and he must not suffer himself




100           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
for a single moment to think howz beautiful she was, still
he could not help looking at her, and not a movement of
her hand or a bend of her head escaped him. But so
skillfully did he manage that the deluded girl fancied he
never once glanced at her, while he expressed to her his
gratitude for having taken so good care of his house.
"There is one room, however, you did not open," and
the eyes of brown met now the eyes of black, but were
quickly withdrawn, as he continued, "I mean the one at
the head of the stairs, leading from my private sittingroom."
"' How do you know? " asked Edith, a suspicion of the
truth flashing upon her. "Did Blue Beard lay a snare in
which to catch Fatima?"
"- He did," Arthur answered, " but was nearly as certain
then as now that she would not fall into it. Miss Hastings, it gives me more pleasure than I can well express to
find one female who is worthy to be trusted -who has
no curiosity."
"But I have a heap of curiosity," returned Edith,
laughingly. "I'm half crazy to know what that room is
for and why you are so particular about it."
" Then you deserve more credit than I have given'you,"
he replied, a dark shadow stealing over his handsome face.
Edith was about to ask him of the portrait in the drawing room, when he prevented her by making some playful
allusion to the circumstances of their first acquaintance.
"I began to think you had forgotten me," said Edith,
"though I knew you could not well forget the theft unjustly charged to me."
She hoped he would now speak of Nina, but he did
not, and as she for the first time remembered Mr. Griswold, she said, after a moment's pause,
"I came near forgetting my principal errand here. I
could have sent your keys, but I would rather deliver
Mr. Griswold's message myself."




MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING.           101
She expected Arthur to start, but she was not prepared
for him to spring fiom his chair as suddenly as he did.
"Mr. Griswold!" he repeated. "Where did you see
him?  HIas he been here?  WVhat did he say?  Tell me,
Edith - liss Hastings - I beg your pardon - tell me his
errand."
He stood close to her now, and his eyes did not leave
her face for an instant while she repeated the particulars
of her interview with the stranger.
"And this is all- you've told me all that passed between you? " he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, all," she answered, pitying him, he looked so
frightened, so disturbed.
Consulting his watch, he continued, "There's time, I
see, if I am expeditious. I must take the next train east,
though I would so much rather stay and talk with you.
I shall see you again, Miss Hastings. You'll come often
to Grassy Spring, won't you?  I need the sight of a face
like yours to keep me fromn going mad."
He wrung her hand and stepped into the hall just as
one of the black women he had brought from Florida appeared.
"Aunt Phillis," he said, "I wish to speak with you,"
and going with her to the extremity of the hall, they conversed together in low, earnest tones, as if talking of
some great sorrow in which both were interested.
Once Edith heard Aunt Phillis say, "Blessed lamb,
that I've done toted so many times in these old arms.
Go, Marser Arthur; never you mind old Phillis, she'll get
on somehow. Mebby the young lady in thar kin show
me the things and tell me the names of yer Yankee
gimcracks."
"I have no doubt she will," returned Arthur, adding
something in a whisper which Edith could not hear.
A moment more and Arthur passed the door, equipped
with overcoat and umbrella, and she heard his rapid steps




102          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
upon the back piazza as he went towards the carriage
house. Aunt Phillis now re-entered the library, curtesying low to Edith, who saw upon her old black face the
trace of recent tears.
" Is Mr. St. Claire's friend very sick?" Edith ventured
to ask, and instantly the round bright eyes shot at her a
glance of alarm, while the negress replied,
"Dunno, misses. He keeps his'fars mostly to hisself,
and Phillis has done larnt not to pry."
Thus rebuked, Idith arose and began to tie on her hat
preparatory to leaving.
"Come in dis way a minute, Miss," said Phillis.
"We're from Floridy, and dunno more'n the dead what
to do in such a shiny kitchen as Marster St. Claire done
keeps."
Edith followed her to the kitchen, in which she found
several dusky forms crouched before the fire, and gazing
about them with a wondering look. To Edith they were
exceedingly polite, and taking a seat in their midst she
soon learned fiom a loquacious old lady, who seemed to
be superannuated, that "they were all one famnily, she
being the grandmother, Ike and Phillis the father and
mother, and'tothers the children. Were all Ber-nards,"
she said, "case that was ole lnarster's name, but now I
dunno who we does'long to. Some says to Miarster
St. Claire and some says to Miss -  "
"3lother! "' and Phillis bustled up to the old lady, who,
utteringC a loud outcry, exclaimed,
"The Lord, Phillis; you needn't done trod on my fetched corns. I warn't a gwine to tell," and she loudly bewa:iled her aching foot, encased in a shoe of most wonderful make.
WVhen the pain had partially. subsided, the talkative
Judy continued,
"There wasn't no sense, so I tole'em, in'totin' us way
off here in the dead o' winter. I'se kotched a misery in




MATTERS AT- GRASSY SHRING.          103
my back, and got the shivers all over me. I'se too old
any way to leave my cabin thar in Floridy, and I'd a heap
sight rather of stayed and died on de old plantation. We
has good times thar, me and Uncle Abe -that's an old
colored gentleman that lives jinin', and does nothin', just
as I do. He lost his wife nex Christmas'll be a year; and,
bein' lonesome like, he used to come over o' nights to talk
about her, and tell how mizzable it was to be alone."
"You are a widow, I presume," said Edith, her black
eyes brimming with fun.
"Yes, chile, I'se been a widdy thirty year, an' Uncle
Abe was such a well-to-do nigger, a trifle shaky in the
legs, I know; but it don't matter. Marster St. Claire
wouldn't part the family, he said, and nothin' to do but I
must come. Uncle Abe's cabin was comfable enough,
and thar was a hull chest of Rhody's things, a doin' nobody no good."
Aunt Judy paused, and looked into the fire as if seeing
there images of the absent Abel, while Edith regarded
her intently, pressing her hands twice upon her forehead,
as if trying to retain a confused, blurred idea which flitted across her mind.
"Judy," she said, at last, "it seems to me I must have
seen you somewhere before, though where, I dont know."
"Like enough, honey," returned Judy. "Your voice
sounds mighty nateral, and them black eyes shine an'
glisten like some oder eyes I seen somewhar. Has you
been in Floridy, chile?"
" No," returned Edith; " I was born in New York City,
I believe."
" Then'taint likely we's met afore," said Judy, " though
you do grow on me'mazin'ly. You're then very spawn o'
somebody. Phillis, who does the young lady look like?"
Phillis, who had been rummaging the closets and cupboards, now came forward, and scrutinizing Edith's features, said, " She favors Master Ber-nard's last wife, only
she's taller and plumper."




104          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
But with the querulousness of old age Judy scouted
the idea.
"Reckoned she knowed how MIarster Bernard's last
wife looked.'Twan't no more like the young lady than'twas like Uncle Abe," and with her mind thus brought
back to Abel, she commenced an eulogy upon him, to
which Edith did not care to listen, and she gladly followed Phillis into the pantry, explaining to her the use of
such conveniences as she did not fully understand.
"Two o'clock!" she exclaimed, as she heard the silver
bell from the library clock. "Richard'll think I'm lost,"
and bidding her new acquaintances good bye, she hurried
to the gate, having first given orders for Bedouin to be
brought from the stable.
"Shan't I go home wid you, Miss?" asked the negro,
who held the pony; "it's hardly fittin' for you to go
alone."
But Edith assured him she was not afraid, and galloped
swiftly down the road, while the negro John looked admiringly after, declaring to his father, who joined him,
that "she rode mighty well for a Yankee girl."
CHAPTER XII.
LESSONS.
Arthur St. Claire had returned from Worcester, but it
was several days ere he'presented himself at Collingwood; and Edith was beginning to think he had forgotten her and the promised drawing lessons, when he one
evening was ushered by Victor into the parlor, where she
was singing to Richard his favorite songs. He was paler
than when she saw him before, and she fancied that he




LESSONS.                  105
seemed weary and worn, as if sleep and himself had been
for a long time strangers.
"Did you leave your friend better?" she asked.
"Yes, better," he answered hurriedly, changing the
conversation to topics evidently more agreeable.
One could not be very unhappy in Edith's presence.
She possessed so much life, vivacity and vigor, that her
companions were sure to become more or less imbued with
her cheerful spirit; and as the evening advanced, Arthur
became much like the Arthur of Brier Hill memory, and
even laughed aloud on several occasions.
"I wish I was sure of finding at Grassy Spring somebody just like you," he said to Edith when at last he
arose to go. "You have driven away a whole army of
blues. I almnost believe I'd be willing to be blind, if, by
that means, I could be cared for as Mr. Harrington is."
"'And crazy, too?" slily interrupted Edith, who was
standing near him as he leaned against the marble mantel.
"No, no —oh, heavens, no! anything but that," and
the hand he placed in Edith's shook nervously, but soon
grew still between her soft, warm palms.
There was something life-giving in Edith's touch, as
well as soul-giving in her presence, and standing there
with his cold, nervous hand in hers, the young man felt,
himself grow strong again, and full of courage to hope
for a happier future than the past had been. He knew
she could not share the future with him- but he would
have as much of her as possible, and just as she was wondering if he would remember the lessons, he spoke of them
and asked when she could come.
"Just when Mr. Harrington thinks best," she replied,
and thus appealed to, Richard, guided by Edith's voice,
came forward and joined them.
"Any time," he said. "To morrow, if you like," adding
that he believed he, too, was to be always present.
Edith's eyes sought those of Arthur, reading there a
5*




106            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
reflection of her own secret thoughts, to wit, that three
would be one too many, but they could not tell him so and
Arthur responded at once, " Certainly, I shall expect you
both, say to-morrow at ten o'clock; I am most at leisure
then."
The next morning, at the appointed time, Richard and
Edith appeared at Grassy Spring, where they found
Arthur waiting for them, his portfolio upon the table, and
his peicils lying near, ready to be used.
"I am afraid you'll find it tiresome, Mr. HIarrington,"
he said, as he assigned his visitor a chair, and then went
back to Edith.
"I shall do very well," answered Richard, and so he
did for that lesson, and the next, and the next, but at last, in
spite of his assertion to the contrary, he found it dull business going to Grassy Spring twice each week, and sitting
alone with nothing to occupy his mind, except, indeed, to
wonder how near Arthur was to Edith, and if he bent over
her as he remembered seeing drawing teachers do at
school.
Richard was getting very tired of it - very weary of
listening to Arthur's directions, and to Edith's merry laughs
at her awkward blunders, and he was not sorry when one
lesson-day, the fifth since they began, Grace Atherton's
voice was heard in the hall without, asking for admission.
He had long since forgiven Grace for jilting him, and
they were the best of friends; so when she suggested
their going into the adjoining room, where it was pleasanter and she could play to him if he liked, he readily
assented, and while listening to her lively conversation
and fine playing, he forgot the lapse of time, and was
surprised when Edith came to him with the news that it
was 12 o'clock.
"Pray, don't go yet," said Arthur, who was loth to
part with his pupil. "You surely do not dine till three,
and I have already ordered lunch. IHere it comes," and




LEsSos.                   107
he pointed to the door where Phllis stood, bearing a huge
silver salver, on which were wine and cake and fruit of
various kinds.
" Grapes," screamed Editfh, as she saw the rich purple
clusters, which had been put up for winter use by poor,
discarded Mrs. Johnson. " I really cannot go till I have
some of them," and as there was no alternative Richard
sat down to wait the little lady's pleasure.
He did not care for lunch, but joined in the conversation, which turned upon matrimony.
" It must be a very delightful state," said Edith, " provided one were well matched and loved her husband, as
I am sure I should do."
"'Supposing you didn't love him," asked Grace, "but
had married him from force of circumstances, what then? "
"I'd kill him  and the circumstances too," answered
Edith. "Wouldn't you, Mr. St. Claire? "
"I can hardly tell," he replied, " not having matrimony
in my mind. I shall never marry."
"Never marry!" and the pang at Edith's heart was
discernible in her soft, black eyes, turned so quickly toward this candidate for celibacy.
" How long since you came to that decision? " asked
Grace; and in tones which indicated truth, Arthur replied,
" Several years at least, and I have never for a moment
changed my mind."
"Because the right one has not eome, perhaps, put in
Richard, growing very much interested in the conversation.
"The right one will never come," and Arthur spoke
earnestly. "The girl does not live who can ever be to me
a wife, were she graceful as a fawn and beautiful as- "
he glanced at Edith as if he would call her name, but
added instead -" as a Hebe, it could make no difference.
That matter is fixed, and is as changeless as the laws of
the MIedes and Persians."




108           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"I am sorry for you, young man," said Richard, whose
face, notwithstanding this assertion, indicated anything
but sorrow.
He could now trust Edith alone at Grassy Spring- he
need not always be bored with coming there, and he was
glad Arthur had so freely expressed his sentiments, as it
relieved him of a great burden; so, at parting, when Arthur said to him as usual, "I'll see you again on Friday,"
he replied,
" I don't know, I'm getting so worried with these abominably tedious lessons, that for once I'll let her come
alone."
Alas, poor, deluded Richard! lie did not know that to
attain this very object, Arthur had said what he did. It
is true, he meant every word he uttered. Matrimony and
Edith Hastings must not be thought of together. That
were worse than madness, and his better judgment warned him not to see too much of her- told him it was better far to have that sightless man beside them when they
met together in a relation so intimate as the teacher bears
to his pupil. But Arthur would not listen; Edith was
the first who for years had really touched a human chord
in his palsied heart, and the vibration would not cease
without a fiercer struggle than he cared to make. It
could do no harm, he said. He had been so unhappy —
was so unhappy now. Edith would, of course, be Richard's wife; he had foreseen that fiomn the very first - had
predicted it long ago, but ere the sacrifice was made, he
was surely pardonable if, for a little while, he gave himself to the bewildering intoxication of basking in the sunshine of her eyes, of bending so near to her that he could
feel her fragrant breath, and the warm glow of her cheek,
of holding those little hands a moment in his own after
he had ceased to teach the fingers how to guide the pencil.
All this passed in rapid review before his mind while




LESSONS.                  109
his lips uttered the words which had so delighted Richard, and when he saw the shadow on Edith's face, his
poor, aching heart throbbed with a joy as wild and intense as it was hopeless and insane. This was Arthur
St. Claire with Edith present, but with Edith gone, he
was quite another man. Eagerly he watched her till she
disappeared from view, then returning to the library he
sat down where she had sat- laid his head upon the
table where her hands had lain, and cursed himself
for daring to dream of love in connection with Edith Hastings. It would be happiness for a time, he knew, to
hang upon her smile, to watch the lights and shadows of
her speaking face, to look into her eyes — those clear,
truthful eyes which had in them no guile. All this would
be perfect bliss, were it not that the end must come at
last- the terrible end -remorse bitterer than death for
him, and for her -the pure, unsullied, trusting Edith —
ruin, desolation, and madness, it might be.
" Yes, madness!" he exclaimed aloud, " hateful as the
word may sound." And he gnashed his teeth as it dropped firom between them. " No, Edith, no. Heaven helping
me, I will not subject you to this temptation. I will not
dlag you down with me, and yet, saVe Griswold, there
lives not the person who knows my secret. May be he
could be bought. Oh, the maddening thought. Am I a
demon or a brute?" And he leaped from his chair, cursing himself again and again for having fallen so low as to
dream of an act fraughl with so much wrong to Edith,
and so much treachery to one as fair, as beautiful as she,
and far, far more to be pitied.
Arthur St. Claire was, at heart, a noble, upright, honorable man, and sure, at last, to choose the right, however rugged were the road. For years he had groped in a
darkness deeper, more hopeless than that which enshrouded the blind man, and in all that time there had shone
upon his pathway not a single ray of daylight. The past,




110          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
at which he dared not look, lay behind him a dreary
waste, and the black future stretched out before him,
years on years it might be, in which there would be always the same old cankering wound festering in his soul.
He could not forget this plague spot. He never had forgotten it for a single moment until he met with Edith
Hastings, who possessed for him a powerful mesmeric
charm, causing him in her presence to forget everything
but her. This flascination was sudden but not less powerful for that. Arthur's was an impulsive nature, and it
seemned to him that he had known Edith all his life, that
she was a part of his very being. But he must forget
her now, she must not come there any more, he could not'resist her if she did; and seizing his pen he dashed off a
few lines to the effect that, for certain reasons, the drawing lessons must henceforth be discontinued.
Arthur thought himself very strong to do so much, but
when lie arose to ring for the servant who was to take
this note to Collingwood, his courage all forsook him.
Why need he cast her off entirely? Why throw away
the only chance for happiness there was left to him?'Twas Arthur's weaker manhood which spoke, and he listened, for Edith Hastings was in the scale, a mighty,
overwhelming weight. She might come just once more,
he said, and his heart swelled within his throat as he
thought of being alone with her, no jealous Richard hovering near, like a dark, brooding cloud, his blind eyes
shielding her fi'om harm even more than they could have
done had they been imbued with sight. The next time
she came, the restraint would be removed. She would
be alone, and the hot blood poured swiftly through his
veins as he thought how for one brief moment he would
be happy. He would wind his armn around that girlish
waist, where no other manly arm  save that of Richard
had ever been; he would hug, her to his bosom, where no
other head than hers coulcd ever lie; he would imprint




FRIDAY.                  I1l
one burning kiss upon her lips; would tell her how dear
she was to himi  and then —his brain reeled and grew
dizzy as he thought that then he must bid her leave him
forever, for an interview like that must not be repeated.
But for once, just once, he would taste of the forbidden
fruit, and so the good angel of Arthur St. Claire wept
over the wayward man and then flew sadly away, leaving him to revel in anticipations of what the next Friday
would bring him.
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,
thlee 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




112          DARKINESS AND DAYLIGIHT.
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
toe, 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.
".Parcdonnez mol, Ml~onsieur," 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 mornin g" for " some time to-day,"
the latter being what IMr. 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 harve
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 biB 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 Bedclouin, who danced for a few




FRIDAY.                   113
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.




114           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"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 subljoin.
* * * "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,'IKeep Arthur from temptation. Keep him from temptation, and don't let any harm
come to little _IiXqgie.' 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 pe.ale 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
thoulght 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 charrms of the
young girl waiting impatiently for him in the adjoining
room.




FRIDAY.                    115
There were many things she meant to say to hint in
Richard's absence. She would ask him about Nina, and
the baby picture which had so interested her. It had
disappeared fiom 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 refirained from all remark, and the lesson both had so
much anticipated, proceeded in almost unbroken silence.
It was very dull indeed, she thoughlt, 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 declaried
herself too stupid for any thing.
"You, too, are out of humor," she said, looking archly
into Arthur's face, c" 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 Plorida and Sunnybank, her former
home.
"Tell me more of the magnolias," she said, "It almost
seems to me as if I lhad seen those beautiful white
blossoms and that old house with its wide hall."
"Whar was you raised?" asked Judy, and Edith
replied,
i" 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?
Whllo is she, and that black-eyed baby in the frame? Tell
me all about them."




116            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"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
falvors."  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 ]lead 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 herleave.
"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 fast or last. That ar Miss




TIHE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING        117
Edith is a nice trim gal. I wish to goodness nMarster 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 gallo6ped 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.
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 lhe 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




118          DAIRKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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 fiomn
telling her of his love by assuming a reserved, studied
manner, which led her at last to think he imight 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 travellerl. 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 ydu need not come again
until I send for you; but whatever occurs, don't think I
amn 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 hadcl helped to
dig, and which he could not pass.  Edith had intended




THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING.          11]
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 meddllesome, managed to keep himself posted witlh




120            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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 ascertamining 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
fiesh 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 ail, 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




TIHE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING.       121
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 couM 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
6




122          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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 affars."
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 neces.
sary 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
firesh young grass were seen starting into life. It was




THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING.        123
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, " 2iiggie." 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, 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?"




124          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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 fatlomed 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,




THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING.        125
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 1, 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.
IIe 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




126           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
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,




NINA.                   127
"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.
CHAPTER XV.
NINA.
Three or four times Edith went to Grassy Spring,
seeing nothing of the mysterious occupant of the Den,
hearing nothing of her, and she began to think she might
have returned to Worcester. Many times she was on the
point of questioning Arthur, but from what had passed,
she knew how disagreeable the subject was to him, and
she generously forbore.
" I think he might tell me, any way," she said to herself, half poutingly, when, one morning near the latter
part of April, she rode slowly toward Grassy Spring.
Their quarrel, if quarrel it could be called, had been
made up, or, rather, tacitly forgotten, and Arthur more
than once had cursed himself for having, in a moment of
excitement, asked her to marry Richard Harrington.
While praying to be delivered from temptation he was
constantly keeping his eyes fixed upon the forbidden
firuit, longing for it more and more, and feeling how
worthless life would be to him without it. Still, by a
mighty effort, he restrained himself from doing or saying
aught wfich could be constrained into expressions of
love, and their interviews were much like those which
had preceded his last visit to Worcester. People were
beginning to talk about him and his beautiful pupil, but
leading the isolated life he did, it came not to his ears.
Grace indeed, might have enlightened both himself and




128          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Edith with regard to the village gossip, but looking upon
the latter as her rival, and desiring greatly that she
should marry Arthur, she forebore from communicating
to either of them anything which would be likely to retard an affair she fancied was progressing famously. Thus
without a counsellor or friend was Edith left to follow
the bent of her inclinations; and on this April morning,
as she rode along, mentally chiding Arthur for not entrusting his secret to her, she wondered how she had
ever managed to be happy without him, and if the time
would ever come when her visits to Grassy Spring would
cease.
Leaving Bedouin at the rear gate she walked slowly to
the house, glancing often in the direction of the Den, the
windows of which were open this morning, and as she
came near she saw a pair of soft blue eyes peering at her
through the lattice, then a little hand was thrust outside,
beckoning to her as it did once before.
"Wait, Miggie, while I write, came next to her ear, in
a voice as sweet and plaintive as a broken lute.
Instantly Edith stopped, and at last a tiny note came
fluttering to her feet. Grasping it eagerly she read, in a
pretty, girlish hand:
"' DARLING MIGGIE: — Nina has been so sick this great
long while, and her head is so full of pain. Why don't
you come to me, Miggie? I sit and wait and listen till
my forehead thumps and thumps, just as a bad nurse
thumped it once down in the Asylum.
"Let's run away - you and I; run back to the magnolias, where it's always summer, with no asylums full of
wicked people.         I
"I'm  so lonely, Miggie. Come up stairs, won't you?
They say I rave and tear my clothes, but I won't any
more if you'll come. Tell Arthur so. He's good. He'll
do what you ask him."
"Poor little Nina," and Edith's tears fell fast upon the




NINA.                   129
bit of paper. "I will see you to-day. Perhaps I may do
you some good. Dear, unfortunate Nina!"
There was a step upon the grass, and thrusting the
note into her pocket, Edith turned to meet Arthur, who
seemed this morning unusually cheerful and greeted her
with something like his olden tenderness. But Edith
was too intent upon Nina to think much of him, and after
the lesson commenced she appeared so abstracted that it
was Arthur's turn to ask if she were offended. She had
made herself believe she was, for notwithstanding Nina's
assertion that "Arthur was good," she thought it a sin
and a shame for him to keep any thing but a raving lunatic hidden away up stairs; and after a moment's hesitation she answered, " Yes, I am offended, and I don't mean
to come here any more, unless    "
"1 Edith," and the tone of Arthur's voice was fraught
with pain so exquisite that Edith paused and looked into
his face, where various emotions were plainly visible.
Love, fear, remorse, apprehension, all were blended together in the look he fixed upon her. " You won't leave
me," he said. "Any thing but that. Tell me my error,
and how I can atone."
Edith was about to speak, when, on the stairs without,
-the stairs leading from the den - there was the patter
of little feet, and a gentle, timid knock was heard upon
the door.
"It's locked- go back;" and Arthur's voice had in it
a tone of command.
"Mr. St. Claire," and Edith sprang from her chair, " I
can unlock that door, and I will."
Like a block of marble Arthur stood while Edith opened
the oak-paneled door. Another moment and Nina stood
before her, as she stands now first before our readers.
Edith knew her in a moment from the resemblance to
the daguerreotype seen more than eight years before, and
as she now scanned her features it seemed to her they
6*




130           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
had scarcely changed at all. Arthur had said of her then
that she was not quite sixteen, consequently she was
now nearly twenty-five, but she did not look as old as
Edith, so slight was her form, so delicate her limbs, and
so childlike and simple the expression of her f:ace. She
was very, very fair, and Edith felt that never before had
she looked upon a face so exquisitely beautiful. Her hair
was of a reddish yellow hue, and rippled in short silken
rings all over her head, curling softly in her neck, but was
not nearly as long as it had been in the picture. Alas,
the murderous shears had more than once strayed roughly among those golden locks, to keep the little white, fat
hands, now- clasped so harmlessly together, from tearing
them out with frantic violence. Edith thought of this
and sighed, while her heart yearned toward the helpless
young creature, who stood regarding her with a scrutinizing glance, as one studies a beautiful picture.  The
face was very white —indeed, it seemed as if it were
long since the blood had visited the cheeks, which, nevertheless, were round and plump, as were the finely moulded arms, displayed to good advantage by the loose sleeves
of the crimson cashmere wrapper. The eyes were deeply, darkly blue, and the strangely gleaming light which
shone from them, betrayed at once the terrible truth that
Nina was crazed.
It was a novel sight, those two young girls watching
each other so intently, both so beautiful and yet so unlike
- the one, tall, stately, and almost queen-like in her proportions, with dark, brilliant complexion; eyes of miidnight blackness, and masses of raven hair, bound around
her head in many a heavy braid - the other, fairy-like in
size, with golden curls and soft blue eyes, which filled with
tears at last as some undefinable emotion swept over her.
In the rich, dark beauty of Edith's face there was a wonderful fascination, which riveted the crazy girl to the spot
where she had stopped when first she crossed the thresh




NINA.                   131
old, and when at last, sinking upon the sofa, Edith extended her arms, as a mother Ito her child, poor little Nina
went forward, and with a low, gasping sob, fell upon her
bosom, weeping passionately, her whole frame trembling
and her sobs so violent that Edith became alarmed, and
tried by kisses and soft endearing words to soothe her grief
and check the tears raining in torrents from her eyes.
"It's nice to cry. It takes the heavy pain away," and
Nina made a gesture tha"t Edith must not stop her, while
Arthur, roused from his apathy, also said,
" She has not wept before in years. It will be a great
relief."
At the sound of his voice Nina lifted up her head, and
turned toward the corner whence it came, but Edith saw
that in the glance there was neither reproach nor fearl;
nothing save trusting confidence, and her heart insensibly
softened toward him.
" Poor Arthur," Nina murmured, and laying her head
again on Edith's bosom, she said, "Every body is sad
where I am, but I can't help it. Oh, I can't help it.
Nina's crazy, Miggie. Nina is. Poor Nina," and the voice
which uttered these words was so sadly touching that
Edith's tears mingled with those of the young creature she
hugged the closer to her, whispering,
"I know it, darling, and I pity you so much. Maybe you'll get well, now that you know me."
"Yes, if you'll stay here always," said Nina. "What
made you gone so long?  I wanted you so much when
the nights were dark and lonesome, and little bits of faces
bent over me like yours used to be, Miggie -yours ill
the picture, when you wore the red morocco shoe and I
led you on the high verandah."
"What does she mean?" asked Edith, who had listened to the words as to something not wholly new to her.
" I don't know," returned Arthur, " unless she has confounded you with her sister, 3lfarguerite, who died many




132          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
years ago. I have heard that Nina, failing to speak the
real name, always called her Miggie. Possibly you resemble Miggie's mother. I think Aunt Phillis said you
did."
Edith, too, remembered Phillis' saying that she looked
like "Master Bernard's" wife, and Arthur's explanations
seemed highly probable.
"Dear, darling Nina," she saidc kissing the pure white
forehead, "I will be a sister to you."
"And stay with me?" persisted Nina. "Sleep with
me nights with your arms round my neck, just like you
used to do? I hate to sleep alone, with Soph coiled up
on the floor, she scares me so, and won't answer when I
call her. Then, when I'm put in the recess, its terrible.
Don't let me go in there again, will you? "
Edith had not like Grace, looked into the large closet
adjoining the Den, and she did not know what Nina
meant, but at a venture she replied,
"No, darling. You'll be so good that they will not
wish to put you there."
"6 I can't," returned Nina, with the manner of one who
distrusted herself. " I try, because it will please Arthur,
but I must sing and dance and pull my hair when my
head feels so big and heavy, and once, Miggie, when it
was big as the house, and I pulled my hair till they shaved
it off, I tore my clothes in pieces and threw them into the
fire. Then, when Arthur came -Dr. Griswold sent for
him, you see - I buried my fingers in his hair, so," and
she was about to clutch her own golden locks when Edith
shudderingly caught her hands and held them tightly lest
they should harm the'tresses she thought so beautiful.
"Arthur cried," continued Nina -" cried so hard that
my brain grew cool at once. It's dreadful to see a man
cry, Miggie- a great, strong man like Arthur. Poor Arthur, didn't you cry and call me your lost Nina?"
A suppressed moan was Arthur's answer, and Nina,




NINA.                  133
when she heard it, slid from Edith's arms and crossing
over to where he sat, climbed into his lap with all the freedom of a little child, and winding her arms about his neck,
said to him softly,
"Don't be so sorry, Arthur, Nina'll be good. Nina is
good now. He's crying again. Make him stop, wont
you? It hurts Nina so. There, poor boy," and the little
waxen hands wiped away the tears falling so fast over
Arthur's face.
Holding one upon the end of her finger and watching it
until it dropped upon the carpet, she said with a smile,
"Look, Miggie, Men's tears are bigger than girls."
", Oh, how Edith's heart ached for the strange couple
opposite her -the strong man and the crazy young girl
who clung to him as confidingly, as if his bosom were her
rightful resting place. She pitied them both, but her
sympathies were enlisted for Arthur, and coming to his
side she laid her hand upon the damp brown locks, which
Nina once had torn in her insane fury, and in a voice
which spoke volumes of sympathy, whispered, "I am
sorry for you."
This was too much for Arthur, and he sobbed aloud,
while Edith, forgetting all proprieties in her grief for him,
bowed her face upon his head, and he could feel her hot
tears dropping on his hair.
For a moment Nina looked from one to the other in
silence, then standing upon her feet and bending over
both, she said,
"Don't cry, Miggie, don't cry, Arthur. Nina ain't
very bad to day. She wont be bad any more. Don't.
It will all come right some time. It surely will. Nina
won't be here always, and there'll be no need to cry when
she is gone."
She seemed tgo think the distress was all on her account, and in her childish way she sought to comfort them
untii hope whispered to both that, as she said, " It would
come right sometime."




134           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Edith was the first to be comforted, for she did not,
like Arthur, know what coming right involved.  She
only thought that possibly Nina's shattered intellect
might be restored, and she longed to ask. the history of
one, thoughts of whom had in a measure been blended
with her whole life, duringthe last eight years. There was
a mystery connected with her, she knew, and she was
about to question Arthur, who had dried his tears and
was winding Nina's short curls around his fingers, when
Phillis appeared in the library, starting with surprise when
she saw the trio assembled there.
"iMarster Arthur," she began, glancing furtively at
Edith, "hovw came Miss Nina here? Let me take her
back. Come, honey," and she reached out her hand to
Nina, who, jumping again upon Arthur's knee, clung to
him  closely, exclaiming, "No, no, old Phillis; Nina's
good - Nina'll stay with Miggie!" and as if fancying
that Edith would be a surer protector than Arthur, she
slid from his lap and running to the sofa where Edith sat,
half hid herself behind her, whispering, " Send her offsend her off. Let me stay with you!"
Edith was fearful that Nina's presence might interfere
with the story she meant to hear, but she could not find
it in her heart to send away the little girl clinging so
fondly to her, and to Phillis she said, " She may stay this
once, I am sure. I will answer for her good behavior."
"'Taint that —'taint that," muttered Phillis, jerking
herself from the room, "but how's the disgrace to be
kep' ef everybody sees her."
"Disgrace! " and Edith glanced inquiringly at Arthur.
She could not believe that Nina was any disgrace, and
she asked what Phillis meant.
Crossing the room Arthur sat down upon the sofa with
Nina between himself and Edith, who was pleased to see
that he wound his arm around the young girl as if she
were dear to him, notwithstanding her disgrace. Like a




NINA.                   135
child Nina played with his watch chain, his coat buttons,
and his fingers, apparently oblivious to what was passing
about her. She only felt that she was where she wished
to be, and knowing that he could say before her what he
pleased without the least danger of her comprehending a
word, Arthur, much to Edith's surprise, began:
"You have seen Nina,, Miss Hastings. You know
what is the mystery at Grassy Spring — the mystery
about which the villagers are beginning to gossip, so
Phillis says, but now that you have seen, now that you
know she is here, I care not for the rest. The keenest
pang is over and I am beginning already to feel better.
Concealment is not in accordance with my nature, and
it has worn on me terribly. Years ago you knew oJ
Nina; it is due to you now that you know who she is,
and why her destiny is linked to mine. Listen, then,
while I tell you her sad story."
"But she," interrupted Edith, pointing to Nina, whose
blue eyes were turned to Arthur. "Will it not be better
to wait? Won't she understand?"
"Not a word," he replied. "She's amusing herself,
you see, with my buttons, and when these fail, I'll give
her my drawing pencil, or some one of the numerous playthings I always keep in my pocket for her. She seldom
comprehends what we say and never remembers it. This
is one of the peculiar phases of her insanity."
"Poor child," said Edith, involuntarily caressing Nina,
who smiled up in her face, and leaning her head upon her
shoulder, continued her play with the buttons.
Meanwhile Arthur sat lost in thought, determining in
his own mind how much he should tell Edith of Nina,
and how much withhold. He could not tell her all, even
though he knew that by keeping back a part, much of
his past conduct would seem wholly inexplicable, but he
could not help it, and when at last he saw that Edith was
waiting for him, he pressed his hands a moment against




13 6         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
his heart to stop its violent beating, and drawing a long,
long sigh, began the story.
CHAPTER XVI.
ARTHUR'S STORY.
"I must commence at the beginning," he said, "and
tell you first of Nina's father - Ernest Bernard, of Florida. I was a lad of fourteen when I met him in Richmond, Virginia, which you know was my former home.
He was spending a few weeks there, and dined one day
with my guardian, with whom I was then living. I did
not fancy him at all. He seemed even to me, a boy, like
a bad, unprincipled man, and I afterward learned that
such had been his former character, though at the time I
knew him he had reformed in a great measure. He was
very kind indeed to me, and as I became better acquainted with him my prejudices gradually wore away, until at
last I liked him very much, and used to listen with delight
to the stories he told of his Florida home, and of his
little, golden-haired Nina, always finishing his remarks
concerning her with,'But you can't have her, boy. Nobody can marry Nina. Had little Miggie lived you might,
perhaps, have been my son-in-law, but you can't as'tis, for
Nina will never marry.' "
"No, Nina can never marry;" and the golden curls
shook decidedly, as the Nina in question repeated the
words, "Miggie can marry Arthur, but not Nina, noI10.
Edith blushed painfully, and averted her eyes, while
Arthur continued:
"During Mr. Bernard's stay in Richmond he was at



ARTHUR'S STORY.               137
tacked with that loathsome disease the small pox, and
deserted by all his friends, was in a most deplorable
condition, when I, who had had the varioloid, begged and
obtained permission to nurse him, which I did as well as
I was able, staying by him until the danger was over.
How far I was instrumental to his recovery I cannot say.
He professed to think I saved his life, and was proftise in
his protestations of gratitude. He was very impulsive,
and conceived for me a fiiendship which ended only with
his death. At all events he proved as much by the great
trust eventually reposed in me," and he nodded toward
Nina, who having tired of the buttons and the chain, was
busy now with the bunch of keys she had purloined from
his pocket.
"I was in delicate health," said Arthur, "and as the
cold weather was coming on, he insisted upon taking me
home with him, and I accordingly accompanied him to
Florida —to Sunny-bank, his country seat. It was a
grand old place, shaded by magnolias and surrounded by
a profusion of vines and flowering shrubs, but the most
beautiful flower of all was Nina, then eleven years of
age.")
Nina knew that he was praising her -that Edith sanctioned the praise, and with the same feeling the little child
experiences when told that it is good, she smiled upon
Arthur, who, smoothing her round white cheek, went on:
"My sweet Florida rose, I called her, and many a romping frolic we had together during the winter months, and
many a serious talk, too, we had of her second mother;
her own she did not remember, and of her sister Miggie,
whose grave we often visited, strewing it with flowers
and watering it with tears, for Nina's affection for her lost
sister was so touching that I often wept with her over
Miiggie's grave."
"Miggie isn't dead," said Nina. "She's here, ain't you
MIiggie?" and she nestled closer to Edith, who was grow



138          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
ing strangely interested in that old house, shaded with
magnolias, and in the grave of that little child.
"I came home in the spring," said Arthur, going on
with the story Nina had interrupted, "but I kept up a
boyish correspondence with Nina, though my affection for
her gradually weakened. After becoming a pupil in Geneva Academy, I was exceedingly ambitious, and to stand
first in my class occupied more of my thoughts than Nina
Bernard. Still, when immediately after I entered Geneva
College as a sophomore, I learned that her father intended
sending her to the seminary in that village, I was glad,
and when I saw her again all my old affection for her
returned with ten-fold vigor, and the ardor of my passion
was greatly increased from the fact that other youths of
my age worshipped her too, toasting the Florida rose, and
quoting her on all occasions. Griswold was one of these.
Dr. Griswold. How deep his feelings were, I cannot tell.
I only know that he has never married, and he is three
years older than myself. We were room-mates in college,
and when he saw that Nina's preference was for me, he
acted the part of a noble, disinterested friend. Few know
Griswold as he is."
Arthur paused, and Edith fancied he was living over
the past when Nina was not as she was now, but alas, he
was thinking what to tell her next. Up to this point he
had narrated the facts just as they had occurred, but he
could do so no longer. He must leave out now- evade,
go round the truth, and it was hard for him to do so.
"We were engaged," he began at last. "I was eighteen, she fifteen. But she looked quite as old as she does
now. Indeed, she was almost as far in advance of her
years as she is now behind them. Still we had no idea
of marriage until I had been graduated, although Nina's
confidential friend, who was quite romantic, suggested
that we should run away. But from this I shrank as a
most foolish act, which, if divulged, would result in my




ARTHUR'S STORY.              139
being expelled, and this disgrace I could not endure. In
order, however, to make the matter sure, I wrote to her
father, asking for his daughter when I became of age.
Very impatiently I waited for his answer, which, when it
came, was a positive refusal, yet couched in language so
kind that none save a fool would have been angry.
"'Nina could not marry,' he said,'and I must break
the engagement at once. Sometime he would tell me
why, but not then- not till I was older."'
"Accompanying this was a note to Nina, in which he
used rather severer terms, forbidding her to think of mlarriage, and telling her he was coming immediately to take
her to Europe, whither he had long contemplated going."
There was another pause, and a long blank was made
in the story, which Arthur at last resumed, as follows:
" He came for her sooner than we anticipated, following close upon the receipt of his letter, and in spite of
Nina's tears took her with him to New York, from
whence early in slay they started for Europe. That was
nine years ago next month, and during the vacation following I came to Shannondale and saw you, Edith, while
you saw Nina's picture."
Nina was apparently listening now, and turning to him
she said, "Tell her about the night when I stepped on
your back and so got out of the window."
Arthur's face was crimson, but he answered laughingly
"I fear Miggie will not think us very dignified, if I tell
her of all our stolen interviews and the means used to
procure them."
Taking a new toy from his pocket he gave it to Nina,
who, while examining it, forgot that night, and he went
on.
"I come now to the saddest part of my story. Nina
and I continued to write, for her father did not forbid
that, stipulating, however, that he should see the letters
which passed between us. He had placed her in a school




140          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
at Paris, where she remained until after I was graduated
and of age. Edith," and Arthur's voice trembled, "I
was too much a boy to know the nature of my feelings
toward Nina when we were engaged, and as the time
wore on my love began to wane."
Edith's heart beat more naturally now than it had before
since the narrative commenced, but she could not forbear
from saying to him, reproachfully, " Oh, Arthur."
"It was wrong, I know," he replied, " and I struggled
against it with all my strength, particularly when I heard
that she was coming home. Griswold knew everything,
and he suggested that a sight of her might awaken the
olden feeling, and with a feverish anxiety I waited in Boston for the steamer which I supposed was to bring her
home. After many delays she came in a sailing vessel,
but came alone. Her father had died upon the voyage
and been buried in the sea, leaving her with no friend
save a Mr. Hudson, whose acquaintance they had made
in Paris."
At the mention of Mr. Hudson the toy dropped from
Nina's fingers and the blue eyes flashed up into Edith's
face with a more rational expression than she had heretofore observed in them.
"1 What is it, darling? " she asked, as she saw there was
something Nina would say.
The lip quivered like that of a grieved child, while
Nina answered softly, "I did love Charlie better than
Arthur, and it was so wicked."
"'Yes," rejoined Arthur quickly, "Nina's love for me
had died away, and centered itself upon. another. Charlie
Hudson had sought her for his wife, and while confessing
her love for him she insisted that she could not be his,
because she was bound to me. This, however, did not
prevent his seeking an interview with her father, who told
him frankly the terrible impediment to Nina's marriage with
any one. It was a crushing blow to young Hudson, but




ARTHUR'S STORY.               141
he still clung to her with all a brother's devotion, soothing
her grief upon the sea, and caring for her tenderly until
Boston was reached, and he placed her in my hands, together with a letter, which her father wrote a few daysbefore he died."
" He's married  now," interrupted Nina.;'Charlie's
married, but he came to see me once, down at the old
Asylum, and I saw him through the grates, for I was shut
up in a tantrum. He cried, Miggie, just as Arthur does
sometimes, and called me poor lost Nina. He held an
angel in his arms with blue eyes like mine, and he said
she was his child and Margaret's! Her name was Nina,
too. Wasn't it nice?" And she smiled upon Edith, who
involuntarily groaned as she thought how dreadful it must
have been for Mr. Hudson to gaze through iron bars upon
the wreck of his early love.
"Poor man," she sighed, turning to Arthur. "Is he
happy with his Margaret!"
" He seems to be," said Arthur. "People can outlivetheir first affection, you know. He resides in New York
now, and is to all appearance a prosperous, happy man.
The curse has fallen alone on me, whQ alone deserve it."
He spoke bitterly, and for a moment sat apparently
thinking; then, resuming his story, said,
" I did not open MIr. Bernard's letter until we reached
ihle Revere House, and I was alone in my room. Then I
broke the seal and read, while my blood curdled within
my veins and every hair pricked at its roots. The old
man knew he was about to die, and confessed to me in
part his manifold transgressions, particularly his inhuman
treatment of his last wife, the mother of little Miggie,
but as this cannot, of course, be interesting to you, I will
not repeat it."
" Oh, do," exclaimed Edith, feeling somehow that anything concerning the mother of Miggie Bernard would
interest her.




142           DAkRKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
"WVell, then," returned Arthur, "he did not tell me
all the circumstances of his marriage. I only know that
she was a foreigner and very beautiful - a governess, too,
I think in some German family, and that he married her
under an assumed name."
"An assumed name!" Edith cried. "Why was that,
pray? "
"I hardly know," returned Arthur, "but believe he
became in some way implicated in a fight or gambling
brawl in Paris, and being threatened with arrest took
another name than his own, and fled to Germany or Switzerland, where he found his wife. They were married
privately, and after two or three years he brought her to
his Florida home, where his proud mother and maiden
sister affected to despise her beceause of her poverty.
He was at that time given to drinking, and almost every
day became beastly intoxicated, abusing his young wife
so shamefully that her life became intolerable, and at last
awhen be was once absent from home for a few weeks, the
resolved upon going back to Europe, and leaving him
forever. This plan she confided to a maid servant who
had accompanied her from England, a resolute, determined
woman, who arranged the whole so skillfully that no one
suspected their designs until they were far on their way
to New York. The old mother, who was then living,
would not suffer them to be pursued, and more than a
week went by ere Mr. Bernard learned what had occurred.
He followed them of course. He was man enongh for
that; but falling in with some of his boon companions,
almost as soon as he reached the city, he drank so deeply
that for several days he was unable to search for them, and
in that time both his wife and MIiggie died."
"Oh, Mr. St. Claire," and Edith's eyes filled with tears."Yes, both of them died," he continued. "Mrs. Ber
nard's health was greatly undermined by sorrow, and when
a prevailing epidemic fastened itself upon her, it found an




ARTHUR S STORY.               143
easy prey. The  wqiting-maid  wrote immediately to
Florida, and her letter was sent back to Mr Bernard, who,
having become sobered, hastened at once to find her
place of abode. She was a very intelligent woman for
one of her class, and had taken the precaution to have
the remains of her late mistress and child deposited in
such a manner that they could easily be removed if Mr.
Bernard should so desire it. He did desire it, and the
bodies were taken undisturbed to Florida, where they now
rest quietly, side by side with the proud mother and sister, since deceased. After this Mr. Bernard became a
changed and better man, weeping often over the fate of
his young girl-wife and his infant daughter, whom he
greatly loved. Other troubles he had, too, secret -troubles
which he confided to me in the letter brought by Mr.
Hudson. After assuring me of his esteem and telling me
how much he should prefer me for his son-in-law to Charlie Hudson, he added that in justice to us both he must
now speak of the horrible cloud hanging over his beautiful Nina, and which was sure at last to envelop her in
darkness. You can guess it, Edith. You have guessed
it already - hereditary insanity - reaching far back into
the past, and with each successive generation developing
itself earlier and in a more violent form. Hie knew nothing of it when he married Nina's mother, a famous New
Orleans belle, for her father purposely kept it from him,
hoping thus to get her off his hands ere the malady maInifested itself.
"In her case it came on with the birth of Nina, and
from that day to her death she was a raving, disgusting
maniac, as her mother and grandmother had been before
her. This was exceedingly mortifying to the proud Bernards, negroes and all, and the utmost care was taken of
Nina, who, nevertheless, was too much like her mother
to hope for escape. There was the same peculiar look
in the eye - the same restless, nervous motions, and from




144          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
her babyhood up he knew his child was doomed to chains,
straight jackets and narrow cells, while the man who
married her was doomed to a still more horrible fate.
These were his very words, and my heart stopped its
beating as I read, while I involuntarily thanked Heaven,
who had changed her feelings towards me. She told me
with many tears that she had ceased to love me, and asked to be released from the fulfillment of her vow. I
knew then she would one day be just what she is, and did
not think it my duty to insist. But I did not forsake her,
though my affection for her then was more like a brother's than a lover's. In his will, which was duly made
and witnessed, Mr. Bernard appointed me the guardian
of his child, empowering me to do for her as if she were
my sister, and bidding me when the calamity should overtake her, care for her to the last.
"' They don't usually survive long,' he wrote, and he
made me his next heir after Nina's death. It was a great
charge for one just twenty-two, a young, helpless girl
and an immense fortune to look after; but Griswold,
my tried friend, came to my aid, and pointed out means
by which a large portion of the Bernard estate could be
turned into money, and thus save me much trouble. I
followed his advice, and the old homestead is all the landed property there is for me to attend to now, and as this
is under the supervision of a competent overseer, it
gives me no uneasiness. I suggested to Nina that she
should accompany me to Florida soon after her arrival
in Boston, but she preferred remaining for a time in some
boarding school, and I made arrangements for her to be
received as a boarder in Charlestown Seminary, leaving
her there while I went South to transact business incumbent upon me as her guardian.
" How it happened I never knew, but by some accident
her father's letter to me became mixed up with her papers, and while I was gone she read it, learning for the




ARTHUR S STORY.               145
first time what the mystery was which hung over her
mother's fate, and also of the doom awaiting her. She
fainted, it was said, and during the illness which followed
raved in frantic fury, suffering no one to approach her save
Griswold, who, being at that time a physician in the Lunatic Asylum at Worcester, hastened to her side, acquiring over her a singular power. It is strange that in her
fits of violence she never speaks of me, nor yet of Charlie
Hudson. Indeed, the past seems all a blank to her, save
as she refers to it incidentally as she has to-day."
"But did she stay crazy? " asked Edith.
"Not wholly so," returned Arthur, "but from that
time her reason began to fail, until now she is hopelessly
insane, and has not known a rational moment for more
than three years."
"Nor been home in all that time?" said Edith, while
Arthur replied,
" She would not go. She seemed to shrink from meeting kaer former friends; and at last, acting upon Griswold's
advice, I placed her in the Asylum, going myself hither
and thither like a feather tossed about by the gale. Griswold was my ballast, my polar star, and when he said to
me, buy a house and have a home, I answered that I
would; and when he told me of Grassy Spring, bidding
me purchase it, I did so, although I dreaded coming to
this neighborhood of all others. I had carefully kepteverything from Grace, who, while hearing that I was in
some way interested in a Florida estate, knew none of
the particulars, and I became morbidly jealous lest she or
any one else should hear of Nina's misfortune, or what
she was to me.
"It was a favorite idea of Griswold's that Nina might
be benefitted by a change of place, and when I first came
here I knew that she,-too, would follow me in due time.
She has hitherto been subject to violent attacks of frenzy, during which nothing within her reach was safe; and,




146          DARKINESS AND DAYLIGHT.
knowing this, Griswold advised me to prepare a room,
where, at such times, she could be kept by herself, for the
sight of people always made her worse. The Den, with
the large closet adjoining, was the result of this suggestion, and as I have a great dread of neighborhood gossip,
I resolved to say nothing of her until compelled to do so
by her presence in the house. I fancied that Mrs. Johnson was a discreet woman, and my purpose was to tell
her of Nina as soon as I was fairly settled; but she abused
her trust by letting Grace into the room. You refused
to enter, and my respect for you from that moment was
unbounded."
She looked at him in much surprise, and he added,;"You wonder, I suppose, how I know this. I was
here at the time, was in the next room when you came
into the library to wait for Grace. I watched you through
the glass door, wondering who you were, until my cousin
appeared and I overheard the whole."
"And that is why you chose me instead of Grace to
take charge of your keys," interrupted Edith, beginning
to comprehend what had heretofore been strange to her.
" But, Mr. St. Claire, I don't understand it at all - don't
see why there was any need for so much secrecy. Supposing you did dread neighborhood gossip, you could not
help being chosen Nina's guardian. She could not help
being crazy. Why not have told at once that there was
such a person under your charge?  Wouldn't it have
been better?  It was no disgrace to you that you have
kept the ctther's trust, and cared for his poor child," and
she glanced lovingly at the pretty face nestled against
her arm, for Nina had fallen asleep.
Arthur did not answer immediately, and when he did,
his voice trembled with emotion.
"It would have been better," he said; "but when she
first became insane, I shrank from  having it generally
known, and the longer I hugged the secret the harder I




ARTHUR S STORY               147
found it to divulge the whole. It would look queerly, I
thought, for a young man like me to be tramelled with a
crazy girl. Nobody would believe she was my ward, and
nothing more, and I became a sort of monomaniac upon
the subject. Had I never loved her-" he paused, and
leaned his head upon his hands, while Edith, bending
upon him a most searching look, startled him with the
words, "Mr. St. Claire, you have not told me all. There
is something behind, something mightier than pride or a
dread of gossip.
"Yes, Edith, there is something behind, but I can't
tell you what it is, you of all others."
He was pacing the floor hurriedly now, but stopped
suddenly, and standing before Edith, said: "Edith Hastings, you are somewhat to blame in this matter. Before
I knew you I only shrank from having people talk of my
matters sooner than was absolutely necessary. But after
you became my pupil, the desire that you should never
see Nina as she is, grew into a species of madness, and I
have bent every energy to keeping you apart. I did not
listen to reason, which told me you must know of it
sooner or later, but plunged deeper and deeper into a
labyrinth of attempted concealment. When I found it
necessary to dismiss Mrs. Johnson, if I would keep my
affairs to myself, I thought of the old family servants at
Sunnybank. I knew they loved and pitied Nina, and
were very sensitive with regard to her misfortune. It
touches Phillis's pride to think her young mistress is
crazy, and as hers is the ruling mind, she keeps the others
in subjection, though old Judy came near disclosing the
whole to you at one time, I believe. You know her sad
story now, but you do not know how like an iron weight
it hangs upon me, crushing me to the earth, wearing my
life away, and making me old before my time. See here,"
and lifting bis brown locks, he showed her many a line of
silver. "If I loved Nina Bernard, my burden would be
easier to bear."




148          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Oh, Mr. St. Claire," interrupted Edith, "You surely
do love her. You cannot help loving her, and she so
beautiful, so innocent."
"Yes," he answered, "as a brother loves an unfortunate sister. I feel towards her, I think, as a mother does
towards a helpless child, a tender pity which prompts me
to bear with her even when she tries me almost beyond
endurance. She is not always as mild as you see her now,
though her frenzied moods do not occur as frequently as
they did. She loves me, I think, as an infant loves its
mother, and is better when I am with her. At all events,
since coming to Grassy Spring, she has been unusually
quiet, until within the last two weeks, when a nervous
fever has confined her to her room and made her sornewhat unmanagable. Griswold said she would be better
here, and though I had not much faith in the experiment,
I see now that he was right. GrisWold is always right,
and had I followed his advice years ago, much of my
trouble might have been averted. Edith, never conceal a
single act, if you wish to be happy. A little fault, if
covered up, grows into a mountain; and the longer it is
hidden, the harder it is to be confessed. This is my
experience. There was a false step at first, and it lies too
far back in the past to be remedied now. No one knows
of it but myself, Griswold, Nina, and my God. Yes,
there is one more whose memory might be refreshed, but
I now have no fear of him."
Edith did not ask who this other was, neither did she
dream that Richard Harrington was in any way connected with the mystery. She thought of him, however,
wondering if she might tell him of Nina, and asking if
she could.
Arthur's face was very white, as he replied, "Tell him
if you like, or any one else. It is needless to keep it longer, but, Edith, you'll come again, won't you? come to
see Nina if nothing more. I am glad you have seen her,
provided you do not desert me wholly."




ARTHUR'S STORY.               119
"Of course I shall not," she said, as she laid the golden
head of the sleeping girl upon the cushion of the sofa,
preparatory to leaving, "I'll come again, and forgive you,
too, for anything you may have done, except a wrong to
her; and she carefully kissed the poor, crazy Nina.
Then, offering her hand to Arthur she tried to bid him
good-bye as of old, but he missed something in her manner, and with feelings'sadly depressed he watched her
from the window, as, assisted by Ike, she mounted her
pony and galloped swiftly away.
"She's lost to me forever, and there's nothing worth
living for now," he said, just as a little hand pressed his
arm, and a sweet childish voice murmured, "Yes, there
is, Arthur. Live for Nina, poor Nina," and the snowy
fingers, which, for a moment, had rested lightly on his
arm, began to play with the buttons of his coat, while the
soft blue eyes looked pleadingly into his.
"Yes, darling; he said, caressing her flowing curls, and
pushing them back from her forehead, " I will live for you,
hereafter. I will love no one else."
" No one but Miggie. You may love her. You must
love her, Arthur. She's so beautiful, so grand, why has
she gone from Nina, I want her here, want he all the
time;" and Nina's mood began to change.
Tears filled her eyes, and burying her face in Arthul"s
bosom she begged him to go after Miggie, to bring her.
back and keep her there always, threatening that if he
did'nt " Nina would be bad."
Tenderly, but firmly, as a parent soothes a refractory
child, did Arthur soothe the excitable Nina, telling her
Miggie should come again, or if she did not, they'd go up
and see her.




;15G         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER XVII.
NINA AND MIGGIE.
It would be impossible to describe Edith's feelings
as she rode toward home. She knew Arthur had not
told her the whole, and that the part omitted was the
most important of all. What could it be? She thought
of a thousand different things, but dismissed them one
after another from her mind as too preposterous to be
cherished for a moment. The terrible reality never once
occurred to her, else her heart had not beaten as lightly
as it did, in spite of the strange story she had heard. She
was glad that she had met with Nina -glad that every
obstacle to their future intercourse was removed - and
while she censured Arthur much she pitied him the more,
and scolded herself heartily for feeling so comfortable and
satisfied because he had ceased to love the unfortunate
Nina.
"I can't blame him for not wishing to be talked about,"
she said. "Shannondale is a horribly gossipping place,
and people would have surmised everything; but the
sooner they know it now the sooner it will die away.
Let me think. Who will be likely to spread the news
most industriously?"
Suddenly remembering 3Mrs. Eliakimrn Rogers, the busiest gossip in town, she turned Bedouin in the direction
of the low brown house, standing at a little distance from
the road, and was soon seated in Mrs. Eliakim's kitchen,
her ostensible errand being to inquire about some plain
sewing the good lady was doing for her, while her real
object was to communicate as much of Arthur's story as
she thought proper. Incidentally she spoke of Mr. St.
Claire, and when the widow asked "What under the sun




NINA AAND MIGGIE.              151
possessed him to live as he did," she replied by telling of
Nina, his ward, who, she said, had recently come to
Grassy Spring from the Asylum, adding a few items as to
how Arthur chanced to be her guardian, talking as if she
had known of it all the time, and saying she did not wonder that a young man like him should shrink from having
it generally understood that he had a crazy girl upon his
hands. lie was very kind to her indeed, and no brother
could treat his sister more tenderly than he treated Nina.
To every thing she said, Mrs. Eliakim smilingly assented, drawing her own conclusions the while and feeling
vastly relieved when, at last, her visitor departed, leaving
her at liberty to don her green calash and start for the
neighbors with this precious morsel of gossip. Turning
back, Edith saw her hurrying across the fields, and knew
it would not be long ere all Shannondale were talking of
Arthur's ward.
Arrived at home she found the dinner waiting for her,
and when asked by Richard what had kept her she replied
by repeating to him in substance what she had already
told Mrs. Eliakim  Rogers. There was this difference
however, between the two stories - the one told to Richard was longer and contained more of the particulars.
She did not, however, tell him of Arth"r's love for Nina,
or of the neglected wife, the mother of little Miggie,
though why she withheld that part of the story she could
not tell. She felt a strange interest in that young mother
dying alone in the noisome city, and in the little child
buried upon her bosom, but she had far rather talk of
Nina and her marvellous beauty, feeling sule that she had
at least one interested auditor, Victor, who was perfectly
delighted to have the mystery of Grassy Spring unravelled, though he felt a little disappointed that it should
amount to nothing more than a crazy girl, to whom Mr.
St. Claire was guardian.
This feeling of Victor was in a great measure shared




152          DARKNESS AND DAYLIqHT.
by the villagers, and, indeed, after a day or two of talking
and wondering, the general opinion seemed to be that
Arthur had magnified the evil and been altogether too
much afraid of Madam Rumor, who was inclined to be
rather lenient toward him, particularly as Edith Hastings
took pains to tell how kind he was to Nina, who gave
him oftentimes so much trouble. The tide of popular
feeling was in his favor, and the sympathy which many
openly expressed for him was like a dagger to the young
man, who knew he did not deserve it. Still he was relieved of a great burden, and was far happier than he had
been before, and even signified to Grace his willingness
to mingle in society and see company at his own house.
The consequence of this was throngs of visitors at Grassy
Spring, said visitors always asking for MIr. St. Claire, but
caring really to see Nina, who shrank from their advances,
and hiding herself in her room refused at last to go down
unless Miggie were there..Miggie had purposely absented herself from Grassy
Spring more than two whole weeks, and when Richard
asked the cause of it she answered that she did not know,
and, indeed, she could not to herself define the reason of
her staying so long from a place where she' wished so
much to be, unless it were that she had not quite recovered from the shock it gave her to know that Arthur had
once been engaged, even though he had wearied of the
engagement. It seemed to her that he had built between
them a barrier which she determined he should be the
first to cross. So she studiously avoided him, and thus
unconsciously plunged him deeper and deeper into the
mire, where he was already foundering. Her apparent
indifference only increased the ardor of his affection, and
though he struggled against it as against a deadly sin, he
could not overcome it, and at last urged on by Nina, who
begged so hard for Miggie, he resolved upon going to
Collingwood and taking Nina with him.




NINA AND MIGGIE.              153
It was a warm, pleasant afternoon in May, and Nina
had never looked more beautiful than when seated in the
open carriage, and on her way to Collingwood, talking
incessantly of Miggie, whom she espied long before they
reached the house. It was a most joyful meeting between
the two young girls, Nina clinging to Edith as if fearful
of losing her again, if by chance she should release her
hold.
Arthur did not tell Edith how much he had missed her,
but Nina did, and when she saw the color deepen on
Edith's cheeks she added, "You love him, don't you,
Miggie?"
"I love every body, I hope," returned the blushing
Edith, as she led her guests into the room where Richard
was sitting.
At sight of the blind man Nina started, and clasping her'hands together, stood regarding him fixedly, while a look
of perplexity deepened upon her face.
" Speak to her, Edith," whispered Arthur, but ere Edith
could comply with his request, Nina's lips parted and she
said, "You did do it, didn't you?"
"Whose voice was that? " and Richard started forward.
It's Nina, Mr. Harrington; pretty Nina Bernard; and
Edith came to the rescue.
"She has.a sweet, familiar voice," said Richard. "Come
to me, little one, will you?"
He evidently thought her a child, for in her statement
Edith had not mentioned her age, and Richard had somehow received the impression that she was very young.
It suited Nina to be thus addressed, and she went readily
to Richard, who pressed her soft, warm hands, and then
telling her playfully that he wished to know how she
looked, passed his own hand slowly over her face and hair,
caressing the latter and twining one of the curls around his
fingers; then, winding his arm about her slender waist,
he asked how old she was.
7*




154            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Fifteen years and a half," was her prompt reply."
Richard, never thought of doubting her word. She
was very slight indeed. "A little morsel," he called her,
and as neither Arthur nor Edith corrected the mistake,
he was suffered to think of Nina Bernard as one, wh10o,
were she rational, would be a mere school-girl yet.
She puzzled him greatly, and more than once he started
at some peculiar intonation of her voice.
"Little Snowdrop," he said, at last, "it seems to me I
have known you all my life. Look at me, and say if we
have met before?"
Edith was too intent upon Nina's answer to notice
Arthur, and she failed to see the spasm of pain and fear
which passed over his face, leaving it paler than itS wont.
Bending over Nina he waited like Edith while she scanned
Richard curiously, and then replied, "Never, unless you
are the one that did it - are you? "
" Did what? " asked Richard, and while Nina hesitated,
Arthur replied, "She has a fancy that somebody made
her crazy."
",Not I, oh, no, not I, poor little dove. I did not do it,
sure," and Richard smoothed the yellow curls resting on
his knee.
"Who was it, then?" persisted Nina. "He was tall,
like you, and dark and handsome, wasn't he Arthur?
You know - you were there? " and she turned appealingly to the young man, whose heart beat so loudly as to be
plainly audible to himself.
"It was Charlie Hudson, perhaps," suggested Eclith,
and Arthur mentally blessed her for a remark which
turned the channel of Nina's thoughts, and set her to telling Richard how Charlie cried when he saw her through
the iron bars, wearing that queer-looking gown.
"I danced for him with all my might," she saidl, " and
sang so loud, for I thought it would make him laugh as it
did the folks around me, but he only cried the harder.




NINA AND rIGGIE.              155
What made him? " and she looked up wistfully in Richard's face.  " You are crying, too!" she exclaimed.
"Everybody cries where I am. Why do they? I wish
they wouldn't. I'm good to-day —there, please don't,
Mr. Big-man, that did do it," and raising her waxen hand
she brushed away the tear trembling on Richard's long
eyelashes.
Edith now sought to divert her by asking if she were
fond of music, and would like to hear her play.
"Nina'll play," returned the little maiden, and going
to the piano she dashed off a wild, impassioned, mixed-up
impromptu, resembling now the soft notes of the lute or
the plaintive sob of the winter wind, and then swelling
into a full, rich, harmonious melody, which made the
blood chill in Edith's veins, and caused both Richard and
Arthur to hold their breath.
The music ceased, and rising from the stool Nina expressed a desire to go home, insisting that Edith should
go with her and stay all night.
" I want to sleep with my arms around your neck just
like you used to do," she said; and when Arthur, too,
joined in the request, Edith answered that she would if
Richard were willing.
"And sleep with a lunatic, - is it quite safe?" he
asked.
" Perfectly so," returned Arthur, adding that the house
was large enough, and Edith could act her own pleasure
with regard to sleeping apartments.
"Then it's settled that I may go," chimed in Edith,
quite as much delighted at the prospect of a long evening with Arthur, as with the idea of seeing more of
Nina.
She knew she was leaving Richard very lonely, but she
promised to be home early on the morrow, and bidding
good-bye, followed Arthur and Nina to the carriage.
Nina was delighted to have Edith with her, and after




156          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
their arrival at Grassy Spring, danced and skipped about
the house like a gay butterfly, pausing every few moments to wind her arms around the neck of her guest,
whom she kissed repeatedly, calling her always lliggie,
and telling her how much she loved her.
" Don't you want to see you as you used to be? " she
asked suddenly. "If you do, come up, — come to my
~room. She may?" and she turned toward Arthur, who
answered, "certainly, I will go myself," and the three
soon stood at the door of the Den.
It was Edith's first visit there, and a feeling of awe came
over her as she crossed the threshold of the mysterious
room. Then a cry of joyful surprise burst from her lips
as she saw how pleasant it was in there, and how tastefully the chamber was fitted up. Not another apartment
in the house could compare with it, and Edith felt that
she could be happy there all her life, were it not for the
iron lattice, which gave it somewhat the appearance of a
prison.
"Here you are," cried Nina, dragging her across the
floor to the portrait of the little child which had so interested her during Arthur's absence. "This is she - this
is you,- this is Miggie," and Nina jumped up and down,
while Edith gazed again upon the sweet baby face she
had once seen in the drawing-room.
"There is a slight resemblance between you," said Arthur, glancing from one to the other. "Had she lived,
her eyes must have been like yours; but look, this was
Nina's father."
Edith did not answer him. Indeed, she scarcely knew
what he was saying, for a nameless fascination chained
her to the spot, a feeling as if she were beholding her
other self, as if she had leaped backward many years, and
was seated again upon the nursery floor like the child
before her. Like gleams of lightning, confused memories
of the past came rushing over her only to pass away,




NINA AND MIGGIE.               157
leaving her in deeper darkness. One thought, however,
like a blinding flash caused her brain to reel, while she
grasped Arthur's arm, exclaiming, "Are you sure the
baby died - sure she was buried with her mother?"
" Yes, perfectly sure," was Arthur's reply, and with the
sensation of disappointment, Edith turned at last from
Miggie to the contemplation of the father; the Mr. Bernard whom she was not greatly disposed to like.
He was a portly, handsome man, but his face showed
traces of early debauchery and later dissipation. Still,
Edith was far more interested in him than in the portrait
of Nina's mother, the light-haired, blue-eyed woman, so
much like the daughter that the one could easily be
recognized from its resemblance to the other.
"Where is the second Mrs. Bernard's picture?" she
asked, and Arthur answered, "It was never taken, but
Phillis declares you are like her, and this accounts for
Nina's pertinacity in calling you Miggie."
The pictures were by this time duly examined, and then
Nina, still playing the part of hostess, showed to Edith
every thing of the least interest until she came to the
door, leading into the large square closet.
" Open it, please," she whispered to Arthur. " Let Miggie see where Nina stays when she tears."
Arthur unlocked the door, and Edith stepped with a
shudder into the solitary cell which had witnessed more
than one wild revel, and echoed to more than one delirious shriek.
"Is it necessary?" she asked, and Arthur replied:
"We think so; otherwise she would demolish every thing
within her reach, and throw herself from the window it
may be."
"That's so," said Nina, nodding approvingly. "When
I'm bad, I have to tear. It cures my head, and I'm so
strong then, that it takes Phillis and Arthur both to put
that gown on me. I can't tear that," and she pointed to




158          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
a loose sacque-like garment, made of the heaviest possible
material, and hanging upon a nail near the door of the
cell.
" Have you been shut up since you came here? " Edith
inquired, and Nina rejoined. "Once; didn't you hear
me scream?"  Phillis tried to make me quit, but I told
her I wouldn't unless they'd let you come. I saw you on
the walk, you know. I'm better with you, Miggie; a
heap better since you made me cry. It took a world of
hardness and pain away, and my head has not ached a
single time since then. I'm most well; ain't I, Arthur."
" Miss Hastings certainly has a wonderful influence over
you," returned Arthur, and as the evening wore away,
Edith began to think so, too.
Even the servants commented upon the change in Nina,
who appeared so natural and lady-like, that once there
darted across Arthur's mind the question, "what if her
reason should be restored! I will do right, Heaven helping me," he moaned mentally, for well he knew that
Nina sane would require of him far different treatment
fiom what Nina crazy did. It was late that night when
they parted, he to his lonely room where for hours he
paced the floor with feverish disquiet, while Edith went
from choice with Nina to the Den, determined to share
her single bed, and smiling at her own foolishness when
once a shadow of fear crept into her heart. How could
she be afraid of the gentle creature, who, in her snowy
night dress, with her golden hair falling about her face
and neck, looked like some beautiful angel flitting about
the room, pretending to arrange this and that, casting
half bashful glances at Edith, who was longer in disrobing
and at last, as if summoning all her courage for the act,
stepping behind the thin lace window curtains, which she
drew around her, saying softly, " don't look at me, Miggie,
will you,'cause I'm going to pray."
Instantly the brush which Edith held was stayed amid




NINA AND MIGGIE.              159
her raven hair, and the hot tears rained over her face as
she listened to that prayer, that God would keep Nina
from tearing any more, and not let Arthur cry, but make
it all come right some time with him and Miggie, too.
Then followed that simple petition, " now I lay me down
to sleep," learned at the mother's knee by so many thousand children whose graves like hillocks in the churchyard lie, and when she arose and came from behind the
gauzy screen where she fancied she had been hidden from
view, Edith was not wrong ii thinking that something like
the glory of Heaven shone upon her pure white brow. All
dread of her was gone, and when Sophy came in, offering
to sleep upon the floor as was her usual custom, she
promptly declined, for she would rather be alone with
Nina.
Edith had never been intimate with any girl of her
own age, and to her it was a happiness entirely new, the
nestling down in the narrow bed with a loved companion
whose arms wound themselves caressingly around her
neck, and whose lips touched hers many times, whispering,
"Bless you, Miggie, bless you, precious sister, you can't
begin to guess how much I love you. Neither can I tell
you. Why, it would take me till morning."
It became rather tiresome after a time being kept awake,
and fearing lest she would talk till morning, Edith said
to her.
" I shall go home if you are not more quiet."
There was something in Edith's voice which prompted
the crazy girl to obey, and with one more assurance of
love she turned to her pillow, and Edith knew by her
soft, regular breathing, that her troubles were forgotten.
"I hardly think you'll care to repeat the experiment
again," Arthur said to Edith next morning, when he met
her at the table, and saw that she looked rather weary.
"Nina, I fear, was troublesome, as Sophy tells me she
often is."




160           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Edith denied Nina's having troubled her much. Still
she felt that she preferred her own cozy bed-chamber to
Nina's larger, handsomer room, and would not promise to
spend another night at Grassy Spring, although she expressed her willingness to resume her drawing lessons,
and suggested that Nina, too, should become a pupil.
Arthur would much rather have had Edith all to himself,
for he knew that Nina's presence would be a restraint
upon him, but it was right, and he consented as the only
means of having Edith back again in her old place, fancying' that when he had her there it would be the same
as before. But he was mistaken, for when the lessons
were resumed, he found there was something between
them, —something which absorbed Edith's mind, and
was to him a constant warning and rebuke. Did he
bend so near Edith at her task, that his brown locks
touched her blacker braids, a shower of golden curls was
sure to mingle with the twain, as Nina also bent her down
to see what he was looking at. Did the hand which
sometimes guided Edith's pencil ever retain the fingers
longer than necessary, a pair of deep blue eyes looked
into his,. not reproachfully, for Nina could not fathom the
meaning of what she saw, but with an expression of
childlike trust and confidence far more potent than frowns
and jealous tears would have been. Nina was in Arthur's
way, bnt not in Edith's, and half the pleasure she experienced now in going to Grassy Spring, was derived from
the fact that she thus saw more of Nina than she would
otherwise have done. It was a rare and beautiful sight,
the perfect love existing between these two young girls,
Edith seeming the elder, inasmuch as she was the taller
and more self-reliant of the two. As a mother watches
over and loves her maimed infant, so did Edith guard and
cherish Nina, possessing over her so much power that a
single look from her black eyes was sufficient to quiet at
once the little lady, who, under the daily influence of her
society visibly improved both in health and spirits.




DR. GRISWOLD.                161
CHAPTER XVIII.
DR. GRISWOLD.
Still Nina's mind was enshrouded in as deep a gloom
as ever, and Dr. Griswold, who, toward the latter part of
June, came to see her, said it would be so always. There
was no hope of her recovery, and with his olden tenderness of manner he caressed his former patient, sighing as
he thought of the weary life before her. For two days
Dr. Griswold remained at Grassy Spring, learning in that
time much how matters stood. IIe saw Edith Hastings, -
scanned with his clear, far-reaching eye every action of
Arthur St. Claire, and when at last his visit was ended, and
Arthur was walking with him to the depot, he said abruptly, "I am sorry for you, St. Claire; more sorry than I
ever was before, but you know the path of duty and you
must walk in it, letting your eyes stray to neither side,
lest they fall upon forbidden fruit."
Arthur made no reply save to kick the gnarled roots
of the tree under which they had stopped for a few moments.
"Edith Hastings is very beautiful!" Dr. Griswold remarked suddenly, and as if she had just entered his mind.
"Does she come often to Grassy Spring? 
"Every day," and Arthur tried to look his friend fully
in the face, but could not, and his brown eyes fell as he
added hastily, "she comes to see Nina; they are greatly,
attached."
"She has a wonderful power over her, I think," returned
Dr. Griswold; "and I am not surprised that you esteem
her highly on that account, but how will it be hereafter
when other duties, other relations claim her attention.
Will she not cease to visit you and so Nina made worse? "




162          DARRKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"What new duties?  What relations do you mean,"
Arthur asked quickly, trembling in every joint as he anticipated the answer.
"I have a flncy that Miss Hastings will reward that
blind man for all his kindness with her heart and hand."
" Her hand it may be, but her heart,?never,," interrupted
Arthur, betraying by his agitation what Dr. Griswold had
already guessed.
" Poor Arthur," he said, "I know what is in your mind
and pity you so much, but you can resist temptation and
you must. There's no alternative. You chose your destiny years ago - abide by it, then. Hope and pray, as I
do, that Edith Hastings will be the blind man's bride."
" Oh, Griswold," and Arthur groaned aloud, "you cannot wish to sacrifice her thus!"
1" I can- I do -it will save you both from ruin."
"Then you think -you do think she loves me," and
Arthur looked eagerly at his friend, who answered, "I
think nothing, save that she will marry Mr. Harrington.
Your cousin told me there was a rumor to that effect.
She is often at Collingwood, and ought to be posted."
"Griswold, I wish I were dead," exclaimed Arthur.
"Yes, I wish I were dead, and were it not that I dread
the hereafter, I would end my existence at once in yonder l'iver," and he pointed to the Chicopee, winding its
slow way to the westward.
Dr. Griswold gazed at him a moment in silence, and
then replied somewhat sternly, "Rather be a man and
wait patiently for the filture."
"I would, but for the fear that Edith will be lost to me
forever," Arthur answered faintly, and Dr. Griswold replied, "Better so than lost herself. Why not be candid
with her; tell her everything; go over the entire past,
and if she truly loves you, she will wait, years and years
if need be. She's young yet, too young to be a wife.
Will you tell her?"




DR. GRISWOLD.                163
"I can't, I can't," and Arthur shook his head despairingly. "I have hidden the secret too long to tell it now. It
might have been easy at first, but now - it's too late. Oh,
Griswold, you do not understand what I suffer, for you
never knew what it was to love as I love Edith Itastings."
For a moment Dr. Griswold looked at him ill silence.
He knew how fierce a storm had gathered round hiln, and
how bravely he had met it. Ile knew, too, how impetuous and ardent was his disposition, how much one of his
temperament must love Edith Hastings, and he longed to
speak to him a word of comfort. Smuoothinll the brown
hair of the bowed head, and sighing to see hlow many
threads of silver were woven in it, he said,
" I pity you so much, and can feel for you more than
you suspect. You say I know not what it is to love.
Oh, Arthur, Arthur. You little guessed what it cost me,
years ago, to give up Nina Bernard. It almost broke my
heart, and the wound is bleeding yet! Could the past be
undone; could we stand where we did that night which
both remember so well, I would hold you back; and
Nina, crazy as she is, should this moment be mine - mine
to love, to cherish, to care for and weep ofver when she
is dead. Poor little unfortunate Nina —my darling --
my idol - my clipped-wing bird! "
It was Dr. Griswold's voice which trembled now, and
Arthur's which essayed to comfort him.
" I never dreamed of this," he said. " I knew you, with
others, had a liking for her, but you relinquished her so
willingly, I could not guess you loved her so well," and
in his efforts to soothe -his fiiend, Arthur forgot his own
sorrow in part.
It was time now for the Dr. to go, as the smoke of the
coming train was visible over the hills. " You need not
accompany me further," he said, offering his hand to Arthur, who pressed it in silence, and then walked slowly
back to Grassy Spring.




164          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHIT.
Those were terrible days which followed the visit of
Dr. Griswold, for to see Edith Hastings often was a danger he dared not incur, while to avoid her altogether was
utterly impossible, and at last resolving upon a change of
scene as his only hope, he one morning astonished Grace
with the announcement that he was going South, and it
might be many weeks ere he returned.
Since coming to that neighborhood, Arthur had been a
puzzle to Grace, and she watched him now in amazement,
as he paced the floor, giving her sundry directions with
regard to Nina,'and telling her where a letter would find
him in case she should be sick, and require his personal
attention. It was in vain that Grace expostulated with
him upon what seemed to her a foolish and uncalled-for
journey. He was resolved, and saying he should not
probably see Edith ere his departure, he left his farewell
with her.
Once he thought of bidding her encourage Edith to
marry the blind man, but he could not quite bring himself
to this. Edith was dearer to him now than when she
promised him that if Richard sought her hand she would
not tell him no, andl he felt that he would rather she should
die than be thus sacrificed. Anxiously Grace looked after
him as he walked rapidly away, thinking within herself
that long association with Nina had impaired his reason.
And Arthur was more than half insane. Not until now
had he been wholly roused to the reality of his position.
Dr. Griswold had rent asunder the flimsy veil, showing
him how hopeless was his love for Edith, and so, because
he could not have her, he must go away. It was a wise
decision, and he was strengthened to keep it in spite of
Nina's tears that he should stay.
" Nina'll die, or somebody'll die, I know," and the little
girl clung sobbing to his neck, when the hour of parting
came.
Very gently he unclasped her clinging arms; very tenderly he kissed her lips, bidding her give one to Miggie,




DR. GRISWOLD.               165
and then he left her, turning back ere he reached the gate,
as a new idea struck him. Would Nina go with him; go
to her Florida home, if so he would defer his journey a
day or so. He wondered he had not thought of this before. It would save him effectually, and he anxiously
waited her answer.
"If Miggie goes I will, but not without."
This was Nina's reply, and Arthur turned a second
time away.
In much surprise, Edith, who came that afternoon, heard
of Arthur's departure.
" Why did he go without bidding me good bye?" she
asked.
"I don't know, but he left a kiss for you right on my
lips," said Nina, putting up her rosebud mouth for Edith
to take what was unquestionably her own.
While they were thus talking together, the door bell
rang, and Soph, who answered the ring, admitted Dr.
Griswold.
"Dr. Griswold here again so soon!" exclaimed Edith,
a suspicion crossing her mind that Arthur had arranged
for him to take charge of Nina during his absence. "But
it shall not be," she thought, "I can prevent her returning to the Asylum, and I will."
She might have spared herself'all uneasiness, for Dr.
Griswold knew nothing of Arthur's absence, and seemed
more surprised than she had been.
"I am so glad, so glad," he said; and when Edith
looked inquiringly at him, he answered, "I am glad because it is right that he should go."
Edith did not in the least comprehend his meaning, and
as he manifested no intention to explain, the conversation
soon turned upon other topics than Arthur and his sudden
journey. Since Arthur's visit to Worcester, Dr. Griswold had heard nothing from him, and impelled by one
of those strange influences which will sometimes lead a




166          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
person on to his fate, he had come up to Shannondale
partly to see how matters stood and partly to whisper a
word of encouragement to one who needed it so much.
He had never been very robust or strong;the secret which
none save Arthur knew had gradually undermined his
healthand he was subject to fiequent attacks of what he
called his nervous headaches. The slightest cause would
sometimes induce one of these, and when on the morning
after his arrival at Grassy Spring he awoke from a troubled sleep he knew by certain unmistakable signs that a
day of suffering was in store for him. This on his own
account he would not have minded particularly, for he
was accustomed to it, but his presence was needed at
home; and the knowledge of this added to the intensity
of his pain, which became so great that to rise firom his
pillow was impossible, and Soph, when sent to his room
to announce that breakfast was waiting, reported him to
her mother as "mighty sick with blood in the face."
All the day long he lay in the darkened room, sometimes dreaming, sometimes moaning, and watching through
his closed eyes the movements of Nina, who had constituted
herself his nurse, treading on tiptoe across the floor, whisiering to herself, and apparently carrying on an animated
conversation with some imaginary personage. Softly, she
bathed his aching head, asking every moment if he were
better, and going once behind the door where he heard her
praying that " God would make the good doctor well."
Blessed Nina, there was far more need for this prayer
than she supposed, for when the next day came, the pain
and heat about the eyes and head were not in the least
abated, and a physician was called, who pronounced the
symptoms to be those of typhoid fever. With a stifled
moan, Dr. Griswold turned upon his pillow, while his
great, unselfish heart went out after his poor patients in
the Asylum, who would miss him so much. Three days
passed away, and it was generally known in the village




DR. GRISWOLD.                167
that a stranger lay sick of typhus fever at Grassy Spring,
which with common consent was shunned as if the deadly plague had been rioting there. Years before the disease had raged with fearful violence in the town, and
many a fresh mound was reared in the graveyard, and
many a hearth-stone desolated. This it was which struck
a panic to the hearts of the inhabitants when they knew
the scourge was again in their midst, and save the inmates
of the house, and Edith Hastings, none came to Dr. Griswold's aid. At first Richard refused to let the latter put
herself in the way of danger, but for once Edith asserted
her right to do as she pleased, and declared that she would
share Nina's labors. So for many weary days and nights
those two young girls hovered like angels of mercy around
the bed where the sick man tossed from side to side, while
the fever burned more and more fiercely in his veins until
his reason was dethroned, and a secret told which otherwise would have died with him. Gradually the long hidden love for Nina showed itself, and Edith, who alone
could comprehend the meaning of what he said and did,
saw how a strong, determined man can love, even when
there is no hope.
"Little wounded dove," he called the golden-haired
maiden, who bent so constantly over him, caressing his
burning face with her cool, soft hands, passing her snowy
fingers through his disordered hair, and suffering him to
kiss her as he often'did, but insisting always that Miggie
should be kissed also, and Edith, knowing that what was
like healing to the sick man would be withheld unless she,
too, submitted, would sometimes bow her graceful head
and receive upon her brow the token of affection.
" You must hug Miggie, too," Nina said to him one day,
when he had held her slight form for a moment to his bosom. " She's just as good to you as I am."
"Nina," said Edith, "Dr. Griswold does not love me
as he does you, and you must not worry him so. Don't




163          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
you see it makes him worse?" and lifting the hair she
pointed to the drops of perspiration standing upon his
forehead.
This seemed to satisfy Nina, while at the same time her
darkened mind must have caught a glimmer of the truth,
for her manner changed perceptibly, and for a day or so
she was rather shy of Dr. Griswold. Then the mood
changed again, and to the poor dying man was vouchsafed a glimspe of what it might have been to be loved
by Nina Bernard.
"Little sunbeam - little clipped-winged bird - little
pearl," were the terms of endearment he lavished upon
her, as, with his feeble arm about her, he told her one
night how he loved her. "Don't go Edith," he said, as
he saw her stealing from the room; "sit down here beside me and listen to what I have to say."
Edith obeyed, and taking her hand and Nina's in his,
as if the touch of them both would make him strong to
unburden his mind, he began:
" Let me call you Edith, while I'm talking, for the sake
of one who loves you even as I love Nina."
Edith started, and very foolishly replied,
" Do you mean Mr. Harrington? "
She knew he didn't, but her heart was so sore on the
subject of Arthur's absence that she longed to be reassured in some way, and so said what she did. 
"No, Edith, it is not Mr. Harrington, I mean," and
Dr. Griswold's bright eyes fastened themselves upon the
trembling girl as if to read her inmost soul, and see how
far her feelings were enlisted.
"It's Arthur," said Nina, nodding knowingly at both.
"Arthur," Edith repeated bitterly.  "Fine proof he
gives of his love. Going from home for an indefinite
length of time without one word for me. He hates me,
I know," and bursting into tears she buried. her face in
the lap of Nina, who sat upon the bed.




DR. GRISWOLD.                169
"Poor Edith! " and another hand than Nina's smoothed
her bands of shining hair. "By this one act you have
confessed that Arthur's love is not unrequited. I hoped
it might be otherwise. God help you, Edith. God help
you."
He spoke earnestly, and a thrill of fear ran through
Edith's veins. Lifting up her head, she said,
" You  talk as if it were a certainty that Arthur
St. Claire loves me. He has never told me so - never."
She could not add that he had never given her reason
to think so, for he had, and her whole frame quivered
with joy as she heard her suspicions confirmed by
Dr. Griswold.
" He does love you, Edith Hastings. He has confessed
as much to me, and this is why he has gone from home.
He would forget you, and it is right. He must forget
you; he must not love. It would be a wicked, wicked
thing; and Edith - are you listening - do you hear all
I say?"
"Yes," came faintly from Nina's lap, where Edith had
laid her face again.
"Then promise not to marry him, so long -so long —
Oh, Nina, how can I say it? Edith, swear you'll never
marry Arthur. Swear, Edith, swear."
His voice was raised to a shriek, and by the dimn light
of the lamp, which fell upon his pallid features, both
Edith and Nina saw the wild delirium flashing from his
eye. Nina was the first to detect it, and wringing Edith's
hand she whispered, imploringly,
"Swear, Miggie, once. Say thunder, or something like
that as softly as you can. It won't be so very bad, and he
wants you to so much."
Frightened as Edith was at Dr. Griswold's manner she
could not repress a smile at Nina's mistaken idea. Still,she did not swear, and all that night he continued talking
incoherently of Arthur, of Edith, of Nina, Geneva, Rich8




170         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
ard Ilarrington, and a thousand other matters, mingling
them together in such a manner that nothing clear or connected could be made of what he said. In the morning
he was more quiet, but there was little hope of his life,
the physician said. From the first he had greatly desired
to see Arthur once more, and when his danger became
apparent a telegram had been forwarded to the wanderer,
but brought back no response. Another was sent, and
another, the third one, in the form of a letter, finding him
far up the Red river, where in that sultry season the air
was rife with pestilence, which held with death many a
wanton revel, and would surely have claimed him for its
victim, but for the timely note which called him away.
Night and day, day and night, as fast as the steam-god
could take him, he traveled, his heart swelling with alternate hope and fear as he neared the north-land, seeing
from afar the tall heads of the New England mountains,
and knowing by that token that he was almost home.
It was night, dark night at Grassy Spring, and the summer rain, which all the day had fallen in heavy showers,
beat drearily against the windows of the room where a
fair young girl was keeping watch over the white-faced
man whose life was fast ebbing away. They were alone,
- -Dr. Griswold and Nina - for both would have it so.
He, because he felt how infinitely precious to him would
be his last few hours with her, when there was no curious
ear to listen; and she, because she would have Miggie
sleep. Nina. knew no languor from wakefulness. She
was accustomed to it, and as if imbued with supernatural strength, she had sat night after night in that close
room, ministering to the sick man as no one else could
have done, and by her faithfulness and tender care repaying him in part'for the love which for long, weary
years had known no change, and which, as life drew near
its close, manifested itself in a desire to have her con



DR. GRISWOLD.               171
stantly at his side, where he could look into her eyes, and
hear the murmurings of her bird-like voice.
Thus far Edith and the servants had shared her vigils,
but this night she preferred to be alone, insisting that
Edith, who began to show signs of weariness, should occupy the little room adjoining, where she could be called,
if necessary. Not apprehending death so soon the physician acquiesced in this arrangement, stipulating, however, that Phillis should sleep upon the lounge in Dr.
Griswold's chamber, but the care, the responsibility, should
all be Nina's, he said, and with childish alacrity she hastened to her post. It was the first time she had kept the
watch alone, but from past experience the physician believed she could be trusted, and he left her without a moment's hesitation.
Slowly the hours went by, and Nina heard no sound
save the low breathing of the sleepers near, the dropping
of the rain, and the mournful sighing of the wind through
the maple trees. Midnight came, and then the eyes of
the sick man opened wide and wandered about the room
as if in quest of some one.
"Nina," he said, faintly, "Are you here?  Why has
the lamp gone out? It's so dark that I can't see your
face."
Bending over him, Nina replied,
"I'm here, doctor. Nina's here. Shall I get more light
so you can see?"
" Yes, darling, more light - more light;" and swift as
a fawn Nina ran noiselessly from room to room, gathering
up lamp after lamp, and candle after candle, and bringing
them to the sick chamber, which blazed as if on fire,
while the musical laugh of the lunatic echoed through
the room as she whispered to herself, "Twenty sperm
candles and fifteen lamps!'Tis a glorious watch I keep
to-night."
Once she thought of wakening Edith to share in her




17'2         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
transports, but was withheld from doing so by a feeling
that "Miggie" would not approve her work.
" It's light as noonday," she said, seating herself upon
the bedside. " Can't you see me now??"
" No, Nina, I shall never look on your dear face again
until we meet in Heaven. There you will be my own.
No one can come between us," and the feeble arms wound
themselves lovingly around the maiden, who laid her
cheek against his feverish one, while her little fingers
strayed once more amid the mass of disordered hair,
pushing it back from the damp forehead, which she touched with her sweet lips.
"Nina," and the voice was so low that Nina bent her
down to catch the sound, "I am dying, darling. You
are not afraid to stay with me till the last? "
"No," she answered, " not afraid, but I do so wish you
could see the splendid illumination. Twenty candles and
fifteen lamps —the wicks of them all an inch in height.
Oh, it's grand! " and again Nina chuckled as she saw how
the lurid blaze lit up the window panes with a sheet of
ilame which, flashing backward, danced upon the wall in
many a grotesque form, and cast a reddish glow even upon
the white face of the dying.
He was growing very restless now, for the last great
struggle had commenced; the soul was waging a mighty
battle with the body, and the conflict was a terrible one,
wringing groans of agony from him and great tears firom
Nina, who forgot her bonfire in her grief. Once when
the fever had scorched her veins and she had raved in
mad delirium, Dr. Griswold had rocked her in his arms as
he would have rocked a little child, and remembering
this the insane desire seized on Nina to rock him, too, to
sleep. But she could not lift him up, though she bent
every energy to the task, and at last, passing one arm beneath his neck she managed to sit behind him, holding
him in such a position that he rested easier, and his con



DR. GRISWOLD.       173
vulsive movements ceased entirely. With his head upon
her bosom she rocked to and fro, uttering a low, cooing
sound, as if soothing him to sleep.
" Sing, Nina, sing," he whispered, and on the night air
a mournful cadence rose, swelling sometimes so high that
Edith moved uneasily upon her pillow, while even Phillis
stretched out a hand as if about to awaken.
Then the music changed to a plaintive German song,
and Edith dreamed of Bingen on the Rhine, while
Dr. Griswold listened eagerly, whispering at intervals,
" Precious Nina, blessed dove, sing on - sing till I am
at rest."
This was sufficient for Nina, and one after another she
warbled the wild songs she knew he loved the best, while
the lamps upon the table and the candles upon the floor
flickered and flamed and cast their light far out into the
yard, where the August rain was falling, and where more
than one bird, startled from its slumbers, looked up to see
whence came the fitful glare, wondering, it may be, at the
solemn dirge, floating out into the darkness far beyond
the light.
The grey dawn broke at last, and up the graveled walk
rapid footsteps came - Arthur St. Claire hastening home.
From a distant hill he had caught the blaze of Nina's
bonfire, and trembling with fear and dread, he hurried on
to learn what it could mean. There was no stir about
the house - no sign of life, only the crimson blaze shining across the fields, and the sound of a voice, feeble now,
and sunk almost to a whisper, for Nina's strength was
giving way. For hours she had sung, while the head
upon her bosom pressed more and more heavily - the
hand which clasped her's unloosed its hold —the eyes
which had fastened themselves upon her with a look of
unutterable love, closed wearily - the lips, which, so long
as there was life in them, ceased not to bless her, were
still, and poor, tired, crazy Nina, fancying that he slept at




17 4          DDARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
last, still swayed back and forth, singing to the cold senseless clay, an infant lullaby.
"Hushaby, my baby - go to sleep, my child."
Ite had sung it once to her. She sang it now to him,
and the strange words fell on Arthur's ear, even before he
stepped across the threshold, where he stood appalled at
the unwonted spectacle which met his view. Nina manifested no surprise whatever, but holding up her finger,
motioned him to tread cautiously, if he would come near
where she was.
"HIe couldn't see," she whispered, " and I made him a
famous light. Isn't it glorious here, smoke, and fire and
all? He is sleeping quietly now, only'his head is very
heavy. It makes my arm ache so hard, and his hands are
growing cold, I cannot kiss them warm," and she held the
stiffening fingers against her burning cheek, shuddering at
the chill they gave her, just as Arthur shuddered at the
sight, for it needed nothing more to tell him that
Dr. Griswold was dead!
CHAPTER XIX.
EX-OFFICIO.
The spacious rooms at Grassy Spring had been filled to
their utmost capacity by those of the villagers, who, having
recovered from their panic, came to join in the funeral obsequies of Dr. Griswold. In the yard without the grass
was trampled down and the flowers broken from their
stalks by the crowds, who, failing to gain admittance to
the interior of the house, hovered about the door, struggling for a sight of the young girl, whose strange death
watch and stranger bonfire was the theme of every tongue.
Solemnly the voice of God's ambassador was heard, proclaiming, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the
Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet




EX-OFFICIO.                175
shall he live," and then a song was sung, the voices of
the singers faltering, all but one, which, rising clear and
sweet above the rest, sang of the better world, wvhere the
bright eternal noonday ever reigns, and the assembled
throng without held their breath to listen, whispering to
each other, "It is Nina, the crazy girl. She was the
doctor's betrothed."
Down the gravelled walk, - along the highway, - over
the river, and up the hill to the village churchyard the
long procession moved, and when it backward turned,
one of the number was left behind, and the August sunset fell softly upon his early grave. -Sadly the mourners,
Arthur, Edith and Nina, went to their respective homes,
Edith seeking the rest she so much needed, Nina subdued
and awed into perfect quiet, sitting with folded hands in
the room where her truest friend had died, while Arthur,
alone in his chamber, held as it were communion with the
dead, who seemed this night to be so near to him.
Swiftly, silently, one by one, the days came and went
until it was weeks since Dr. Griswold died, and things at
Grassy Spring assumed their former routine. At first
Nina was inclined to be melancholy, talking much of the deceased, and appearing at times so depressed that Arthur
trembled, lest she should again become unmanageable,
wondering what he should do with her now the Dr. was
gone. Gradually, however, she recovered her usual health
and spirits, appearing outwardly the same; but not so
with Arthur, whose thoughts and feelings no one could
fathom. It was as if he had locked himself within a wall of
ice, which nothing had power to thaw. He saw but little of
Edith now; the lessons had been tacitly given up, and,
after what she had heard from Dr. Griswold, she could not
come to Grassy Spring just as she used to do, so she remained at home, marvelling at the change in Arthur, and
wondering if he really loved her, why he did not tell her
so. Much of what Dr. Griswold had said she imputed to




176  DAKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
delirium, and with the certainty that she was beloved, she
would not dwell upon anything which made her unhappy,
and she waited for the end, now hastening on with rapid
strides.
Behind the icy wall which Arthur had built around
himself, a fierce storm was blowing, and notwithstanding
the many midnight watches kept over Dr. Griswold's
grave, the tempest still raged fearfully, threatening to
burst its barriers and carry all before it. But it reached
its height at last, and wishing to test his strength, Arthur
asked Nina one pleasant night to go with him to Collingwood. She consented readily, and in a few moments they
were on their way. They found the family assembled
upon the broad piazza, where the full moon shone upon
them through the broad leaves of woodbine twining
about the massive pillars. Edith sat as usual upon a stool
at Richard's feet, and her face wore a look of disappointment. Thoughts of Eloise Temple had been in her mind
the entire day, and sitting there with Richard, she had
ventured to ask him again of the young girl in whom she
was so much interested. But Richard shook his head.
Hie was reserving Eloise Temple for a future day, and he
said to Edith,
" I cannot tell you of her yet, or where she is."
"When will you then?" and Edith spoke pettishly.
"You always put me off, and I don't see either why you
need to be so much afraid of telling me about her, unless
her mother was bad, or something."
"Edith," Richard replied, "I do not wish to explain
to you now. By and by I'll tell you, it may be, though
even that will depend on circumstances;" and he sighed
as he thought what the circumstances must be which
would keep from Edith any further knowledge of Eloise
than she already possessed.
Edith did not hear the sigh. She only knew that it
was useless to question him, and beating her little foot




EX-OFFICIO.                 1 7T
impatiently, she muttered, "More mystery. If there's
any thing I hate it's mystery. —"
She did not finish what she meant to say, for at that
moment she spied Arthur and Nina coming through the
garden gate as the nearest route.
Edith was not in the best of humors. She was vexed
at Richard, because he wouldn't tell and at Arthur for
"acting so," as she termed it, —this acting so implying
the studied indifference with which he had treated her of
late. But she was not vexed with Nina, and running out
to meet her, she laid her arm across her neck, and led her
with many words of welcome to the stool she had just
vacated, saying laughingly: "I know Mr. Harrington
would rather you should sit here than a cross patch like
me! I'm ill-natured to-night, MIr. St. Claire," and she
bit her words off with playful spitefulness.
"Your face cannot be an index to your feelings, then,"
returned Arthur, retaining her offered hand a moment,
and looking into her eyes, just to see if he could do it
without flinching.
It was a dangerous experiment, for Edith's soul looked
through her eyes, and Arthur read therein that which
sent feverish heats and icy chills alternately through his
veins. Releasing her hand he sat down upon the upper
step of the piazza, and leaning against one of the pillars,
began to pluck the leaves within his reach, and mechanically tear them in pieces.
Meantime Richard had signified to Edith his wish that
she should bring another stool, and sit beside him just as
Nina was doing.
" I can then rest my hands upon the heads of you both,"
he said, smoothing the while Nina's golden curls.
"Now  tell us a story, please," said Nina; and when
Richard asked what it should be, she replied,
"Oh, tell us about the years ago when you were over
the sea, and why you have never married. Maybe you
8*




178            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
have, though. You are old enough, I reckon. Did yoa
ever marry anybody? "
" Yes, I did," returned Richard; "a little girl with
hair like yours, I think, though my eyesight then was
almost gone, and I saw nothing distinctly."
"Wha-a-at! " exclaimed Edith, at the same time asking
Arthur if he was hurt as he started suddenly.
"There it goes. It was a bee, I guess;" and Nina
pointed to an insect flitting by, but so far from Arthur as
to render a sting from the diminutive creature impossible.
Still it served as an excuse, and blessing Nina in his
heart for the suggestion, Arthur talked rapidly of various
matters, hoping in this way to change the conversation.
But Edith was not to be put off, even if Nina were. She
was too much interested to know what Richard meant,
and as soon as politeness would permit, she said to him,
"Please go on, and tell us of the girl you married.
Who was the bridegroom, and where did it occur?"
There was no longer a shadow of hope that the story
would not be told, and folding his arms like one resigned
to his fate, Arthur listened, while Richard related to the
two girls how, soon after his removal to Geneva, he had
been elected Justice of the Peace in place of one resigned.
"I did not wish for the office," he said, "although I was
seldom called upon to act, and after my sight began to fail
so fast, people never came to me except on trivial matters.
One night, however, as many as -let me see -as many
as ten years ago, my housekeeper told me there were in
the parlor four young people desirous, of seeing me, adding that she believed a wedding was in contemplation."
"Splendid!" cried Edith; "and you married them,
didn't you? Tell us all about it; how the bride looked,
and every thing."
"I cannot gratifyr you in that respect," returned Richard. " There was a veil of darkness between us, and I
could see nothing distinctly, but I knew she was very




EX OFFICIO.                179
slight, so much so, indeed, that I was sorry afterward that
I did not question her age."
"A runaway match from the Seminary, perhaps," suggested Arthur, in tones so steady as to astonish himself.
"I have sometimes thought so since," was Richard's
reply, "but as nothing of the kind was ever known to
have occurred, I may have been mistaken."
"But the names?" cried Edith, eagerly, "you could
surely tell by that, unless they were feigned."
" Which is hardly probable," Richard rejoined, " though
they might as well have been for any good they do me
now. I was too unhappy then, too much wrapped up in
my own misfortunes to care for what was passing around
me, and though I gave them a certificate, keeping myself
a memorandum of the same, I soon forgot their names
entirely."
" But the copy," chimed in Edith, "that will tell.
Let's hunt it up. I'm so interested in these people, and
it seems so funny that you should have married them.
I wonder where they are. Have you never heard a word
from them?"
"Never, since that night," said Richard; "and what is
more unfortunate still for an inquisitive mother Eve, like
you, the copy which I kept was burned by a servant who
destroyed it with sundry other business papers, on one of
her cleaning house days."
" Ah-h," and Arthur drew a long, long breath, which
prompted Edith to ask if he were tired.
" You're not as much interested as I am," she said. "1
do wish I knew who the young bride was- so small and
so fair. Was she as tall as Nina?" and she turned
to Richard, who replied,
"I can hardly judge the height of either. Stand up,
Snow Drop, and let me feel if you are as tall as the bride
of ten years ago."
"Yes, Nina is the taller of the two," said Richard, as




180          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
she complied with his request and stood under his hand.
"I have often thought of this girl-wife and her handsome
boy-husband, doubting whether I did right to marry them,
but the young man who accompanied them  went far
toward reassuring me that all was right. They were residents of the village, he said, and having seen me often in
town, had taken a fancy to have me perform the ceremony, just for the novelty of the thing."
"It's queer you never heard of them afterward," said
Edith; while Nina, looking up in the blind man's face,
rejoined,
Y" ou did it then?"
" Nina," said Arthur ere Richard could reply, " it is time
we were going home; there is Sophy with the shawl
which you forgot." And he pointed toward Soph coming
through the garden, with a warm shawl tucked under her
arm, for the dew was heavy that night and she feared lest
Nina should take cold.
"Nina won't go yet; she isn't ready," persisted the capricious maiden. "Go till I call you," and having thus
summarily dismissed Soph, the little lady resumed the
seat from which she had arisen, and laying her head on
Richard's knee, whispered to him  softly, " Can't you
scratch it out?"
"Scratch what out? " he asked; and Nina replied,
"Why, it; what you've been talking about. Nothing
ever came of it but despair and darkness."
"I do not know what you mean," Richard said, and as
Arthur did not volunteer any information, but sat carelessly scraping his thumb nail with a pen-knife, Edith
made some trivial remark which turned the channel of
Nina's thoughts, and she forgot to urge the request that
"it should be scratched out."
"Nina'll go now," she said, after ten minutes had
elapsed, and calling Soph, Arthur was soon on his way




THE DECISION.                181
home, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry that
every proof of his early error was forever destroyed.
CHAPTER XX.
THE DECISION.
The summer was over and gone; its last breath had
died away amid the New England hills, and the mellow
October days had come, when in the words of America's
sweetest poetess,
" The woods stand bare and brown,
And into the lap of the South land,
The flowers are blowing down."
Over all there was that dreamy, languid haze, so common to the Autumn time, when the distant hills are
bathed in a smoky light and all things give token of decay. The sun, round and red, as the October sun is wont
to be, shone brightly upon Collingwood, and looked cheerily into the room where Edith Hastings sat, waiting apparently for some one whose tardy appearance filled her
with impatience. In her hand she held a tiny note received the previous night, and as she read for the twentieth time the few lines contained therein, her blushes deepened on her cheek, and her black eyes grew softer and
more subdued in their expression.
"Edith," the note began, "I must see you alone. I
have something to say to you which a third person cannot
hear. May I come to Collingwood to-morrow at three
o'clock, P. Mr.? In haste, Arthur St. Claire."
The words were very cold, but to Edith they contained
a world of meaning.  She knew she was beloved by
Arthur St. Claire. Dr. Griswold had told her so. Grace




182          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIHT.
had told her so. Nina had told her so, while more than
all his manner had told her so repeatedly, and now he
would tell her so himself, and had chosen a time when
Richard and Victor were both in Boston, as the one best
adapted to the interview. Edith was like all other maidens of eighteen, and her girlish heart fluttered with joy as
she thought what her answer would be, but not oat first, -
not at once, lest she seem too anxious. She'd make him
wait a whole week, then see how he felt. I-e deserved it
all for his weak vacillation. If he loved her why hadn't
he told her before! She didn't believe there was such a
terrible impediment in the way. Probably he had sworn
never to marry any o'ne save Nina, but her insanity was
certainly a sufficient reason for his not keeping the oath.
Dr. Griswold was peculiar,- over-nice in some points,
and Arthur had been wholly under his control, becoming
morbidly sensitive to the past, and magnifying every
trivial circumstance into a mountain too great to be moved.
This was Edith's reasoning as she sat waiting that October afternoon for Arthur, who came ere long, looking
happier, more like himself than she had seen him since
the memorable day when she first met Nina. Arthur had determined to do right, to tell without reserve
the whole of his past history to Edith Hastings, and the
moment he reached this decision half his burden was
lifted from his mind. It cost him a bitter struggle thus
to decide, and lest his courage should give way, he had
asked for an early interview. It was granted, and without
giving himself time to repent he came at once and stood
before the woman who was dearer to him than his life.
Gladly would he have died could he thus have blotted
out the past and made Edith his wife, but he could not,
and he had come to tell her so.
Never had she been more beautiful than she was that
afternoon. IIer dress of crimson merino contrasted well
with her clear dark complexion. Her magnificent hair,




THE DECISION.               183
arranged with far more care than usual, was wound in
many a heavy braid around her head, while, half-hidden
amid the silken bands, and drooping gracefully behind
one ear, was a single white rose-bud, mingled with scarlet
blossoms of verbena; the effect adding greatly to her
beauty. Excitement lent a brighter sparkle to her brilliant eyes, and a richer bloom to her glowing cheeks, and
thus she sat waiting for Arthur St. Claire, who felt his
heart grow cold and faint as he looked upon her, and
knew her charms were not for him. She detected his
agitation, and as a kitten plays with a captured mouse,
torturing it almost to madness, so she played with him
ere suffering him to reach the point. Rapidly she went
from one subject to another, dragging him with her whether
he would or not, until at last as if suddenly remembering
herself, she turned her shining eyes upon him, and said,
" I have talked myself out, and will now give you a chance.
You wrote that you wished to see me."
But for this direct allusion to his note, Arthur would
assuredly have gone away, leaving his errand untold.
But he could not do so now. She was waiting for him to
speak, and undoubtedly wondering at his silence. Thrice
he attempted to articulate, but his tongue seemed paralyzed, and reeking with perspiration, he sat unable to
move until she said again, "Is it of Nina you would tell
me?"
Then the spell was broken, Nina was the sesame which
unlocked his powers of speech; and wiping the large
drops from his forehead, he answered,
"Yes, Edith, of Nina, of myself, of you. Edith, you
know how much I love you, don't you, darling?"
The words were apparently wrung from him greatly
against his will. They were not what he intended to
say, and he would have given worlds to have recalled
them, but they were beyond his reach, and the very walls
of the room seemed to echo in thunder tones,




184          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
" You know how much I love you, don't you, darling?"
Yes, she did know; he knew she did by the glance she
gave him back, and laying his head upon the table, he
neither moved nor spoke until a footstep glided to his side,
and a soft hand pressed his burning brow, while a voice,
whose tones drifted him far, far back to the sea of darkness and doubt where he had so long been bravely buffetting the billows, whispered to him,
"Arthur, I do know, or rather believe you love me.
You would not tell me an untruth, but I do not understand why it should make you so unhappy."
He did not answer her at once, but retained within his
own the little hand which trembled for a moment like an
imprisoned bird and then grew warm and full of vigorous life just as Edith was, standing there before him.
What should he do? What could he do? Surely, never
so dark an hour had gathered round him, or one so fraught
with peril. Like lightning his mind took in once more
the whole matter as it was. Griswold was dead. ()n
his grave the autumn leaves were falling and the nightly
vigils by that grave had been of no avail. Nina could
never comprehend, the written proof was burned, Richard had forgotten, there was nothing in the way save his
conscience, and that would not be silent. Loudly it whispered to the anguished man that happiness could not be
secured by trampling on Nina's rights; that remorse
would mix itself with every joy and at the last would
drive him mad.
"You mistake me, I cannot," he began to say, but
Edith did not heed it, for a sound without had caught her
ear, telling her that Richard had unexpectedly returned,
and Victor was coming for her.
There was an expression of impatience on Edith's face,
as to Victor's summons she replied, "Yes, yes, in a moment;" but Arthur breathed more freely as, rising to his
feet, he said, "I cannot now say all I wish to say, but




THE DECISION.               185
meet me, to-morrow at this hour in the Deering Woods,
near the spot where the mill brook falls over those old
stones. You know the place. We went there once with
-Nina."
He wrung her hand, pitying her more than he did himself, for he knew how little she suspected the true nature
of what he intended to tell her.
" God help us both, me to do right, and her to bear it,"
was his mental prayer, as he left her at the door of the
room where Richard was waiting for her.
There were good and bad angels tugging at Arthur's
heart as he hastened across the fields where the night
was falling, darker, gloomier, than ever it fell before.
Would it be a deadly sin to marry Edith Hastings?
Would Nina be wronged if he did? were questions
which the bad spirits kept whispering in his ear, and
each time that he listened to these questionings, he drifted further and further away from the right, until by the
time his home was reached he hardly knew himself what
his intentions were.
Very bright were the lights shining in the windows of
his home, and the fire blazed cheerfully in the library,
where Nina, pale and fair as a white pond lily, had ordered the supper table to be set, because she thought it
would please him, and where, with her golden curls tucked behind her ears, and a huge white apron on, she knelt
before the glowing coals, making the nicely-buttered toast
he liked so well. Turning toward him her childish face
as he came in, she said,
" See —Nina's a nice little housekeeper. Wouldn't it
be famous if we could live alone, you and I?"
Arthur groaned inwardly, but made her no reply. Sitting down in his arm-chair, he watched her intently as
she made his tea, removed her apron, brushed her curls,
and then took her seat at the table, bidding him do the
same. Mechanically he obeyed, affecting to eat for her




186          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
sake, while his eyes were constantly fastened upon her
face. Supper being over and the table removed, he continued watching her intently as she flitted about the
room, now perching herself upon his knee, calling him
"her good boy," now holding a whispered conversation
with Miggie, who, she fancied, was there, and again singing to herself a plaintive song she had sung to Dr. Griswold. When it drew near her bedtime she went to the
window, from which the curtain was thrown back, and
looking out upon the blackness of the night, said to
Arthur,
"The darkness is very dark. I should think poor Dr.
Griswold would be afraid lying there alone in that narrow grave.  What made him  die, Arthur?  I didn't
want him to. It had better been I, hadn't it?"
She came close to him now, and sitting on his knee
held his bearded chin in her hand, while she continued,
"Would my poor boy be very lonesome, knowing that
Nina wasn't here, nor up stairs, nor in the Asylum, nor
over at Miggie's, nor anywhere? Would you miss me a
bit? "
Y' Yes, yes, yes!"
The words came with quick, gasping sobs, for in his
hour of bitterest anguish, Arthur had never for an instant
wished her gone -the little blue-eyed creature clinging
so confidingly to him and asking if he would miss her
when she was dead.
"Nina's would be a little grave," she said, "not as
large as Miggie's, and perhaps it won't be long before
they dig it.  I can wait.  You can wait; can't you,
boy?"
What was it which prompted her thus to speak to him?
What was it which made him see Griswold's glance in
the eyes looking so earnestly to his own? Surely there
was something more than mere chance in all this. Nina
would save him. She had grasped his conscience, and




THE DECISION.               187
she stirred it with no gentle hand, until the awakened
man writhed in agony, such as the drowning are said to
feel when slowly restored to life, and bowing his head on
Nina's, he cried,
"What shall I do? Tell me, Nina, what to do!"
Once before, when thus appealed to, she had answered
him, " Do right," and she now said the same to the weeping man, who sobbed aloud, "I will. I will tell her all
to-morrow. I wish it were to-morrow now, but the long
night must intervene, and a weak, vacillating fool like me
may waver in that time. Nina," and he held her closer
to him, "stay here with me till morning. I am stronger
where you are. The sight of you does me good. Phillis
will fix you a bed upon the sofa and make you comfortable; will you stay? "
Every novelty was pleasing to Nina and she assented
readily, stipulating, however, that he should not look at
her while she said her prayers."
In much surprise Phillis heard of this arrangement,.but
offered no objection, thinking that Arthur had probably
detected signs of a frenzied attack and chose to keep her
with him where he could watch her. Alas! they little
dreamed that'twas to save himself he kept her there,
kneeling oftentimes beside her as she slept, and from the
sight of her helpless innocence gathering strength for the
morrow's duty. How slowly the hours of that never-tobe-forgotten night dragged on, and when at last the grey
dawn came creeping up the east, how short they seemed,
looked back upon. Through them all Nina had slept
quietly, moving only once, and that when Arthur's tears
dropped upon her face. Then, unconsciously, she put her
arms around his neck and murmured, "It will all be
right sometime."
"Whether it its or not, I will do right to-day," Arthur
said aloud, and when the sun came stealing into the room,
it found him firm as a granite rock.




188          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Nina's presence saved him, and when the clock pointed
to three, he said to her, "Miggie is waiting for me in the
Deering woods, where the mill-brook falls over the stones.
You called it Niagara, you know, when you went there
once with us. Go to Miggie, Nina. Tell her I'm coming
soon. Tell her that I sent you."
"And that you will do right?" interrupted Nina, retaining a confused remembrance of last night's conversation.
"Yes, tell her I'll do right. Poor Edith, she will need
your sympathy so much; " and with trembling hands Arthur himself wrapped Nina's shawl around her, taking
more care than usual to see that she was shielded from
the possibility of taking cold; then, leading her to the
door and pointing in the direction of the miniature Niagara he bade her go, watching her with a beating heart
as she bounded across the fields toward the Deering
woods.
CHAPTER XXL
THE DEERING WOODS.
Edith had been in a state of feverish excitement all
the day, so happy had she been made by the certainty
that Arthur loved her. She had not doubted it before,
but having it told her in so many words was delightful,
and she could scarcely wait for the hour when she was to
hear the continuation of a story abruptly terminated by
the return of Richard.  Poor Richard! He was sitting
in his librlry now, looking so lonely, wh!en on her way
through the hall she glanced in at him, that she almost
cried to think how desolate he would be when she was
gone.




THE DEERING WOODS.              189
"I'll coax Arthur to come here and live," she said to
herself, thinking how nice it would be to have Arthur
and Nina and Richard all in one house.
The hands of her watch were pointing to three, as, stepping out upon the piazza she passed hurriedly through the
grounds and turned in the direction of the Deering Woods.
Onward, onward, over the hill and across the fields she
flew, until the woods were reached - the silent, leafless
woods, where not a sound was heard save the occasional
dropping of a nut, the rustle of a leaf, or the ripple of
the mill-brook falling over the stones. The warm sun had
dried the withered grass, and she sat down beneath a forest tree, watching, waiting, wondering, and trembling
violently at last as in the distance she heard the cracking
of the brittle twigs and fancied he was coming.
"I'll pretend I don't hear him," she said, and humming
a simple air she was industriously pulling the. bark from
the tree when Nina stood before her, exclaiming,
"You are here just as Arthur said you'd be. The
woods were so still and smoky that I was most afraid."
Ordinarily Edith would have been delighted at this
meeting, but now she could not forbear wishing Nina
away, and she said to her somewhat sternly,
" What made you come? "
"He sent me," and Ninacrouched down at Edith's
feet, like a frightened spaniel. "Arthur is coming, too,
and'going to do right. He said he was, bending right
over me last night, and when I woke this morning there
was a great tear on my face.'Twasn't mine, Miggie. It
was too big for that. It was Arthur's."
"How came he in your room?" Edith asked, a little
sharply, and Nina replied,
"I was in the library. We both staid there all night.
It wasn't in my room, though Arthur has a right, Miggie.
It never was scratched out! "
Edith was puzzled, and was about to question Nina as




190           DAtRKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
to her meaning, when another step was heard, a manly,
heavy tread, precluding all possibility of a mistake this
time. Arthur St. Claire had come!
"It's quite pleasant since yesterday," he said, trying to
force a smile, but it was a sickly effort, and only made
more ghastly and wan his pallid featurles, over which ages
seemned to have passed since the previous day, leaving
them scarred, and battered, and worn.
Edith had never noticed so great a change in so short
a time, for there was scarcely a vestige left of the once
handsome, merry-hearted Arthur in the stooping, hlaggard
man, who stood before her, with blood-shot eyes, nnd an
humble, deprecating manner, as if imploring lier forgiveness for the pain he had come to inflict. Nothing could
prevent it now. Her matchless beauty was nought to
him. He did not even see it. He thought of her only
as a being for whose sake he would gladly die the most
torturing death that human ingenuity could devise, if
by this means, he could rescue her unscathed from the
fire he had kindled around her. But this could not be;
he had fallen, dragging her down with him, and now he
must restore her even though it broke her heart just
as his was broken. He had felt the fibres snapping, one
by one; knew his life blood was oozing out, drop by driop,
and this it was which made him hesitate so long. It was
painful for him to speak, his throat was so parched and
dry, his tongue so heavy and thick.
" What is it, Arthur? " Edith said at last, as Nina, uttering a cry of fear, hid her face in the grass to shut out
Arthur from her sight. " Tell me, what is it? "
Seating himself upon a log near by, and clasping his
hands together with a gesture of abject misery, Arthur
replied,
" Edith, I am not worthy to look into your face; unless
you take your eyes from mine -- oh, take them away, or
I cannot tell you Wvhat I must."




TIlE DEERING WOODS.             191
Had her very life depended upon it, Edith could not
have removed her eyes from his. An undefinable fear
was curdling her blood - a fear augmented by the position of her two companions - Nina, with her head upon
the grass, and that strange, white-faced being on the log.
Could that be Arthur St. Claire, or was she laboring under some horrible delusion? No, the lips moved; it was
Arthur, and leaning forward she listened to what he was
saying.
"Edith, when yesterday I was with you, some words
which I uttered and which were wrung from me, I know
not how, gave you reason to believe that I was then asking you to become my wife, while something in your manner told me that to such asking you would not answer
no. The temptation then to take you to my arms, defying
earth and heaven, was a terrible one, and for { time I wavered, I forgot everything but my love for you; but that
is past and I come now to the hardest part of all, the deliberate surrender of one dearer than life itself. Edith, do
you remember the obstacle, the hindrance which I always
said existed to my marrying any one?"
She did not answer; only the eyes grew larger as they
watched him; and he continued,
"I made myself forget it for a time, but Heaven was
kinder far than I deserved, and will not suffer me longer.
Edith, you cannot be my wife."
She made a movement as if she would go to him, but
his swaying arms kept her off, and he went on:
"There is an obstacle, Edith - a mighty obstacle. I
could trample it down if I would, and there is none to
question the act; but, Edith, I dare not do you this
wrong."
His voice was more natural now, and Nina, lifting up
her head, crept closely to him, whispering softly, " Good
boy, you will do right."
Ilis long, white fingers threaded her sunny hair, and




1..92       DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
this was all the token he gave that he was conscious of
her presence.
"Don't you know now, Edith, what it is which stands
between us?" he asked; and Edith answered, "It is
Nina, but how I do not understand."
Arthur groaned a sharp, bitter groan, and rocking to
and fro replied, " Must I tell you? Won't you ever
guess until I do? Oh, Edith, Edith - put the past and
present together - remember the picture found in my
room when you were a little girl, the picture of Nina Ber
nard; think of all that has happened; my dread to meet
with Richard, though that you possibly did not know; my
foolish fear, lest you should know of Nina; her clinging
devotion to me; my brotherly care for her; Richard's
story of the one single marriage ceremony he ever performed, where the bride's curls were like these," and he
lifted Nina's golden ringlets. "You hear me, don't you?"
He knew she did, for her bosom was heaving with
choking sobs as if her soul were parting from the body;
her breath came heavily from between her quivering lips,
and her eyes were riveted upon him like coals of living
fire. Yes, he knew she heard, and he only questioned her
to give himself another moment ere he cut asunder the
last chord and sent her drifting out upon the dark sea of
despair.
"Edith - Edith - Edith," and with each word he
hugged Nina closer to him, so close that she gave a cry
of pain, but he did not heed it; he hardly knew he held
her —his thoughts were all for the poor, wretched girl,
rising slowly to her feet. "Edith, you surely understand
me now. The obstacle between us is -; oh, Nina, say
it for me, tell her what vou are to me."
"I know," and Edith Hastings stood tall and erect before him. " NINXA IS YOUR WIFE."
Nina looked up and smiled, while Edith crossed her
arms upon her breast, and waited for him to answer.




THE DEERING WOODS.               1(3
"Yes, Edith,- though never before acknowledged as
such, Nina is my wife; but, Edith, I swear it before high
Heaven, she is only a wife in name. Never for a day, or
hour, or moment have I lived with her as such. Were it
otherwise, I could not have fallen so low. IHer father
came the very night we were married, and took her away
next morning. Griswold and I must have met him just
as we left the yard, after having assisted Nina and her
room-mnate, Sarah, Warren, to reach the window, from
wllich they had adroitly escaped little more than an hour
b)efore. No one had missed then,- no one ever suspected the truth, and as Miss Warren died a few months afterward, only Nina, Griswold and myself knew the secret,
which I guarded most carefully for fear of expulsion from
college. You know the rest. You know it all, Nina is
my wife. Nina is my wife, - my wife,- my wife."
He kept whispering it to himself, as if thus he would
impress it the more forcibly upon the unconscious Edith,
who lay upon the withered grass just where Nina had
lain, rigid and white and free for the present from all suffering. Arthur could not move; the blow had fallen on
them both with a mightier force than even he had anticipated, killing her he feared, and so benumbing himself
that to act was impossible, and he continued sitting upon,
the log with his elbows resting on his knees and his face
upon his hands..Only Nina had any reason then or
judgment. Hastening to Edith she knelt beside her, and
lifting up her head pillowed it upon her lap, wiping from
her temple the drops of blood slowly trickling from a cut,
nlade by a sharp stone.
" Miggie, Miggie," she cried,' "wake up. You scare nle,
you look so white and stiff. Please open your eyes, darling, just a little ways, so Nina'11 know that you ain't dec1.
Oh, Arthur, she is dead! " and Nina shrieked aloud, when,
opening herself the lids, she saw the dull, fixed expression
of theglassy eye.
9




194          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Laying her back upon the grass, she crept to Arthur's
side, and tried to rouse him, saying imploringly, "Miggie's dead, Arthur; Mipggie's dead. There is blood all
over her face. Its' on me, too, look," and she held before
him her fingers, covered with a crimson stain. Even this
did not move him; he only kissed the tiny hand wet
with Edith's blood, and whispered to her, "Richard."
It was enough. Nina comprehended his meaning at
once; and when next he looked about him she was flying
like a deer across the fields to Collingwood, leaving him
alone with Edith. From where he sat he could see her
face, and its corpse-like pallor chilled him with horror.
He must go to her. It would be long ere Nina guided
the blind man to the spot, and, exerting all his strength,
he tottered to the brook, filled his hat with water, and
crawling, rather than walking, to Edith's side, dashed It
upon her head, washing the stains of blood away, and
forcing back the life so nearly gone. Gradually the eyes
unclosed, and looked into his with a glance so full of love.
tenderness, reproach, and cruel disappointment, that he
turned away, for he could not meet that look.
The blood from the wound upon the forehead was
flowintg freely now, and faint from its loss, Edith sank
again into a state of unconsciousness, while Arthur,
scarcely knowing what he did, crept away to a little distance, where, leaning against a tree, he sat insensible as it
were, until the sound of footsteps roused him, and he saw
Nina coming, holding fast to the blind man's wrist, and
saying to him encouragingly,
"We are almost there. I see her dress now by the
bank. Wake up, Miggie; we're coming — Richard and
I. Don't you hear me, Miggie?"
Victor had been sent to the village upon an errand for
Richard, who was sitting in his arm-chair, just.where




THE DEERING WOODS.             195
Edith had left him an hour before, dozing occasionally, as
was his custom after dinner, and dreaming of his singing
bird.
"Little rose-bud," he whispered  to  himself. " It's
strange no envious, longing eyes have sought her out as
yet, and tried to win her from me. There's St. Claire -
cannot help admiring her, but thus far he's been very discreet, I'm sure. Victor would tell me if he saw any indications of his making love to Edith."
Deluded Richard! Victor Dupres kept his own counsel with regard to Edith and the proprietor of Grassy
Spring; and when questioned by his master, as he sometimes was, he always answered, "Monsieur St. Claire
does nothing out of the way."
So Richard, completely blinded, trusted them both, and
had no suspicion of the scene enacted that afternoon in
the Deering Woods. Hearing a swift footstep coming up
the walk, he held his breath to listen, thinking it was
Edith, but a moment only sufficed to tell it was Nina.
With a rapid, bounding tread she entered the library, and
gliding to his side, startled him with, " Come, quick, Miggie's dead - dead in the Deering Woods!"
For an instant Richard's brain reeled, and rings of fire
danced before his sightless eyes; then, remembering the
nature of the one who had brought to him this news,
hope whispered that it might not be so bad, and this it
was which buoyed him up and made him strong to follow
his strange guide.
Down the lane, across the road, and over the fields Nina
led him, bareheaded as he was, and in his thin-soled,
slippers, which were torn against the briers and stones,
for in her haste Nina did not stop to choose the smoothest path, and Richard was too intent on Edith to heed
the roughness of the way. Many questions he asked her
as to the cause of the accident, but she told him nothing




196          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
save that "Miggie was talking and fell down dead." She
did not mention Arthur, for, fancying that he had in some
way been the cause of the disaster, she wished to shield
him from all censure, consequently Richard had no idea
of the crushed, miserable wretch leaning against the sycamore and watching him as he came up. He only heard
Nina's cry, "Wake up, Miggie, Richard's here! "
It needed more than that appeal, however, to rouse the
unconscious girl, and Richard, as he felt her cold, clammy
flesh, wept aloud, fearing lest she were really dead. Eagerly he felt for her heart, knowing then that she still lived.
" Edith, darling, speak to me," and he chafed her nerveless hands, bidding Nina bring him water from the brook.
Spying Arthur's hat Nina caught it Up, when the
thought entered her mind, "He'll wonder whose this is."
Then with a look of subtle cunning, she stole up behind
the blind man, and placing the hat suddenly upon his
head, withdrew it as quickly, saying, "I'll get it in this,
shan't I?"
Richard was too much excited to know whether he had
worn one hat or a dozen, and he answered her at once,
"' Use it of course."
The cold water brought by Nina roused Edith once
more, and with a sigh she lay back on Richard's bosom,
so trustfully, so confidingly, that Arthur, looking on, foresaw what the future would bring, literally giving her up
then and there to the blind man, who, as if accepting the
gift, hugged her fondly to him and said aloud, "I thank
the good Father for restoring to me my Edith."
She suffered him to caress her as much as he liked, and
offered no remonstrance when lifting her in his strong
arms, he bade Nina lead him back to Collingwood. Like
a weary child Edith rested her head upon his shoulder,
looking behind once, and regarding Arthur with a look
he never forgot, even when the darkness in which he now
was groping had passed away, and the full daylight was




THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.            197
shining o'er him. Leading Richard to a safe distance,
Nina bade him wait a moment while she went back for
something she had forgotten - then hastening to Arthur's
side she wound her arms around his neck, smoothed his
hair, kissed his lips, and said to him so low that Richard
could not hear,
"Nina won't desert you. She'll come to you again
when she gets Miggie home. You did do it, didn't you?
but Nina'll never tell."
Kissing him once more, she bounded away, and with
feelings of anguish which more than compensated for his
error, Arthur looked after them as they moved slowly
across the field, Richard sometimes tottering beneath his
load, which, nevertheless, he would nAt release, and Nina,
holding to his arm, telling him where to go, and occasionally glancing backward toward the spot where Arthur sat,
until the night shadows were falling, and he shivered with
the heavy dew. Nina did not return, and thinking that
she would not, he started for home, never knowing how
he reached there, or when; only this he knew, no one
suspected him of being in the Deering Woods when
Edith Hastings was attacked with that strange fainting
fit. Thanks for this to little Nina, who, returning as she
had promised, found the forgotten hat still dripping with
water, and hiding it beneath her shawl, carried it safely
to Grassy Spring, where it would betray no one.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.
Death brooded over Collingwood, and his black wing
beat clamorously against the windows of the room to
which, on that fearful night, Richard had borne his faint



198           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
ing burdenl, and where for days and weeks she lay so low
that with every coming morning the anxious villagers listened for the first stroke of the bell which should tell
that Edith was dead. Various were the rumors concerning the cause of her illness, all agreeing upon one point,
to wit, that she had fainted suddenly in the woods with
Nina, and in-falling, had received a deep gash upon her
forehead. This it was which made her crazy, the people
said, and the physician humored the belief, although with
his experience he knew there was some secret sorrow
preying upon that young' mind, the nature of which he
could not easily guess. It never occurred to him that it
was in any way associated with Arthur St. Claire, whose
heart-broken expression told how much he suffered, and
how dear to him was the delirious girl, who never breathed
his name, or gave token that she knew of his existence.
Every morning, regularly he rung the Collingwood bell,
which was always answered by Victor, between whom and
himself there was a tacit understanding, perceptible in the
fervent manner with which the faithful valet's hand was
pressed whenever the news was favorable. He did not
venture into her presence, though repeatedly urged to do
so by Grace, who mentally accused him of indifference
toward Edith. Alas, she knew not of the nightly vigils
kept by the wretched man, when with dim eye and throbbing head he humbled hinmself before his Maker, praying
to be forgiven for the sorrow he had wrought, and again
wrestling in agony for the young girl, whose sick room
windows he could see, watching the livelong night the
flickering of the lamlp, and fancying he could tell from its
position, if any great change occurred in her.
Richard was completely crushed, and without noticing
any one he sat hour after hour, day after day, night after
night, always in one place, near the head of the bed, his
hands folded submissively together, and his sightless eyes
fixed upon the pillow, where he knew Edith was, with a




THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.            199
hopeless, subdued expression touching to witness. He did
not weep, but his dry, red eyes, fastened always upon the
same point, told of sealed fountains where the hot tears
were constantly welling up, and failing to find egress
without, fell upon the bruised heart, which blistered and
burned beneath their touch, but felt no relief. It was in
vain they tried to persuade him to leave the room; he
turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, and the physician
was beginning to fear for his reason, when crazy Nina
came to his aid, and laying her moist hand upon his said
to him, not imploringly, but commandingly, " Come with
me."
There was a moment's hesitation, and then Richard followed her out into the open air, sitting where she bade
him sit, and offering no resistance when she perched herself upon his knee and passed her arm around his neck.
"Make him cry, can't you? That will do him good,"
whispered Victor, who had come out with them.
Nina knew that better than himself. She remembered
the time when the sight of Edith had wrung from her
torrents of tears, cooling her burning brow, and proving
a blessed relief, the good effects of which were visible yet.
And now it was her task to make the blind man cry.
She recognized something familiar in the hard, stony expression of his face, something which brought back the
Asylum, with all its dreaded horrors. She had seen
strong men there look just as he was looking. Dr. Griswold had called them crazy, and knowing well what that
word implied she would save Richard fiom so sad a fate.
"It will be lonesome for you when Miggie's gone," she
said, as a prelude to the attempt; " lonesomer than it has
ever been before; and the nights will be so dark, for when
the morning comes there'll be no Miggie here. She will
look sweetly in her coffin, but you can't see her, can you?
You can feel how beautiful she is, perhaps; and I shall
braid her hair just as she used to wear it."




200          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
There was a perceptible tremor in Richard's frame,
and perceiving it, Nina continued quickly,
"We shall never forget her, shall we? and we'll often
fancy we hear her singing through the halls, even though
we know she's fiar away leading the choir in Heaven. That
will be a pleasanter sound, won't it, than the echo of the
bell when the vill'agers count the eighteen strokes and a
half, and know it tolls for Miggie? The hearse wheels,
too -how often we shall hear them grinding through the
gravel, as they will grind, making a little track when they
come up, and a deeper one when they go away, for they'll
carry Miggie then."
"Oh, Nina! hush, hush!  No, no!" and Richard's
voice was choked with tears, which ran over his face like
rain.
Nina had achieved her object, and, with a most satisfied expression she watched him as he wept.  Her's
was a triple task, caring for Richard, caring for Arthur,
and caring for Edith, but most faithfully did she perform
it. Every day, when the sun was low in the western sky,
she stole away to Grassy Spring, speaking blessed words
of comfort to the despairing Arthur, who waited for her
coming as for the visit of an angel. She was dearer to
him now since he had confessed his sin to Edith, and
could she have been restored to reason he would have
compelled himself to make her his wife in reality as well
as in name. She was a sweet creature, he knew; and he
always caressed her with unwonted tenderness ere he sent
her back to the sick room, where Edith ever bemoaned
her absence, missing her at once, asking for pretty Nina,
with the golden hair. She apparently did not remember
that Nina stood between herself and Arthur St. Claire,
or, if she did, she bore no malice for the patient, allenduring girl who nursed her with so much care, singing
to her the plaintive German air once sung to Dr. Griswold, and in which Edith would often join, taking one




THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.             201
part, while Nina sang the other; and the members of the
household, when they heard the strange melody, now
swelling loud and full, as some fitful flncy took possession
of the crazy vocalists, and now sinking to a plaintive
wail, would shudderl, and turn aside to weep, for there
was that in the music which reminded them of the hearse
wheels grinding down the gravel, and of the village bell
giving the eighteen strokes.  Sometimes, for nearly a
whole night those songs of the olden time would echo
through the house, and with each note she sang the fever
burned more fiercely in Edith's'veins, and her glittering
black eyes flashed with increased fire, while her fingers
clutched at her tangled hair, as if they thus would keep
time to the thrilling strain. Her hair troubled her, it
was so heavy, so thick, so much in her way, and when she
manifested a propensity to relieve herself of the burden
by tearing it from the roots, the physician commanded
them to?nt away those beautiful shining braids, Edith's
crowning glory.
It was necessary, he said, and the sharp, polished scissors were ready for the task, when Nina, stepping in between them and the blue-black locks, saved the latter
from the nurse's barbaric hand. She remembered well
when her own curls had fallen one by one beneath the
shears of an unrelenting nurse, and she determined at
all hazards to spare Edith from a like fancied indignity.
"Miggie's hair shall not be harmed," she said, covering
with her apron the wealth of raven tresses. " I can keep
her from pulling it. I can manage her;" and the sequel
proved that she was right.
It was a singular power that blue-eyed blonde possessed
over the dark-eyed brunette, who became at last as obedient to Nina's will as Nina once had been to her's, and
it was amusing to watch Nina flitting about Edith, now
reasoning with, now coaxing, and again threatening her
*          (Dr~~~9




202           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
capricious patient, who was sure eventually to do as she
was bidden.
Only once while the delirium lasted did Edith refer to
Arthur, and then she said reproachfully, " Oh, Nina, what
made him do so? "
They were alone, and bending over her, Nina replied,
"I am so sorry, Miggie, and I'll try to have the ugly thing
scratched out."
This idea once fixed in Nina's mind could not easily be
dislodged, and several times she went to Richard, asking
him to scratch it out! Wishing to humor her as far as
possible he always answered that he would if he knew
what she meant. Nina felt that she must not explain,
and with vigilant cunning she studied how to achieve her
end without betraying Arthur. It came to her one night,
and whispering to Edith, "I am going to get it fixed,"
she glided from the room and sought the library where she
was sure of finding Richard. It was nearly eleven o'clock,
but he had not yet retired, and with his head bent forward he sat in his accustomed place, the fire-light shining
on his face, which had grown fearfully haggard and white
within the last two weeks. He heard Nina's step, and
knowing who it was, asked if Edith were worse.
"No," returned Nina, "she'll live, too, if you'll only
scratch it out."
He was tired of asking what she meant, and he made
no answer. But Nina was too intent upon other matters
to heed his silence. Going to his secretary she arranged
materials for writing, and then taking his hand, said, in
the commanding tone she used toward Edith when at all
refractory, "Come and write.'Tis the only chance of
saving her life."
" Write what? " he asked, as he rose from his chair and
suffered her to lead him to the desk.
He had written occasionally since his blindness, but it
was not a fiequent thing, and his fingers closed awkward



THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.           203
ly about the pen she placed in his hand. Feeling curious
to know the meaning of all this, he felt for the paper and
then said to her,
"I am ready for you to dictate."
But dictation was no part of Nina's intentions. The
lines traced upon that sheet would contain a secret which
Richard must not know; and with a merry laugh, as she
thought how she would cheat him, she replied,
"No, sir. Only Miggie and I can read what you write.
Nina will guide your hand and trace the words."
Dipping the pen afiesh into the ink, she bade him take
it, and grasping his fingers, guided them while they wrote
as follows:
"I, THE BLIND MAN, RICHARD HARRINGTON, —
"That last was my name," interrupted Richard, who
was rewarded by a slight pull of the hair, as Nina said.
" Hush, be quiet."
A great blot now,came after the "Harrington," and
wiping it up with the unresisting Richard's coat sleeve,
Nina continued:
" -DO HEREBY SOLEMNLYShe was not sure whether " swear" or " declare" would
be the more proper word, and she questioned Richard,
who decided upon "swear" as the stronger of the two,
and she went on:
"- SWEAR THAT THE MARRIAGE OF"As true as you live you can't see?" she asked, looking
curiously into the sightless eyes.
" No; I can't see," was the response, and satisfied that
she was safe, Nina made thim write,
"- ARTHUR ST. CLAIRE AND NINA BERNARD,
PERFORMED AT 3Y HOUSE, IN MY PRESENCE, AND BY ME -
Nina didn't know what, but remembering a phrase she
had often heard used, and thinking it might be just what
was needed, she said,
"Does'null and void'U' mean 4 scratched out?'"




204          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Yes," he answered, smiling in spite of himself, and
Nina added with immense capitals,
"- NULL AND VOID,"
to what he had already written.
"I reckon it will be better to have your name," she
said, and the cramped fingers were compelled to add:
"' RICHARD IIARRINGTON,
C O L L I N G WO O D,
November 25th, 18 —"
"There!' " and Nina glanced with an unusual amount
of satisfhction at the wonderful hieroglyphics which covered nearly an entire page of foolscap, so large were the
letters and so tar apart the words. "That'll cure her,
sure," and foldings it up, she hastened back to Edith's
chamber.
Old Rachel watched that night, but Nina had no difficulty in coaxing her firom the room, telling her she needed sleep, and Miggie was so mluch more quiet when alone
with her. Rachel knew this was true, and after an hour
or so withdrew to another apartment, leaving Edith alone
with Nina. For a time Edith slept quietly, notwithstanding that Nina rattled the spoons and upset a chair, hoping
thus to wake her.
Meanwhile Richard's curiosity had been thoroughly
roused with regard to the scratching out, and knowing
Victor was still up, he summoned him to his presence, repeating to himn  what had just occurred, and saying, "If
you find that paper read it. It is surely right for me to
know what I have written."
"Certainly," returned Victor, bowing himself firom the
room.
Rightly guessing that Nina would read it aloud to
Edith, he resolved to be within hearing distance, and
when he heard Rachel leave the chamber he drew near
the door, left ajar for the purpose of admitting fiesher air.
From his position he saw that Edith was asleep, while




THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.            205
Nina, with the paper clasped tightly in her hand, sat
watching her. Once the latter thought she heard a suspicious sound, and stealing to the door she looked up and
down the hall where a lamp was burning, showing that
it was empty.
"It must have been the wind," she said, resuming her
seat by the bedside, while Victor Dupres, gliding from the
closet where he had taken refuge, stood again at his former post, waiting for that deep slumber to end.
" Nina, are you here? " came at last froln the pale lips,
and the bright, black eyes unclosed looking wistfully
about the room.
Silent and motionless Victor stood, while Nina, bending over Edith, answered, " Yes, Miggie, I am here, and
I've brought you something to make you well. He wrote
it - Richard did -just now, in the library. Can you see
if I bring the lamp? " and thrusting the paper into Edith's
hands she held the lamp close to her eyes.
"You havn't strength, have you?" she continued, as
Edith paid no heed. "Let me do it for you," and taking
the crumpled sheet, she read in tones distinct and clear:
" I, the blind man, -Richard Harrington, do hereby solemnly swear that the marriage of ARTHUR ST. CLAIRE
and NINA BERLNARD, performed at my house, in my
presence, and by me, is NULL AND VOID. RICHARD HARRINGTON, Collingwood, VNovember 5th, 18 — "
Slowly a faint color deepened on Edith's cheek, a soft
lustre was kindled in her eye, and the great tears dropped
from her long lashes. Her intellect was too much clouded for her to reason clearly upon anything, and she did not,
for a moment, doubt the validity of what she heard.
Richard could annul the ma:riage if he would, she was
sure, and now that he had done so, the bitterness of death
was past, — the dark river forded, and she was saved.
Nina had steered the foundering bark into a calm, quiet
sea, and exulting in her good work, she held Edith's head




206          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
upon her bosom, and whispered to her of the joyous
future when she would live with Arthur.
As a child listens to an exciting tale it only comprehends in part, so Edith listened to Nina, a smile playing
about her mouth and dancing in her eyes, which at last,
as the low voice ceased, closed languidly as did the soft
blue orbs above them, and when the grey dawn stole into
the room it found them sleeping in each other's arms, —
the noble-hearted Nina who had virtually given up her
husband and the broken-hearted Edith who had accepted
him. They made a beautiful tableau, and Victor for a
time stood watching them, wiping the moisture from his
own eyes, and muttering to himself, " Poor Edith, I understand it now, and pity you so much. -But your secret is
safe. Not for worlds would I betray that blessed angel,
Nina." Then, crossing the hall with a cautious tread, he
entered his own apartment and sat down to think.
Victor Dupres knew what had been scratched out /
CHAPTER XXIII.
PARTING.
It was late the next morning, ere Nina and Edith
awoke from that long sleep, which proved so refreshing to
the latter, stilling her throbbing pulse, cooling her feverish brow, and subduing the wild look of her eyes, which
had in them the clear light of reason. Edith was better.
She would live, the physician said, feeling a glow of gratified vanity as he thought how that last dose of medicine,
given as an experiment, and about which he had been so
doubtful, had really saved her life. She would have died
without it, he knew, just as Mrs. Matson, who inclined to
homceopathic principles, knew her patient would have




PARTING.                   207
died if she had not slily thrown it in the fire, substituting
in its stead sweetened water and pills of bread.
Victor and Nina, too, had their theory with regard to
the real cause of Edith's convalescence, but each kept his
own counsel, Victor saying to Richard when questioned
as to whether he had read the paper or not,
"No, Miss Nina keeps it clutched tightly in her hand,
as if suspecting my design."
In the course of the day, however, Nina relaxed her
vigilance, and Victor, who was sent up stairs with wood,
saw the important document lying upon the hearth rug,
where Nina bad unconsciously dropped it.
"It's safer with me," he thought, and picking it up, he
carried it to his own apartment, locking it in his trunk
where he knew no curious eyes would ever find it.
In her delight at Edith's visible improvement, Nina
forgot the paper for a day or two, and when at last she
did remember it, making anxious inquiries for it, Mrs.
Matson, who was not the greatest stickler for the truth,
pacified her by saying she had burned up a quantity of
waste papers scattered on the floor, and presumed this was
among them. As Nina cared for nothing save to keep
the scratching out fiom every one except those whom it
directly concerned, she dismissed the subject fiom her
mind, and devoted herself with fresh energy to Edith,
who daily grew better.
She had not seen Arthur since that night in the Deering
Woods, neither did she wish to see him. She did not
love him now, she said; the shock had been so great as
to destroy the root of her affections, and no excuse he
could offer her would in the least palliate his sin. Edith
was very harsh, very severe toward Arthur. She should
never go to Grassy Spring again, she thought; never
look upon his face unless he came to Collingwood, which
she hoped he would not do, for an interview could only
be painful to them both. She should tell him how dc



208          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
ceived she was in him, and Edith's cheeks grew red, and
her eyes unusually bright, as she mentally framed the
speech she should make to Arthur St. Claire, if ever they
did meet. Her excitement was increasing, when Nina
came in, and tossing bonnet and shawl on the floor, threw
herself upon the foot of the bed, and began to cry,
exclaiming between each sob,
"Nina can't go! Nina won't go, and leave you here
alone! I told him so the vile boy, but he wouldn't listen,
and Soph is packing my trunks. Oh, Miggie, Miggie!
how can I go without you? I shall tear again, and be as
bad as ever."
"What do you mean?" asked Edith. "Where are
you going, and why? "
Drying her tears, Nina, in her peculiar way, related how
"'Arthur wouldn't believe it was scratched out; Richard couldn't do such a thing, he said; nobody could do
it, but a divorce, and Arthur wouldn't submit to that.
I-Ie loves me better, than he used to do," she said; " and
he talked a heap about how he'd fix up Sunny Bank.
Then he asked me how I liked the name of Nina
St. Claire. I Aate it!"  and the blue eyes flashed as
Edith had never seen them flash before. "I wont be his
wife! I'd forgotten all what it was that happened that
night until he told it to you in the woods. Then it came
back to me, and I remembered how we went to Richard,
because he was most blind, and did not often come to
Geneva. That was Sarah Warren's plan I believe, but
my head has ached and whirled so since that I most forget. Only this I know, nothing ever came of it; and
over the sea I loved Charlie Hudson, and didn't love
Arthur. But, Miggie he's been so good to me so like my
mother. He's held me in his arms a heap of nights when
the fire was in my brain; and once,.Miggie, he held me
so long, and I tore so awfully, that he fainted, and Dr.
Griswold cried, and said,'Poor Arthur; poor boy!'




PARTING.                   209
That's when I bit himI — bit Arthur, Miggie, right on
his arm, because he wouldn't let me pull his hair. Dr.
Griswold shook me mighty hard, but Arthur never said a
word. He only looked at me so sorry, so grieved like,
that I came out of my tantrum, and kissed the place.
I've kissed it ever so many times since thern, and Arthur
knows I'm sorry. I ain't a fit wife fbr him. I don't
blame him for wanting you. I can't see the wrong, but
it's because I'm  so thick-headed, I suppose!  I wish I
wasn't!" And fixing her gaze upon the window opposite,
Nina seemed to be living over the past, and trying to arrange the events of her life in some clear, tangible form.
Gradually as she talked Edith had softened toward
Artlhur —poor Arthur, who had borne so much. She
might,_perhaps, forgive hiln, but to forget was impossible.
She had suffered too much at his hands for that, and uttering a faint moan as she thought how all her hopes of
happiness were blasted, she turned on her pillow just as
Nina, coming out of her abstracted fit, said to her,
"Did I tell you we are going to Florida —Arthur
and I - going back to our old home, in two or three days,
Arthur says it is better so. Old scenes may cure me."
Alas, for poor human nature. Why did Edith's heart
throb so painfully, as she thought of Nina cured, and
taken to Arthur's bosom as his wife. She knew she could
not be that wife, and only half an hour before she had
said within herself, "I hate him."  Now, however, she
was conscious of a strong unwillingness to yield to another the love lost to her forever, and covering her head with
the sheet, she wept to think how desolate her life would
be when she knew that far away, in the land of flowers,
Arthur was learning to forget her and bestowing his affection upon restored, rational Nina.
"Why do you cry?" asked Nina, whose quick ear detected the stifledi sobs.'' Is it because we are going? I
told him you would, when he bade me come and ask if
you would see him before he goes."'




210           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Did he-did he send me that message? " and the Edith,
who wouldn't for the world meet Arthur St. Claire again,
uncovered her face eagerly. "Tell him to come to-morrow
at ten o'clock. I am the strongest then; and Nina, will
you care if I ask you to stay away? I'd rather see him
alone."
Edith's voice faltered as she made this request, but
Nina received it in perfect good faith, answering that she
would remain at home.
"I must go now," she added. "He's waiting for me, and
I do so hope you'll coax him to stay here. I hate old
Florida."
Edith however felt that it was better for them both to
part. She had caught a glimpse of her own heart, and
knew that its bleeding fibres still clung to him, and still
would cling till time and absence had healed the wound.
"I will be very cold and indifferent to-morrow," she
said to herself, when after Nina's departure, she lay, anticipating the dreaded meeting and working herself up to
such a pitch of excitement that the physician declared her
symptoms worse, asking who had been there, and( saying
no one must see her, save the family, for several days.
The doctor's word was law at Collingwood, and with
sinking spirits Edith heard Richard in the hall without,
bidding Mrs. Matson keep every body from the sick room
for a week. Even Nina was not to be admitted, for it
was clearly proved that her last visit had made Edith
worse. What should she do? Arthur would be gone
ere the week went by, and she must see him. Suddenly
Victor came into her mind. She could trust him to manage it, and when that night, while Mrs. Matson was at
her tea he came up as usual with wood, she said to him,
" Victor, shut the door so no one can hear, and then come
close to me."
He obeyed, and standing by her bedside waited for her
to speak.




PARTING.                  211
"Victor, Mr. St. Claire is going to Florida in a day or
two. I've promised to see him to-morrow at ten o'clock,
and Richard says no one can come in here, but I must bid
Arthur good-bye and Nina, too. Can't you manage it,
Victor? "
"Certainly," returned Victor, who, better than any
one else knew his own power over his master. "You
shall see Mr. St. Claire, and see him alone."
Victor had not promised more than he felt able to perform, and when at precisely ten o'clock next day the door
bell rang, he hastened to answer the summons, admitting
Arthur, as he had expected.
" I called to see Miss Hastings," said Arthur. "I start
for Florida to-morrow, and would bid her good-bye."
Showing him into the parlor, Victor sought Richard's
presence, and by a few masterly strokes of policy and
well-worded arguments, obtained his consent for Arthur
to see Edith just a few moments.
" It was too bad to send him away without even a goodbye, when she had esteemed him so highly as a teacher,"
Richard said, unwittingly repeating Victor's vely words
- that a refusal would do her more injury than his seeing
her could possibly do. "I'll go with him. Where is he?"
he asked, rising to his feet.
"Now, I wouldn't, if I was you. Let him talk with
her alone. Two excite her a great deal more than one,
and he may wish to say some things concerning Nina
which he does not care for any one else to hear. There
is a mystery about he2r, you know."
Richard did not know, but he suffered himself to be
persuaded, and Victor returned to Arthur, whom he conducted in triumph to the door of Edith's chamber. She
heard his well known step. She knew that he was coming,
and the crimson spots upon her cheeks told how much
she was excited. Arthur did not offer to caress her-he




212          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
dared not do that now-but he knelt by her side, and
burying his face in her pillow, said to her,
"I have come for your forgiveness, Edith. I could not
go without it. Say that I am forgiven, and it will not be
so hard to bid you farewell forever."
Edith meant to be very cold, but her voice was choked
as she replied,
" I can forgive you, Arthur, but to forget is harder far.
And still even that might be possible were I the only one
whom  you have wronged; but Nina —how could you
prove so faithless to your marriage vow?"
a"Edith," and Arthur spoke almost sternly. "You
would not have me live with Nina as she is now."
"No, no," she moaned, "not as she is now, but years
ago. Why didn't you acknowledge her as your wife,
making the best of your misfortune. People would have
pitied you so much, and I - oh, Arthur, the world would
not then have been so dark, so dreary for me.. Why did you
deceive me, Arthur? It makes my heart ache so hard."
"Oh, Edith, Edith, you. drive me mad," and Arthur
took in his the hand which all the time had unconsciously
been creeping toward him. "I was a boy, a mere boy,
and Nina was a little girl. We thought it would be
romantic, and were greatly influenced by Nina's roommate, who planned the whole affair. I told you once how
Nina wept, pleading with her father to let her stay in
Geneva, but I have not- told you that she begged of me
to tell him all, while I unhesitatingly refused. I knew
expulsion from College would surely be the result, and I
was far too ambitious to submit to this degradation when
it could be avoided. You know of the gradual change
in our feelings for each other, know what followed her
comingr home, and you can perhaps understand how I
grew so morbidly sensitive to anything concerning her,
and so desirous to conceal my marriage from every one.
This, of course, prompted me to keep hler existence a




PARTINGS.                  213
secret as long as possible, and, in my efforts to do so, I
can see now that I oftentimes acted the part of a fool.
If I could live over the past again I would proclaim froml
the housetops that Nina was my wife. I love her with a
different love since I told you all. She is growing fast
into my heart, and I have hopes that a sight of her old
home, together with the effects of her native air, will do
her good. Griswold always said it would, and preposterous as it seems, I have even dared to dream of a future,
when Nina will be in a great measure restored to reason."
" If she does, Arthur, what then? " and, in her excitement, Edith raised herself in bed, and sat looking at him
with eyes which grew each moment rounder, blacker,
brighter, but had in them, alas, no expression of joy; and
when in answer to her appeal, Arthur said,
"I shall make her my wife," she fell back upon her pillow, uttering a moaning cry, which to the startled Arthur
sounded like,.
"' No, no! no, no! not your wife."
"Edith," and rising to his feet Arthur stood with folded arms, gazing pityingly upon her, himself now the
stronger of the two. "Edith, you, of all others, must not
tempt me to fall. You surely will counsel me to do
right! Help nle! oh, help me! I am so weak, and I feel
my good resolutions all giving way at sight of your distress! If it will take one iota from your pain to know
that Nina shall never be mly acknowledged wife, save as
she is now, I will swear to you that, were her reason ten
times restored, she shall not; But, Edith, don't, don't
make me swear it. I am lost, lost if you do. Help me
to do right, won't you, Edith?"
He knelt beside her again, pleading with her not to
tempt him from the path in which he was beginning to
walk; and Edith, as she listened, felt the last link, which
bound her to him, snapping asunder. For a moment she
had wavered; had shrank from the thought that any




214          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
other could ever stand to him in the relation she once
had hoped to stand; but that weakness was over, and
while chiding herself for it, she hastened to make amends.
Turning her face toward him, and laying both her hands
on his bowed head, she said,
"May the Good Father bless you, Arthur, even as you
prove true to Nina. I have loved you, more than you
will ever know, or I can ever tell, and my poor, bruised
heart clings to you still with a mighty grasp. It is so
hard to give you up, but it is right. I shall think of you
often in your beautiful Southern home, praying always
that God will bless you and forgive you at the last, even
as I forgive you. And now farewell, my Arthur, I once
fondly hoped to call you, but mine no longer --  Nina's
Arthur - go."
She made a gesture for him to leave her, but did not
unclose her eyes. She could not look upon him, and
know it was the last, last time, but she offered no remonstrance when he left upon her lips a kiss so fiull of hopeless and yearning tenderness that it burned there many a
day after he was gone. She heard him turn away, heard
him cross the floor, knew he paused upon the threshold,
and still her eye-lids never opened, though the hot tears
rained over her face in torrents.
" The sweetest joy I have ever known was my love for
you, Edith Hastings," he whispered, and then the door
was closed between them.
Down the winding stairs he went, Edith counting every
step, for until all sound of him had ceased she could not
feel that they were parted forever. The sounds did cease
at last, he had bidden Richard a calm good-bye, had said
good-bye to Victor, and now he was going from the house.
Ile would soon be out of sight, and with an intense desire to stamp his image upon her mind just as he was nolO,
the changed, repentant Arthur, Edith arose, and tottering
to the window, looked after him, through blinding tears, as




PARTING.                   215
he passed slowly from her sight, and then crawling, rather
than walking back to her bed, she wept herself to sleep.
It was a heavy, unnatural slumber, and when she
awoke from it, the fever returned with redoubled violence,
bringing her a second time so near the gates of death
that Arthur St. Claire deferred his departure for several
days, and Nina became again the nurse of the sick room.
But all in vain were her soft caresses and words of love.
Edith was unconscious of everything,    and did not even
know when Nina's farewell kiss was pressed upon her
lips and Nina's gentle hands smoothed her hair for the
last time.  A vague remembrance she had of an angel
flitting around the room, a brighllt-haired seraph, who held
her up from sinking in the deep, dark river, pointing to
the friendly shore where life and safety lay, and this was
all she knew of a parting which had wrung tears from
every one who witnessed it, for there was something
wonderfully touching in the way the crazy Nina bade
adieu to "lliggie," lamenting that she must leave her
amid the cold northern hills, and bidding her come to the
southland, where the magnolias were growing and flowers
were blossoming all the day long. Seizing the scissors,
which lay upon the stand, she severed one of her golden
curls, and placing it on Edith's pillow, glided from the
room, followed by the blessing of those who had learned
to love the beautiful little girl as such as she deserved to
be loved.
One by one the grey December days went by, and
Christmas fires were kindled on many a festal hearth.
Then the New Year dawned upon the world, and still the
thick, dark curtains shaded the windows of Edith's room.
But there came a day at last, a pleasant January day, when
the curtains were removed, the blinds thrown open, and
the warm sunlight came in shining upon Edith, a convalescent. - Very frail and beautiful she looked in her crim



216            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIHT.
sol dressing gown, and her little foot sat loosely in the
satin slipl)el; Grace Atherton's Chistmas gift. The rich
lace frill encircling her throat was fastened with a locket
pin of exquisitely wrought gold, in which was encased a
curl of soft, yellow hail; Nina's hlair, a part of the tress
left on Edith's pillow. This was Richard's idea, - Richard's New Year's gift to his darling; but Richard was not
there to share in the general joy.
Just across the hall, in a chalmber darkened as hlers had
been, he was lying fhow, worn out with constant anxiety
and watching.  When Nina left, his prop was gone, and
the fever which had lain in wait for him so long, kindled
within his veins a fire like to that which had burned in
Edith's, but his strolg, muscular fiame met it fiercely, and
the danger had been comparatively slight.
All this Grace told to Edith on that morning when she
was first suffered to sit up, and asked why Richard did not
come to share her happiness, for in spite of one's mental
state, the first feeling of returning health is one of joy.
Edith felt it as such even tholgh her heart was so sore
that every beat was painful. She longed to speak of
Grassy Spring, but would not trust herself until Victor,
reading her feelings aright, said to her with an assumed
indifference, " lMr. St. Claire's house is shut up, all but the
kitchen and the negro apartments. They are there yet,
doing nothing and having a good time generally."
" And I have had a letter from Arthur," chimed in Mrs.
Atherton, while the eyes resting on Victor's face turned
quickly to hers. "They reached Sunny Bank in safety,
he and Nina, and Soph."
" And Nina," Edith asked faintly, " how is she?"
"Improving, Arthur thinks, though she misses you very
much."
Edith drew a long, deep sigh, and when next she spoke,
she said, "Take me to the window, please, I want to see
the country."




PARTING.                   217
In all instant, Victor, who knew well what she wanted,
took her ill his arms, and carrying her to the window, set
her down in the chair which Grace brought for her; then,
as if actuated by the same impulse, both left her and
returned to the fire, while she looked across the snow-clad
fields to where Grassy Spring reared its massive walls, now
basking in the winter sun. It was a mournful pleasure to
gaze at that lonely building, with its barred doors, its
closed shutters, and the numerous other tokens it gave of
being nearly deserted. There was no smoke curling from
the chimneys, no friendly door opened wide, no sweet
young face peering from the iron lattice of the Den, no
Arthur, no Nina there. Nothing but piles of snow upon
the roof, snow upon the window-sills, snow upon the doorsteps, snow upon the untrodden walk, snow on the leafless elms, standing there so bleak and brown. Snow
everywhere, as cold, as desolate as Edith's heart, and
she bade Victor take her back again to the warm
grate where she might perhaps forget how gloomy and
sad, and silent, was Grassy Spring.
" Did I say anything when I was delirious - anything
I ought not to have said? " she suddenly asked of Grace;
and Victor, as if she had questioned him, answered quickly,
" Nothing, nothing - all is safe."
Like a flash of lightning, Grace Atherton's eyes turned
upon him, while he, guessing her suspicions, returned her
glance with one as strangely inquisitive as her own.'" Mon Dieu! I verily believe she knows," he muttered,
as he left the room, and repairing to his own, dived to
the bottom of his trunk, to make sure that he still held in
his possession the paper on which it had been "-scratched
out."
That night as Grace Atherton took her leave of Edith,
she bent over the young girl, and whispered in her ear,
"I know it all. Arthur told me the night before he
left. God pity you, Edith! God pity you!"
10




218            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.
Edith was nineteen. She was no longer the childish,
merry-hearted maiden formerly known as Edith Hastings.
Her.cruel disappointment had ripened her into a sober,
quiet woman, whose songs were seldom heard in the halls
of Collingwood, and whose bounding steps had changed
into a slower, more measured tread.
Still, there was in her nature too much of life and vigor to be crushed out at once, and oftentimes it flashed up
with something of its olden warmth, and the musical
laugh fell again on Richard's listening ear. He knew she
was changed, but he imputed it all to her long, fearful
sickness; when the warm summer days came back, she
would be as gay as ever, he thought, or if she did not he
would in the autumn take her to Florida to visit Nina,
for whom he fancied she might be pining. Once he said
as much to her, but his blindness was a shield between
them, and he did not see the sudden paling of her cheek
and quivering of her lip.
Alas, for Richard, that he walked in so great a darkness. Hour by hour, day by day, had his love increased
for the child of his adoption, until now she was a part of
his very life, pervading every corner and crevice of his
being. He only lived for her, and in his mighty love, he.became selfishly indifferent to all else around him. Edith
was all he cared for; — to have her with him; — to hear
her voice, - to know that she was sitting near, - that by
stretching forth his hand he could lay it on her head, or
feel her beautiful cheeks, - this was his happiness by day,
and when at night he parted unwillingly from her, there
was still a satisfaction in knowing that he should meet




THE NINETEENTH BIRTH —DAY.         219
her again on the morrow,-in thinking that she was not
far away, - that by stepping across the hall and knocking
at her door he could hear her sweet voice saying to him,
"What is it, Richard?"
He liked to have her call him Richard, as she frequently did. It narrowed the wide gulf of twenty-one years
between them, bringing him nearer to her, so near, in
fact, that bridal veils and orange wreaths now formed a
rare loveliness walked ever at his side, clothed in garments
such as the mistress of Collingwood's half million'ougllht
to wear, and this maiden was Edith - the Edith who, on
her nineteenth birth-day, sat in her own chamber devising a thousand different ways of commencing a conversation which she meant to have with her guardian, the subject of said conversation being no less a personage than
Grace Atherton. Accidentally Edith had learned that not
the Swedish baby's mother, but Grace Elmlendorff had
been the lady who jilted Richard Harrington, and that,
repenting bitterly of her girlish coquetry, Mrs. Atherton
would now gladly share the blind man's lot, and be to him
what she had not been to her aged, gouty lord. Grace
did not say all this to Edith, it is true, but the latter read
as much in the trembling voice and tearful eyes with
which Grace told the story of her early love, and to herself she said, " I will bring this matter about. Richard
often talks of her to me, asking if she has faded, and why
she does not come more frequently to Collingwood. I
will speak to him at the very first opportunity, and will
tell him of my mistake, and ask him who Eloise Temple's
mother was, and why he was so much interested in her."
With this to engross her mind and keep it from dwelling too much upon the past, Edith became more like herself than she had been since that dreadful scene in the
Deering woods. Even her long neglected piano was visited with something of her former interest, she practising




220          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
the songs which she knew Grace could sing with her, and
even venturing upon two or three duets, of which Grace
played one part. It would be so nice, she thought, to
have some female in the house besides old Mrs. Matson,
and she pictured just how Grace would look in her white
morning gowns, with her blue eyes and chestnut curls,
presiding at the breakfast table and handling the silver
coffee urn much more gracefully than she could do.
It was a pleasant picture of domestic bliss which Edith
drew that April morning, and it brought a glow to her
cheeks, whence the roses all had fled. Once, indeed, as
she remembered what Arthur had said concerning Richard's probable intentions, and what she had herself more
than half suspected, she shuddered with fear lest by
pleading for Grace, she should bring a fresh trial to herself. But no, whatever Richard might once have thought
of her, his treatment now was so fatherly that she had
nothing to fear, and with her mind thus at ease Edith
waited rather impatiently until the pleasant April day
drew to its close. Supper was over, the cloth removed,
Victor gone to an Ethiopian concert, Mrs. Matson knitting in her room, Sarah, the waiting-maid, reading a yellow covered novel, and Richard sitting alone in his library.
Now was Edith's time if ever, and thrusting the worsted work she was crocheting into her pocket, she stepped
to the library door and said pleasantly "You seem to be
in a deep study. Possibly you don't want me now?"
"Yes, I do," he answered quickly. "I always want
you.?
" And can always do without me, too, I dare say," Edith
rejoined playfully, as she took her seat upon a low ottoman, near him.
"No, I couldn't," and Richard sighed heavily. "If I
had not you I should not care to live. I dreamed last
night that you were dead, that you died while I was gone,




THE NINETEENTIH BIRTH-DAY.         221
and I dug you up with my own hands just to look upon
your face again. I always see you in my sleep. I am
not blind then, and when a face fairer, more beautiful than
any of which the poets ever sang. flits before me, I whisper to myself,'that's Edith, -that's my daylight.' "
" Oh, mistaken man," Edith returned, laughingly, "how
terribly you would be disappointed could you be suddenly
restored to sight and behold the long, lank, bony creature
I know as Edith Hastings- low forehead, turned-up nose,
coarse, black hair, all falling out, black eyes, yellowish
black skin, not a particle of red in it-the fever took that
away and has not brought it back. Positively, Richard,
I'm growing horridly ugly. Even my hair, which I'll confess I did use to think was splendid, is as rough as a chestnut burr. Feel for yourself, if you don't believe me,"
and she laid his hand upon her hair, which, though beautiful and abundant, still was quite uneven and had lost
some of its former satin gloss.
Richard shook his head. Edith's description of her personal appearance made not a particle of difference with
him. She might not, perhaps, have recovered her good
looks, but she would in time. She was improving every
day, and many pronounced her handsomer than before her
sickness, for where there had been, perhaps, a superabundance of color and health there was now a pensive, subdued beauty, preforred by some to the more glowing,
dashing style which had formerly distinguished Edith
Hastings from every one else in Shannondale. Something
like this he said to her, but Edith only laughed and continued her crocheting, wondering how she should manage
to introduce Grace Atherton. It was already half-past
eight, Victor might soon be home, and if she spoke to him
that night she must begin at once. Clearing her throat
and making a feint to courh, she plunged abruptly into
the subject by saying, "Richard, why have you never
married? Didn't you ever see anybody you loved well
enough?"




222           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Richard's heart gave one great throb and then grew
still, for Edith had stumbled upon the very thing uppermost in his mind. What made her? Surely, there was
a Providence in it.'Twas an omen of good, boding success to his suit, and after a moment he replied,
"Strange that you and I should both be thinking of
matrimony. Do you know that my dreaming you were
dead is a sign that you will soon be married? "
"I; Mr. Harrington! " and Edith started quickly.
"The sign is not true. I shall never marry, never. I
shall live here always, if you'll let me, but I do want you
to have a wife. You will be so much happier, I think.
Shall I propose one for you?"
"Edith," Richard answered, "sit close to me while I
tell you of one I once wished to make my wife."
Edith drew nearer to him, and he placed upon her head
the hands which were cold and clammy as if their owner
were nerving himself for some mighty effort.
" Edith, in my early manhood I loved a young girl, and
I thought my affection returned, but a wealthier, older
man came between us, and she chose his riches in preference to walking in my shadow, for such she termed my
father."
" But she's repented, MBr. Harrington - she surely has,"
and Edith dropped her work in her earnestness to defend
Grace Atherton. "She is sorry for what she made you
suffer; she has loved you through all, and would be yours
now if you wish it, I am sure. You do wish it, Richard.
You will forgive Grace Atherton," ald in her excitement
Edith knelt before him, pleading for her friend.
Even before he answered her she knew she pleaded in
vain, but she was not prepared for what followed the si.
lence Richard was first to break.
" Grace Atherton can never be to me more than what
she is, a tried, respected friend. My boyish passion per
ished long ago, and into my later life another love has




THIE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.         223
crept, compared with which my first was as the darkness
to the full noonday. I did not think to talk of this tonight, but something compels me to do so -tells me the
time has come, and Edith, you must hear me before you
speak, but sit here where I can touch you, and when I'm
through if what I've said meets with a responsive chord,
lay your hand in mine, and I shall know the nature of
your answer."
It was coming now —the scene which Arthur foresaw
when, sitting in the Deering woods, with life and sense
crushed out, he gave his Edith up to one more worthy
than himself. It was the foreshadowing of the " Sacrifice,"
the first step taken toward it, and as one who, seeing his
destiny wrapping itself about him fold on fold, sits down
stunned and powerless, so Edith sat just where he bade
her sit, and listened to his story.
"Years ago, Edith, a solitary, wretched man I lived in
my dark world alone, weary of life, weary of every thing,
and in my weariness I was even beginning to question
the justice of my Creator for having dealt so harshly
with me, when one day a wee little singing bird, whose
mother nest had been made desolate, fluttered down at
my feet, tired like myself, and footsore even with the
short distance it had come on life's rough journey. There
was a note in the voice of this singing bird which spoke
to me of the past, and so my interest grew in the helpless
thing until at last it came to nestle at my side, not timidly, for such was not it's nature, but as if it had a right, to
ne there - a right to be caressed and loved as I caressed
and loved it, for I did learn to love it, Edith, so much, oh,
so much, and the sound of it's voice was sweeter to me
than the music of the Swedish nightingale, who has
filled the world with wonder.
"Years flew by, and what at first had been a tiny
fledgling, became a very.queen of birds, and the blind
man's heart throbbed with pride when he heard people




224          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
say of his darling that she was marvellously fair. He
knew it was not for him to look upon her dark, rich, glowing beauty, but he stamped her features upon his mind in
characters which could not be effaced, and always in his
dreams her face sat on his pillow, watching while he
slept, and when he woke bent over him, whispering,' Poor blind man,' just as the young bird had whispered
ere it's home was in his bosom.
"Edith, that face is always with me, and should it precede me to the better land, I shall surely know it from all
the shining throng. I shall know my singing bird, which
brought to our darkened household the glorious daylight,
just as Arthur St. Claire said she would when he asked
me to take her."
From the ottoman where Edith sat there came a low,
choking sound, but it died away in her throat, and with
her hands locked so firmly together that the taper nails
made indentation in the tender flesh, she listened, while
Richard continued:
"It is strange no one has robbed me of my gem. Perhaps they spared me in their pity for my misfortune. At
all events, no one has come between us, not even Arthur
St. Claire, who is every way a desirable match for her."
Again that choked, stifled moan, and a ring of blood
told where the sharp nail had been, but Edith heeded
nothing save Richard's voice, saying to her,
" You have heard of little streams trickling from the
heart of some grim old mountain, growing in size and
strength as they advanced, until at last they became a
mighty river, whose course nothing could impede. Such,
Edith, is my love for that singing bird. Little by little,
inch by inch, it has grown in its intensity until there is
not a pulsation of my being which does not bear with it
thoughts of her. But my bird is young while I am old.
Her mate should be one on whose head the summer dews
are resting, one more like Arthur St. Claire, and not an




TIHE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.        225
owl of forty years growth like me; but she has not
chosen such an one, and hope has whispered to the tough
old owl that his bright-eyed dove might be coaxed into
his nest; might fold her wings there forever, nor seek to
fly away. If this could be, Edith. Oh, if this could be,
I'd guard that dove so tenderly that not a feather should
be ruffled, and the winds of heaven should not blow too
roughly on my darling. I'd line her cage all over with
gold and precious stones, but the most costly gem of all
should be the mighty unspeakable love I'd bear to her..
Aye, that I do bear her now, Edith, - my daylight, my
life. You surely comprehend me; tell me, then, can all
this be? Give me the token I desire."
He stretched out his groping hand, which swayed back
and forth in the empty air, but felt the clasp of no soft
fingers clinging to it, and a wistful, troubled look settled
upon the face of the blind man, just as a chill of fear
was settling upon his heart.
"Edith, darling, where are you?" and his hand sought
the ottoman where she had been, but where she was not
now.
Noiselessly, as he talked, she had crept away to the
lounge in the corner, where she crouched like a frightened
deer, her flesh creeping with nervous terror,'and her eyes
fastened upon the man who had repeated her name, asking
where she was.
"Here, Richard," she answered at last, her eyelids
involuntarily closing when she saw him rising, and knew
he was coming toward her.
She had forgotten her promise to Arthur that she
would not answer Richard "No," should he ask her to
be his wife; that, like Nina's "scratching out," was null
and void, and when he knelt beside her, she said half
bitterly,
"It must not be; the singing bird cannot mate with the
owl!"




226          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Instantly there broke from the blind man's lips a cry
of agony so pitiful, so reproachful in its tone, that
Edith repented her insulting words, and winding her arms
around his neck, entreated his forgiveness for having so
cruelly mocked him.
" You called yourself so first," she sobbed, " or I should
not have thought of it. Forgive me. Richard, I didn't
mean it. I could not thus pain the noblest, truest friend
I ever had. Forgive your singing bird. She surely did
not mean it," and Edith pressed her burning cheeks
against his own.
What was it she did not mean?  That it could not be,
or that he was an owl? He asked himself this question
many times during the moment of silence which intervened; then as he felt her still clinging to him, his love
for her rolled back upon him with overwhelming force,
and kneeling before her as the slave to his master, he
pleaded with her again to say it could be, the great happiness he had dared to hope for.
"Is there any other man whom my darling expects to
marry?" he asked, and Edith was glad he put the question in this form, as without prevarication she could
promptly answer,
4" No, Richard, there is none."
" Then you may learn to love me," Richard said. "I
can wait, I can wait; but must it be very long? The
days will be so dreary, and I love you so much that I am
lost if you refuse. Don't make my darkness darker, Edith."
He laid his head upon her lap, still kneeling before her,
the iron-willed man kneeling to the weak young girl,
whose hands were folded together like blocks of lead, and
gave him back no answering caress, only the words,
"Richard, I can't. It's too sudden. I have thought of
you always as my elder brother. Be my brother, Richard.
Take me as your sister, won't you?"
"Oh, I want you for my wife," and his voice was full




THE NINETEENTII BIRTH-DAY.         227
of pleading pathos. "I want you in my bosom. I need
you there, darling. Need some one to comfort me. I've
suffered so much, for your sake, too. Oh, Edith, my early
manhood was wasted; I've reached the autumn time, and
the gloom which wrapped me then in its black folds lies
around me still, and will you refuse to throw over my
pathway a single ray of sunlight? No, no, Edith, you
won't, you can't. I've loved you too much. I've lost too
much. I'm growing old - and —oh, Birdie, Birdie, i'm
blind! I'm blind!"
She did not rightly interpret his suffering for her sake.
She thought he meant his present pain, and she sought to
soothe him as best she could without raising hopes which
never could be realized. HIe understood her at last; knew
the heart he offered her.was cast back upon him, and
rising from his kneeling posture, he felt his way back to
his chair, and burying his head upon a table standing near,
sobbed as Edith had never heard man sob before, not even
Arthur St. Claire, when in the Deering Woods he had
rocked to and fro in his great agony. Sobs they were
which seemed to rend his broad chest asunder, and Edith
stopped her ears to shut out the dreadful sound.
But hark, what is it he is saying? Edith fain would
know, and listening intently, she hears him unconsciously
whispering to himself, " Oh, Edith, was it for this that
I saved you from the Rhine, periling my life and losing
my eyesight? Better that you had died in the deep waters
than that I should meet this hour of anguish."
" Richard, Richard!" and Edith fairly screamed as she
flew across the floor. Lifting up his head she pillowed it
upon her bosom, and showering kisses upon his quivering
lips, said to him, " Tell me - tell me, am I that Swedish
baby, Ithat Eloise Temple?"
He nodded in reply, and Edith continued: " Ithe child
for whose sake you were made blind! Why have you
not told me before? I ~ould not then have wounded you




228           DARKNESS AND DAYLTIGHT.
so cruelly. How can I show my gratitude? I am not
worthy of you, Richard; not worthy to bear your name,
much less to be your bride, but such as I am take me. I
cannot longer refuse. Will you, Richard? May I be
your wife?"
She knelt before him now; hers was the supplicating
posture, and when he shook his head, she continued,
"You think it a sudden change, and so it is, but I
mean it. I'm in earnest. I do love you, dearly, oh, so
dearly, and by and by I shall love you a great deal more.
Answer me - may I be your wife? "
It was a terrrible temptation, and Richard Iarrington
reeled from side to side like a broken reed, while his lips
vainly essayed to speak the words his generous nature
bade them speak. He could not see the eagerness of the
fair young face upturned to his - the clear, truthful light
shining in Edith's beautiful dark eyes, telling better than
words could tell that she was sincere in her desire to join
her sweet spring life with his autumn days. He could
not see this, else human flesh had proved too weak to say
what he did say at last.
"' No, my darling, I cannot accept a love born of gratitude and nothing more. You remember a former conversation concerning this Eloise when you told me you were
glad you were not she, as in case you were you should'feel compelled to be grateful, or somethinglike that, where
as you would rather render your services to me from love.
Edith, that remark prevented me from telling you then
that you were Eloise, the Swedish mother's baby."
Never before had the words "that Swedish mother"
touched so tender a chord in Edith's heart as now, and
forgetting every thing in her-Intense desire to know something of her own early history, she exclaimed, "You
knew my mother, Richard. You have heard her voice,
seen ier face; now tell me of her, please. Where is she?
And Marie, too, for there was a Marie. Let's forget all




THE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.           229
that's been said within the last half hour. Let's begin
anew, making believe it's yesterday instead of now, and,
when the story is ended, ask me again if the singing bird
can mate with the eagle. The grand, royal eagle, Richard,
is the best similitude for you," and forcing herself to sit
upon his knee, she put her arms around his neck bidding
him again tell her of her mother.
With the elastic buoyancy of youth Edith could easily
shake off the gloom which for a few brief moments had
shrouded her like a pall, but not so with Richard. "The
singing-bird must not mate with the owl," rang continually in his ears. It was her real sentiment he knew,
and his heart ached so hard as he thought how he had
staked his all on her and lost it.
"Begin," she said, "Tell me where you first met my
mother."
Richard heaved a sigh which smote heavily on Edith's
ear, for she guessed of what he was thinking, and she
longed to reassure him of' her intention to be his sight hereafter, but he was about to speak and she remained silent.
"Your mother," he said, "was a Swede by birth, and
her marvellous beauty first attracted your father, whose
years were double her own."
"I'm so glad"' interrupted Edith, "As much as twenty-one years older, wasn't he?"
"More than that," answered Richard, a half pleased,
half bitter smile playing over his dark face. "Forgive
me, darling, but I'm afraid he was not as good a man as
he should have been, or as kind to his young wife.
When I first saw her she lived in a cottage alone, and he
was gone. She missed him sadly, and her sweet voice
seemed full of tears as she sang her girl baby to sleep.
You have her voice, Edith, and its tones came back to
me the first time I ever heard you speak. But I was telling of your father. He was dissipated, selfish and unprincipled,- affectionate and kind to Petrea one day, cold,




230          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
hard and brutal the next. Still she loved him and clung
to him, for he was the father of her child. You were a
beautiful little creature, Edith, and I loved you so much
that when I knew you had fallen from a bluff into the
river, I unhesitatingly plunged after you."
"I remember it," cried Edith, "I certainly do, or else
it was afterwards told to me so often that it seems a
reality."
"The latter is probably the fact," returned Richard.
"You were too young to retain any vivid recollections
of that fall."
Still Edith persisted that she did remember the face of
a little girl in the water as she looked over the rock, and
of bending to touch the arm extended toward her. She
remembered Bingen, too, with its purple grapes; else why
had she been haunted all her life with vine-clad hills and
plaintive airs.
" Your mother sang to you the airs, while your nurse,
whose name I think was Marie, told you of the grapes
growing on the hills," said Richard. " She was a faithful
creature, greatly attached to your mother, but a bitter
foe of your father. I was too much absorbed in the shadow stealing over me to pay much heed to my friends, and
after they left Germany I lost sight of them entirely, nor
dreamed that the little girl who came to me that October
morning was my baby Eloise. Your voice always puzzled me, and something I overheard you saying to Grace
one day about your mysterious hauntings of the past, together with an old song of Petrea's which you sang, gave
me my first suspicion as to who you were, and decided
me upon that trip to New York. Going first to the
Asylum of which you were once an inmate, I managed
after much diligent inquiry to procure the address of the
woman who brought you there when you were about
three years old. I had but little hope of finding her, but
determining to persevere.I sought out.the humble cottage




THE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.          231
in the suburbs of the city. It was inhabited by an elderly woman, who denied all knowledge of Edith Hastings
until told that I was Richard HIarrington. Then her
manner changed at once, and to my delight I heard that
she was Marie's sister.  She owned the cottage, had
lived there more than twenty years, and saw your mother die. Petrea, it seems, had left her husband, intending
to return to Sweden, but sickness overtook her, and she
died in New York, committing you to the faithful Marie's
care in preference to your father's. Such was her dread
of him that she made Marie swear to keep your existence
a secret from him, lest he should take you back to a place
where she had been so wretched, and where all the influences, she thought, were bad.  She would rather you
should be poor, she said, than to be brought up by him,
and as a means of eluding discovery, she said you should
not bear his name, and with her dying tears she baptised
you Edith Hastings. After her decease Marie wrote to
him, that both of you were dead, and he came on at once,
seemed very penitent and sorry when it was too late."
"Where was his home?" Edith asked eagerly; and
Richard replied,
" That is one thing I neglected to enquire, but when I
met him in Europe I had the impression that it was in
one of the Western or South-western states."
"Is he still alive?"  Edith asked again, a daughter's
love slowly gathering in her heart in spite of the father's
cruelty to the mother.
"No," returned Richard. "Marie, who kept sight of
his movements, wrote to her sister some years since that
he was dead, though when he died, or how, Mrs. Jamieson
did not know. She, too, was ill when he came to her
house, and consequently never saw him herself."
" And the Asylum - how came I there? " said Edith;
and Richard replied,
"It seems your mother was an orphan, and had no near




232           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
relatives to whom you could be sent, and as Marie was
then too poor and dependent to support you she placed
you in the Asylum as Edith Hastings, visiting you occasionally until she went back to France, her native country. Her intention was to return in a few months, but a
violent attack of inflammatory rheumatism came upon
her, depriving her of the use of her limbs, and confining
her to her bed for years, and so prevented her from coming back. Mrs. Jamieson, however, kept her informed
with regard to you, and told me that Marie was greatly
pleased when she heard you were with me, whom she
supposed to be the same Richard Harrington who had
saved your life, and of whom her mistress had often
talked. Marie is better now, and when I saw her sister
more than a year ago, she was hoping she might soon revisit America. I left directions for her to visit Collingwood, and for several months I looked for her a little, resolving if she came, to question her minutely concerning
your father. He must have left a fortune, Edith, which by
right is yours, if we can prove that you are his child, and
with Marie's aid I hope to do this sometime. I have,
however, almost given her up; but now that you know
all I will go again to New York, and seek another interview with Mrs. Jamieson. Would it please you to have
the little orphan, Edith Hastings, turn out to be an heiress? "
"Not for my own sake," returned Edith; "but if it
would make you love me more, I should like it; " and she
clung closer to him as he replied,
"Darling, that could not be. I loved you with all the
powers I had, even before I knew you were Petrea's
child. Beautiful Petrea! I think you must be like her,
Edith, except that you are taller. She was your father's
second wife. This I knew in Germany, and also that
there was a child of Mr. Temple's first marriage, a little
girl, he said."




THI  NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.          233
"A  child —a little girl," and Edith started quickly,
but the lightning flash which had once gleamed across her
bewildered mind, when in the Den she stood gazing at
the picture of Miggie Bernard, did not come back to her
now, neither did she remember Arthur's story, so much
like Richard's. She only thought that possibly there was
somewhere in the world a dear, half-sister, whom she
should love so much, could she only find her. Edith was
a famous castle-builder, and forgetting that this half-sister,
were she living, would be much older than herself, she
thought of her only as a school-girl, whose honie should
be at Collingwood, and on whom 2Mrs. Richard  ccarrinzgton would lavish so much affection, wasting on her the
surplus love which, perhaps, could not be given to the
father -husband. How then was her castle destroyed,
when Richard said,
"She, too, is dead, so IMrs. Jamieson told me, and there
is none of the family left save you."
" I wish I knew where mother was buried," Edith sighed, her tears falling to the memory of her girl mother,
whose features it seemed to her she could recall, as well
as a death-bed scene, when somebody with white lips and
mournful black eyes clasped her in her arms and prayed
that God would bless her, and enable her always to do
right.
It might have been a mere fancy, but to Edith it was a
reality, and she said within herself,
" Yes, darling mother, I will do right, and as I am sure
you would approve my giving myself to Richard, so I
will be his wife."
One wild, longing, painfuil throb her heart gave to the
past when she had hoped for other bridegroom than the
middle-aged man on whose knee she sat, and then laying
her hot face against his bearded cheek, she whispered,
"You've told the story, Richard. It does not need
Marie to confirm it, though she, too, will come sometime




234           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
to tell me who I am, but when she comes, I shan't be
Edith Hastings, shall I. The initials won't be changed,
though. They will be'E. H.' still — Edith Harrington
It has not a bad sound, has it?"
" Don't, darling, please don't," and Richard's voice had
in it a tone much like that which first rang through the
room, when Edith said,
"It cannot be."
"Richard," and Edith took his cold face between her
soft, warm hands, "Richard, won't you let the singing
bird call you husband? If you don't, she will fly away
and sing to some one else, who will prize her songs. I
thought you loved me, Richard."
"Oh, Edith, my precious Edith! If I knew I could
make the love grow where it is not growing — the right
kind of love, I mean -I would not hesitate; but, darling,
Richard Harrington would die a thousand deaths rather
than take you to his bosom an unloving wife. Remember that, and do not mock me; do not deceive me. You
think now in the first flush of your gratitude to me for
having saved your life and in your pity for my blindness
that you can do anything; but wait awhile —consider
well - think how I shall be old while you still are young,
-a tottering, gray-haired man, while your blood still
retains the heat of youth. The HIarringtons live long.
I may see a hundred."
"And I shall then be seventy-nine; not so vast a difference," interrupted Edith.
"No, not a vast difference then," Richard rejoined,
"but'tis not then I dread.'Tis now, the next twenty-five
years, during which I shall be slowly decaying, while you
will be ripening into a matured, motherly beauty, dearer
to your husband than all your girlish loveliness.'Tis then
that I dread the contrast in you; not when both are old;
and, Edith, remember this, you can never be old to me,
inasmuch as I can never see you. I may feel that your




THE NINETEENTH BIRTH-DAY.           2385
smooth, velvety flesh is wrinkled, that your shining hair
is thin, your soft round arms more sinewy and hard, but I
cannot see it, and in my heart I shall cherish ever the
image I first loved as Edith Hastings. You, on the contrary, will watch the work of death go on in me, will see
my hair turn gray, my form begin to stoop, my hand to
tremble, my eyes grow blear and watery, and when all
this has come to pass, won't you sicken of the shaky old
man and sigh for a younger, more vigorous companion?"
"Not unless you show me such horrid pictures," Edith
sobbed, impetuously, for in her heart of hearts she felt the
truth of every word he uttered, and her whole soul revolted against the view presented to her of the coming time.
But she would conquer such feelings - she would be
his wife, and drying her eyes she said, "I can give you
my decision now as well as at any other time, but if you
prefer it, I will wait four weeks and. then bring you the
same answer I make you now -I will be your wife."
"I dare not hope it," returned Richard, "You will
change your mind, I fear, but, Edith, if you do not, —
if you promise to be mine, don't forsake me afterwards,
for I should surely die," and as if he already felt the agony it would cost him to give his darling up after he had
once possessed her, he clasped his hands upon his heart,
which throbbed so rapidly that Edith heard its muffled
beat and saw its rise and fall. "I could not lose you and
still live on without you, Edith," and he spoke impetuously,
"You won't desert me, if you promise once."
"Never, never," she answered, and with a good night
kiss upon his lips she went out from the presence of the
man she already looked upon as her future husband,
breathing freer when she stood within the hall where he
was not, and freer still when in her own chamber there
was a greater distance between them.
Alas, for Edith, and a thousand times alas, for poor,
poor Richard!




236          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXV.
DESTINY.
Not for one moment did Edith waver in her purpose,
and lest Richard should suspect what he could not see,
she affected a gayety in his presence sadly at variance
with her real feelings. Never had her merry laugh rang
out so frequently before him — never had her wit been
one half so sparkling, and when he passed his hands over
her flushed cheek, feeling how hot it was, he said to himself, " The roses are coming back, she cannot be unhappy,"
and every line and lineament of the blind man's face
glowed with the new-born joy springing up within his
heart, and making the world around him  one grand jubilee.
Victor was quick to note the change in his master, and
without the least suspicion of the truth, he once asked
Edith, "What made Mr. Harrington so young and almost
boyish, acting as men were supposed to act when they
were just engaged?"
"Victor," said Edith, after a moment's reflection, "can
you keep a secret?"
"Certainly," he replied. "What is it, pray?  Is Mr.
Harrington matrimonially inclined? "
Edith's heart yearned for sympathy- for some one to
sustain her- to keep her from fainting by the wayside,
and as she could not confide in Grace, Victor was her
only remaining refuge. He had been the repositary of all
her childish secrets, entering into her feelings as readily
and even more demonstratively than any female friend
could have done. Richlard would tell him, of course, as
soon as it was settled, and as she knew now that it was




DESTINY.                  237
settled, why not speak first and so save him the trouble.
Thus deciding, she replied to his question,
"Yes, Richard is going to be married; but you must
not let him know I told you, till the engagement is made
public."
Victor started, but had no shadow of suspicion that
the young girl before him was the bride elect. His mastel had once been foolish enough to think of her as such
he believed, but that time was passed. Richard had grown
more sensible, and Edith was the future wife of Arthur
St. Claire. Nina would not live long, and after she was
dead there would be no further hindrance to a match
every way so suitable. This was Victor's theory, and
never doubting that the same idea had a lodgment in
the minds of both Arthur and Edith, he could not conceive it possible that the latter would deliberately give
herself to Richard. Grace Atherton, on the contrary,
would be glad to do it; she had been coaxing his master
these forty years, and had succeeded in winning him at
last. Victor did not fancy Grace; and when at last he
spoke, it was to call both his master and Mrs. Atherton a
pair of precious fools. Edith looked wonderingly at him
as he raved on.
"I can't bear her, I never could, since I heard how she
abused you. Why, I'd almost rather you'd be his wife
than that gay widow."
" Suppose I marry him then ill her stead," Edith said,
laughingly. "I verily believe he'd exchange."
"Of course he would," Victor answered, bitterly.
"The older a man grows, the younger the girl he selects,
and it's a wonder he didn't ask you first."
"Supposing he had?" returned Edith, bending over a
geranium to hide her agitation. " Supposing he had, and
it was I instead of Grace to whom he is engaged."
"Preposterous!" Victor exclaimed. "You could not
do such a thing in your right senses. Why, I'd rather see




238           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
you dead than married to your father. I believe I'd forbid the banns myself," and Victor strode from the room,
banging the door behind him, by way of impressing
Edith still more forcibly with the nature of his opinion.
Edith was disappointed. She had expected sympathy
at least from Victor, had surely thought he would be
pleased to have her for his mistress, and his words, " I
would rather see you dead," hurt her cruelly. Perhaps
every body would say so. It was an unnatural match,
this union of autumn and spring, but she must do something. Any thing was preferable to the aimless, listless
life she was leading now. She could not be any more
wretched than she was, and she might perhaps be happier
when the worst was over and she knew for certain that
she was Richard's wife. His wife/ It made her faint
and sick just to say those two words. What then would
the reality be?  She loved him dearly as a guardian, a
brother, and she might in time love him as her husband.
Such things had been. They could be again. Aye, more,
they should be, and determining henceforth to keep her
own counsel, and suffer Victor to believe it was Grace instead of herself, she ran into the garden, where she knew
Richard was walking, and stealing to his side, caught his
arm ere he was aware of her presence.
" Darling, is it you? " he asked, and his dark face became positively beautiful with the radiant love-light
shining out all over it.
4Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished
object of his life might be realized. Edith did not avoid
him as he feared she would. On the contrary she rather
sought his society than otherwise, never, however, speaking of the decision. It was a part of the agreement that
they should not talk of it until tthe four weeks were
gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly,
while to Edith they flew on rapid wing; and with every
rising sun, she felt an added pang as she thought how




DESTINY.                  239
soon the twelfth of May would be there. It wanted but
four days of it when she joined him in the garden, and
for the first time since their conversation Richard alluded to it by asking playfully, " what day of the month it
was?"
"The eighth;" and Edith's eyes closed tightly over
the tears struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty
effort she added, laughingly,
"When the day after to-morrow comes, it will be the
tenth, then the eleventh, then the twelfth, and then, you
know, I'm coming to you in the library. Send Victor
off for that evening, can't you? He's sure to come in
when I don't want him, if he's here," and this she said
because she feared it would be harder to say yes if Victor's reproachful eyes should once look upon her, as they
were sure to do, if he suspected her designs.
Richard could not understand why Victor must be sent
away, but anything Edith asked was right, and he replied
that Victor should not trouble them.
"There, he's coming now!" and Edith dropped the
hand she held, as if fearful lest the Frenchman should
suspect.
This was not the proper feeling, she knew, and returning to the house, she shut herself up in her room, crying
bitterly because she could not make herself feel differently!
The twelfth came at last, not a balmy, pleasant day as
Mlay is wont to bring, but a rainy, dreary April day, when
the gray clouds chased each other across the leaden sky,
now showing a disposition to hang out patches of blue,
and again growing black and heavy as the fitful showers
came pattering down. Edith was sick. The strong tension of nerves she had endured for four long weeks was
giving way. She could not keep up longer; and Richard
breakfasted and dined without her, while with an aching
head she listened to the rain beating against her win



240           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIHT.
dows, and watched the capricious clouds as they floated
by. Many times she wished it all a dream  from which
she should awaken; and then, when she reflected that'twas a fearful reality, she covered her head with the bedclothes and prayed that she might die. But why pray
for this? She need not be Richard's wife unless she
chose -he had told her so repeatedly, and now she too
said "I will not!"  Strange she had not thus decided before, and stranger still that she should be so happy now
she had decided!
There was a knock at the door, and Grace Atherton
asked to be admitted.
"Richard told me you were sick," she said, as she sat
down by Edith's side; "and you do look ghostly white.
What is the matter, pray?"
"One of my nervous headaches;" and Edith turned
from the light so that her face should tell no tales of the
conflict within.
" I received a letter from Arthur last night," Grace continued, " and thinking you might like to hear from Nina,
I came round in the rain to tell you of her. Her health
is somewhat improved, and she is now under the care of
a West India physician, who holds out strong hopes that
her mental derangement may in time be cured.
Edith was doubly glad now that she had turned her
face away, for by so doing she hid the tears which dropped so fast upon her pillow.
" Did Arthur mention me?" she asked, and Grace
knew then that she was crying.
Still it was better not to withhold the truth, and bending over her she answered,
"No, Edith, he did not. I believe he is really striving
to do right."
"And he will live with Nina if she gets well?" came
next from the depths of the pillows where Edith lay half
smothered.




DESTINY.                  241
"Perhaps so. Would you not like to have him?"
Grace asked.
"Ye-e-e-s. I sup-pose so. Oh, I don't know what I
like. I don't know anything except that I wish I was
dead," and the silent weeping became a passionate sobbing as Edith shrank further from Grace, plunging deeper
and deeper among her pillows until she was nearly hidden from view.
Grace could not comfort her; there was no comfort as
she saw, and as Edith refused to answer any of her questions upon indifferent topics, she ere long took her leave,
and Edith was left alone. She had reversed her decision
while Grace was sitting there, and the news from Florida
was the immediate cause. She should marry Richard
now, and her whole body shook with the violence of her
emotions; but as the fiercest storm will in time expend its
fury, so she grew still at last, though it was rather the
stillness of despair than any healthful, quieting influence
stealing over her. She hated herself because she could
not feel an overwhelming joy at the prospect of Nina's
recovery; hated Arthur because he had forgotten her;
hated Grace for telling her so; hated Victor for saying he
would rather see her dead than Richard's wife; hated
Mrs. Matson for coining in to ask her how she was;
hated her for staying there when she would rather be
alone, and made faces at her from beneath the sheet;
hated everybody but Richard, and in time she should
hate him - at least, she hoped she should, for on the whole
she was more comfortable when hating people than she
had ever been when loving them. It had such a hardened effect upon her, this hatred of all mankind, such a
don't care influence, that she rather enjoyed it than otherwise.
And this was the girl who, as that rainy, dismal day
drew to its close and the sun went down in tears, dressed
herself with a firm, unflinching hand, arranging her hair
11




242          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT
with more than usual care, giving it occasionally a sharp
pull, as a kind of escape valve to her feelings, and uttering an impatient exclamation whenever a pin proved
obstinate and did not at once slip into its place. She was
glad Richard was blind and could not see her swollen
eyes, which, in spite of repeated bathings in ice-water and
cologne would look red and heavy. Her voice, however,
would betray her, and so she toned it down by warbling
snatches of a love song learned ere she knew the meaning
of love, save as it was connected with Richard. It was not
Edith Hastings who left that pleasant chamber, moving
with an unfaltering step down the winding stairs and
across the marble hall, but a half-crazed, defiant woman
going on to meet her destiny, and biting her lip with
vexation when she heard that Richard had companycollege fiiends, who being in Shannondale on business had
come up to see him.
This she learned from Victor, whom she met in the
hall, and who added, that he never saw his master appear
quite so dissatisfied as when told they were in the library,
and would probably pass the night. Edith readily guessed
the cause of his disquiet, and impatiently stamped her
little foot upon the marble floor, for she knew their presence would neceoarily defer the evil hour, and she could
not live much longer in her present state of excitement.
"I was just coming to your room," said Victor, "to
see if you were able to appear in the parlor. Three men
who have not met in years are stupid company for each
other; and then Mr. HIarrington wants to show you oft
I dare say. Pity the widow wasn't here."
Victor spoke sarcastically, but Edith merely replied,
"Tell your master I will come in a few minutes."
Then, with a half feeling of relief, she ran. back to her
room, bathing her eyes afresh, and succeeding in removing the redness to such an extent, that by lamplight no
one would suspect she had been crying. Her headache




DESTINY.                   243
was gone, and with spirits somewhat elated, she started
again for the parlor where she succeeded in entertaining
Richard's guests entirely to his satisfaction.
It was growing late, and the clock was striking eleven
when at last Richard summoned Victor, bidding him show
the gentlemen to their rooms. As they were leaving the
parlor Edith came to Richard's side, and in a whisper so
low that no one heard her, save himself, said to him,
"Tell Victor he needn't come back."
He understood her meaning, and said to his valet,
"I shall not need your services to-night. You may retire as soon as you choose."
Something in his manner awakened Victor's suspicions,
and his keen eyes flashed upon Edith, who, with a haughty
toss of the head, turned away to avoid meeting it again.
The door was closed at last; Victor was gone; their
guests were. gone, and she was alone with Richard, who
seemed waiting for her to speak; but Edith could not.
The breath she fancied would come so freely with Victor's
presence removed, would scarcely come at all, and she
felt the tears gathering like a flood every time she looked
at the sightless man before her, and thought of what was
to come. By a thousand little devices she strove to put
it off, and remembering that the piano was open, she
walked with a faltering step across the parlor, closed the
instrument, smoothed the heavy cover, arranged the sheets
of music, whirled the music stool as high as she could
turned it back as low as she could, sat down upon it,
crushed with her fingers two great tears, which, with all
her winking she could not keep in subjection, counted the
flowers on the paper border and wondered how long she
should probably live. Then, with a mighty effort she
arose, and with a step which this time did not falter, went
and stood before Richard, who was beginning to look
troubled at her protracted silence. IHe knew she was near
him now, he could hear her low breathing, and he waited
anxiously for her to speak.




244          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Edith's face was a study then. Almost every possible
emotion was written upon it. Fear, anguish, disappointed hopes, cruel longings for the past, terrible shrinkings
from the present, and still more terrible dread of the future. Then these passed away, and were succeeded by
pity, sympathy, gratitude, and a strong desire to do right.
The latter feelings conquered, and sitting down by Richard, she took his warm hand between her two cold ones,
and said to him,
"'Tis the twelfth of May to-night, did you know it?"
Did he know it?  He had thought of nothing else the
livelong day, and when, early in the morning, he heard
that she was sick, a sad foreboding had swept over him,
lest what he coveted so much should yet be withheld.
But she was there beside him. She had sought the opportunity and asked if he knew it was the twelfth, and,
drawing her closer to him, he answered back: "Yes, darling;'tis the day on which you were to bring me your decision. You have kept your word, birdie. You have
brought it to me whether good or bad. Now tell me, is
it the old blind man's wife, the future mistress of Collingwood, that I encircle with my arm?"
He bent down to listen for the reply, feeling her breath
stir his hair, and hearing each heart-beat as it counted off
the seconds. Then like a strain of music, sweet and rich,
but oh, so touchingly sad, the words came floating in a
whisper to his ear, "Yes, Richard, your future wife; but
please, don't call yourself the old blind man. It makes
you seem a hundred times my father. You are not old,
Richard - no older than I feel! " and the newly betrothed
laid her head on Richard's shoulder, sobbing passionately.
Did all girls behave like this? Richard wished he
knew. Did sweet Lucy Collingwood, when she gave her
young spring life to his father's brown October? Lucy
had loved her husband, he knew, and there was quite as
much difference between them as between himself and




DESTINY.                  245
Edith. Possibly'twas a maidenly weakness to cry, as
Edith was doing. He would think so at all events. It
were death to think otherwise, and caressing her with unwontedcl tenderness, he kissed her tears away, telling her
how happy she had made him by promising to be hishow the darkness, the dreariness all was gone, and the
world was so bright and fair. Then, as she continued
weeping and he remembered what had heretofore passed
between them, he said to her earnestly: "Edith, there is
one thing I would know. Is it a divided love you bring
me, or is it no love at all. I have a right to ask you this,
my darling. Is it gratitude alone which prompted your
decision? If it is, Edith, I would die rather than accept
it. Don't deceive me, darling, I cannot see your face
cannot read what's written there. Alas! alas! that I am
blind to-night; but I'll trust you, birdie; I'll believe
what you may tell me. Has an affection, different from
a sister's, been born within the last four weeks? Speak!
do you love me more than you did? Look into my eyes,
dearest; you will not deal falsely with me then."
Like an erring, but penitent child, Edith crept into his
lap, buttid not look into the sightless eyes. She dared
not, lest the gaze should wring from her quivering lips the
wild words trembling there, " Forgive me, Richard, but I
loved Arthur first." So she hid her face in his bosom,
and said to him,
" I do not love you, Richard, as you do me. It came
too sudden, and I had not thought about it. But I love
you dearly, very dearly, and I want so much to be your
wife. I shall rest so quietly when I have you to lean
upon, you to care for. I am young for you, I know, but
many such matches have proved happy, and ours assuredly will. You are so good, so noble, so unselfish, that I
shall be happy with you. I shall be a naughty, wayward
wife, I fear, but you can control me, and you must. We'll
go to Europe sometime, Richard, and visit Bingen on the




246          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
Rhine, where the little baby girl fell in the river, and the
brave boy Richard jumped after her. Don't you wish
you'd let me die? There would then have been no bad
black-haired Edith lying in your lap, and torturing you
with fears that she does not love you as she ought."
Edith's was an April temperament, and already the sun
was shining through the cloud; the load at her heart was
not so heavy, nor the future half so dark. Her decision
was made, her destiny accepted, and henceforth she
would abide by it nor venture to look back.
"Are you satisfied to take me on my terms?" she
asked, as Richard did not immediately answer.
He would rather she had loved him more, but it was
sudden, he knew, and she was young. He was terribly
afraid, it is true, that gratitude alone had influenced her
actions, but the germ of love was there, he believed; and
by and by it would bear the rich, ripe fruit. He could
wait for that; and he loved her so much, wanted her so
much, needed her so much, that he would take her on
any terms.
" Yes," he said at last, resting his chin upon her bowed
head, "I am satisfied, and never since my remembrance,
has there come to Richard Harrington a moment so
firaught with bliss as this in which I hold you in my arms
and know I hold my wife, my darling wife, sweetest name
ever breathed by human tongue —and Edith, if you
must sicken of me, do it now - to-night. Don't put it
off, for every fleeting moment binds me to you with an
added tie, which makes it harder to lose you."
"Richard," and, lifting up her head, Edith looked into
the eyes she could not meet before, " I swear to you, solemnly, that never, by word or deed, will I seek to be released from our engagement, and if I am released, it will
be because you give me up of your own free will. You
will be the one to break it, not I."
"Then it will not be broken," came in a quick response




DESTINY.                  247
from Richard, as he held closer to him one whom he now
felt to be his forever.
The lamps upon the table, and the candles on the mantel flashed and smoked, and almost died away —the fire
on the marble hearth gave one or two expiring gasps and
then went out- the hands of the clock moved onward,
pointing to long after midnight, and still Richard, loth to
let his treasure go, kept her with him, talking to her of
his great happiness, and asking if early June would be
too soon for her to be his bride.
" Yes, yes, much too soon," cried Edith. "Give me the
whole summer in which to be free. I've never been any
where you know. I want to see the world. Let's go to
Saratoga, and to all those places I've heard so much about.
Then, in the autumn, we'll have a famous wedding at Collingwood, and I will settle down into the most demure,
obedient of wives."
Were it not that the same roof sheltered them both,
Richard would have acceded to this delay, but when he
reflected that he should not be parted from Edith any
more than if they were really married, he consented, stipulating that the wedding should take place on the anniversary of the day when she first came to him with flowers, and called him "poor blind man."
"You did not think you'd ever be the poor blind man's
wife," he said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry
even now.
" No," she answered. Nor was she. In fact, she scarcely felt at all. Her heart was palsied, and lay in her bosom
like a block of stone - heavy, numb, and sluggish in its
beat.
Of one thing, only, was she conscious, and that a sense
of weariness- a strong desire to be alone, up stairs,
where she was not obliged to answer questions, or listen
to loving words, of which she was so unworthy. She was
deceiving Richard, who, when his quick ear caught her




"248          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
smothered yawn, as the little clock struck one, bade her
leave him, chiding himself for keeping her so long from
the rest he knew she needed.
"For me, I shall never know fatigue or pain again," he
said, as he led her to the door, "but my singing-bird is
different - she must sleep. God bless you, darling. You
have made the blind man very happy."
He kissed her forehead, her lips, her hands, and then
released her, standing in the door and listening to her
footsteps as they went up the winding stairs and out into
the hall beyond - the dark, gloomy hall, where no light
was, save a single ray, shining through the keyhole of
Victor's door.
CHAPTER XXVI.
EDITH AND THE WORLD.
"Victor is faithful," Edith said, as she saw the light,
and fancied that the Frenchman was still up, waiting to
assist his master.
But not for Richard did Victor keep the watch that
night. He would know how long that interview lasted
below, and when it was ended he would know its result.
What Victor designed he was pretty sure to accomplish,
and when, by the voices in the lower hall, he knew that
Edith was coming, he stole on tip-toe to the balustrade,
and, leaning over, saw the parting at the parlor door, feeling intuitively that Edith's relations to Richard had
changed since he last looked upon her. Never was servant more attached to his master than was Victor Dupres
to his, and yet he was strongly unwilling that Edith's
glorious beauty should be wasted thus.
" If she loved him," he said to himself, as, gliding back




DESTINY.                  249
to his room, he cautiously shut the door, ere Edith reached
the first landing. "If she loved him, I would not care.
More unsuitable matches than this have ended happily
-but she don't. Her whole life is bound with that of
another, and she shrinks from Mr. Harrington as she was
not wont to do. I saw it in her face, as she turned away
from him. There'll be another grave in the Collingwood
grounds — another name on the tall monument,'Edith,
wife of Richard Harrington, aged 20."'
Victor wrote the words upon a slip of paper, reading
them over until tears dimmed his vision, for, in fancy, the
imaginative Frenchman assisted at Edith's obsequies, and
even heard the grinding of the hearse wheels, once foretold by Nina. Several times he peered out into the silent
hall, seeing the lamplight shining from the ventilator over
Edith's door, and knowing by that token that she had not
retired. What was she doing there so long? Victor fain
would know, and as half-hour after half-hour went by,
until it was almost four, he stepped boldly to the door and
knocked. Long association with Victor had led Edith to
treat him more as an equal than a servant; consequently
he took liberties both with her and Richard, which no
other of the household would dare to do, and now, as
there came no response, he cautiously turned the knob
and walked into the room where, in her crimson dressinggown, her hair unbound and falling over her shoulders,
Edith sat, her arms crossed upon the table, and her face
upon her arms. She was not sleeping, for as the door
creaked on its hinges, she looked up, half-pleased to meet
only the good-humored face of Victor where she had
feared to see that of Richard.
"Miss Edith, this is madness —this is folly," and Victor sat down before her. "I was a fool to think it was
Mrs. Atherton."
"Victor Dupres, what do you mean?  What do you
know?  Why are you here?" and Edith's eyes flashed
11*




250          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
with Insulted pride; but Victor did not quail before them.
Gazing steadily at her, he replied, "You are engaged
to your guardian, and you do not love him."
"Victor Dupres, Ido!" and Edith struck her hand upon
the table with a force which made the glass larnip rattle.
"Granted you do," returned Victor, "but how do you
love him?  As a brother, as a friend, as a father, if you
will, but not as you should love your husband; not as
you could love Arthur St. Claire, were he not bound by
other ties."
Across the table the blanched, frightened face of Edith
looked, and the eyes which never before had been so black,
scanned Victor keenly.
" What do you know of Arthur St. Claire's ties?" she
asked at last, every word a labored breath.
Victor made no answer, but hurrying from the room,
soon returned with the crumpled, soiled sheet of foolscap, which he placed before her, asking if she ever saw it
before.
Edith's mind had been sadly confused when Nina read
to her the scratching out, and she had forgotten it entirely,
but it came back to her now, and catching up the papers,
she recognized Richard's unmistakable hand-writing.
He knew, then, of her love for Arthur- of the obstacle
to that love - of the agony it cost her to give him up.
He had deceived her - had won her under false pretenses,
assuming that she loved no one. She did not think this of
Richard, and in her eyes, usually so soft and mild, there
was a black, hard, terrible expression, as she whispered
hoarsely, "How came this in your possession?"
IIe told her how —thus exonerating Richard from
blame, and the hard, angry look was drowned in tears as
Edith wept aloud.
" Then he don't know it," she said at length, "Richard
don't. I should hate him if he did and still wished me
to be his wife."




EDITH AND THE WORLD.             251
"I can tell him," was Victor's dry response, and in an
instant Edith was over where he sat.
"You cannot, you must not, you shall not. It will kill
him if I desert him. He told me so, and I promised that
I wouldn't —promised solemnly. I would not harm a
hair of Richard's head, and he so noble, so good, so helpless, with so few sources of enjoyinent; but oh, Victor, I
did love Arthur best - did love him so much," and in that
wailing cry Edith's true sentiments spoke out. "I did love
him so much - I love him so much now," and she kept
whispering it to herself, while Victor sought in vain for
some word of comfort, but could find none. Onice he said
to her, ", Wait, and Nina may die," but Edith recoiled from
him in horror.
"Never hint that again," she almost screamed. "It's
murder, foul murder. I would not have Nina die for the
whole world —beautiful, loving Nina. I wouldn't have
Arthur, if she did. I couldn't, for I am Richard's wife.
I wish I'd told him early June instead of October. I'll tell
him to-morrow, and in four weeks more all the dreadfull
uncertainty will be ended. I ought to love him, Victor,
he's done so much for me. I am that Swedish child he
saved from the river Rhine, periling life and limb, losing
his sight for me. He found it so that time he went with
you to New York," and Edith's tears ceased as she repeated
to Victor all she knew of her early history. " Shouldn't I
marry him?" she asked, when the story was ended.
"Ought I not to be his eyes?  Help me, Victor. Don't
make it so hard for me; I shall faint by the way if you
do." 
Victor conceded that she owed much to Richard, but
nothing could make him think it right for her to marry
him with her present feelings. It would be a greater
wrong to him than to refuse him, but Edith did not think
SO.
"HIe'll never know what I feel," she said, and by and by




252          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
I shall be better,- shall love him as he deserves. There
are few Richards in the world, Victor."
" That is true," he replied, " but'tis no reason why you
must be sacrificed. Edith, the case is like this: I wish,
and the world at large, if it could speak, would wish for
Richard to marry you, but would not wish you to marry
Richard."
" But I shall," interrupted Edith. "There is no possible
chance of my not doing so, and Victor, you will help me. -
You won't tell him of Arthur. You know how his unselfish heart would give me up if you did, and break while doing it. Promise, Victor."
" Tell me first what you meant by early June, and October," he said, and after Edith had explained, he continued,
"Let the wedding be still appointed for October, and unless I see that it is absolutely killing you, I will not enlighten Mr. IIarrington."
And this was all the promise Edith could extort from
him.
" Unless he saw it was absolutely killing her, he would
not enlighten Richard."
" He shall see that it will not kill me," she said to herself. " I will be gay whether I feel it or not. I will out-do
myself, and if my broken heart should break again, no one
shall be the wiser."
Thus deciding, she turned toward the window where
the gray dawn was stealing in, and pointing to it, said:
"Look, the day is breaking; the longest night will have
an end, so will this miserable pain at my heart. Daylight
will surely' come when I shall be happy with Richard.
Don't tell him, Victor, don't; and now leave me, for my
head is bursting with weariness."
He knew it was, by the expression of her face, which,
in the dim lamp-light, looked ghastly and worn, and he
was about to leave her, when she called him back, and
asked how long he had lived with Mr. Harrington.




EDITH AND THE WORLD.            253
"Thirteen years," he replied. " He picked me up in
Germany, just before he came home to America. He
was not blind then."
"Then you never saw my mother?"
" Never."
"Nor Marie?"
"Never to my knowledge."
"You were in Geneva with Richard, you say. Where
were you, when - when -"
Edith could not finish, but Victor understood what she
would ask, and answered her,
"I nmust have been in Paris. I went home for a few
months, ten years ago last fall, and did not return until
just before we came to Collingwood. The housekeeper
told me there had been a wedding at Lake View, our Geneva home, but I did not ask the particulars. There's a
moral there, Edith; a warning to all foolish college boys,
and girls, who don't half know their minds.
Edith was too intent upon her own matters to care for
morals, and without replying directly, she said,
"Richard will tell you to-morrow, or to-day, rather, of
the engagement, and you'll be guarded, won't you? "
"I shall let him know I disapprove," returned Victor,
"but I shan't say anything that sounds like Arthur
St. Claire, not yet, at all events."
"And, Victor, in the course of the day, you'll make
some errand to Brier Hill, and incidentally mention it to
Mrs. Atherton. Richard won't tell her, I know, and I
can't -I can't. Oh, I wish it were —— "
" The widow, instead of you," interrupted Victor, as he
stood with the door knob in his hand. "That's what
you mean, and I must say it shows a very proper frame
of mind in a bride-elect."
Edith made a gesture for him to leave her, and with a
low bow he withdrew, while Edith, alternately shivering
with cold and flushed with fever, crept into bed, and fell




254          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
away to sleep, forgetting, for the time, that there were in
the world such things as broken hearts, unwilling brides,
and blind husbands old enough to be her father.
The breakfast dishes were cleared away, all but the exquisite little service brought for Edith's use when she
was sick, and which now stood upon the side-board waiting until her long morning slumber should end. Once
Mrls. Matson had been to her bedside, hearing from her
that her head was aching badly, and that she would
sleep longer. This message was carried down to Richard, who entertained his guests as best he could, but did
not urge them to make a longer stay.
They were gone now, and Richard was alone. It was
a flvorable opportunity for telling Victor of his engagement, and summoning the latter to his presence, he bade
him sit down, himself hesitating, stammering, and blushing like a woman, as he tried to speak of Edith. Victor
might have helped him, but he would not, and he sat,
rather enjoying his master's confusion, until the latter
said, abruptly,
" Victor, how would you like to have a mistress herea bona fide one, I mean, such as my wife would be? "
"That depends something upon who it was," Victor
exclaimed, as if this were the first intimation he had received of it.
" What would you say to Edith? " Richard continued,
and Victor replied with well-feigned surprise, "Miss Hastings! You would not ask that little girl to be your wife!
Why you are twenty-five years her senior."
" No, no, Victor, only twenty-one," and Richard's voice
trembled, for like Edith, he wished to be reassured and
upheld even by his inferiors.
lie knew Victor disapproved, that he considered it a
great sacrifice on Edith's part, but for this he had no in



EDITH AND THE WORLD.               255
tention of giving her up. On the contrary it made him
a very little vexed that his valet should presume to question his acts, and he said with more asperity of manner
than was usual for him,
"You think it unsuitable, I perceive, and perhaps it is,
but if we are satisfied, it is no one's else business, I think."
"Certainly not," returned Victor, a meaning smile
curling his lip, "if both are satisfied, I ought to be.
When is the wedding?"
He asked this last with an appearance of interest, and
Richard, ever ready to forgive and forget, told him  all
about it, who Edith was, and sundry other matters, to
which Victor listened as attentively as if he had not heard
the whole before. Like Edith, Richard was in the habit
of talking to Victor more as if he were an equal than a
servant, and in speaking of his engagement, he said,
" I had many misgivings as to the propriety of asking
Edith to be my wife - she is so young, so different from
me, but my excuse is that I cannot live without her. She
has never loved another, and thus the chance is tenfold
greater that she will yet be to me all that a younger, less
dependent husband could desire."
Victor bit his lip, half resolved one moment to undeceive poor Richard, whom he pitied for his blind infatuation, but remembering his promise, he held his peace, until his master signified that the conference was ended,
when he hastened to the barn, where he could give vent
to his feelings in French, his adopted language being far
too prosy to suit his excited mood. Suddenly Grace Atherton came into his mind, and Edith's request that he
should tell her.
" Yes, I'll do it," he said, starting at once for Brier Iill'Twill be a relief to let another- know it, and then I
want to see her squirm, when she hears all hope for herself is gone."
For once, however, Victor was mistaken. Gradually




256          DARINESS AND DAYLIGHT.
the hope that she could ever be aught to Richard was dying out of Grace's heart, and though, for an instant, she
turned very white when, as if by accident, he told the
news, it was more from surprise at Edith's conduct than
from any new feeling that she had lost him. She was in
the garden bending over a bed of daffodils, so he did not
see her face, but he knew from her voice how astonished
she was, and rather wondered that she could question him
so calmly as she did, asking if Edith were.very happy,
when the wedding was to be, and even wondering at Richard's willingness to wait so long.
"Women are queer any way," was Victor's mental
comment, as, balked of his intention to see Grace Athertoh squirm, he bade her good morning, and bowed himself from the garden, having first received her message
that she would come up in the course of the day, and
congratulate the newly betrothed.
Once alone, Grace's calmness all gave way; and though
the intelligence did not affect her as it once would have
done, the fibres of her heart quivered with pain, and a
sense of dreariness stole over her, as, sitting down on the
thick, trailing boughs of an evergreen, she covered her
face with her hands, and wept as women always weep
over a blighted hope. It was all in vain that her pet kitten came gamboling to her feet, rubbing against her dress,
climbing upon her shoulder, and playfully touching, with
her velvet paw, the chestnut curls which fell from beneath
her bonnet. All in vain that the Newfoundland dog came
to her side, licking her hands and gazing upon her with a
wondering, human look of intelligence. Grace had no
thought for Rover or for Kitty, and she wept on, sometimes for Arthur, sometimes for Edith, but oftener for the
young girl who years ago refused.the love offered her by
Richard IIarrington; and then she wondered if it were
possible that Edith had so soon ceased to care for Arthur.
"I can tell from her manner," she thought; and with




EDITH AND THE WORLD.             257
her mind thus brought to the call she would make at
Collingwood, she dried her eyes, and speaking playfully
to her dumb pets, returned to the house a sad, subdued
woman, whose part in the drama of Richard Harrington
was effectually played out.
That afternoon' about three o'clock, a carriage bearing
Grace Atherton, wound slowly up the hill to Collingwood,
and when it reached the door a radiant, beautiful woman
stepped out, her face all wreathed in smiles and her voice
full of sweetness as she greeted Richard, who came forth
to meet her.
"A pretty march you've stolen upon me," she began,
in a light, bantering tone -"you and Edith —never
asked my consent, or said so much as'by your leave,' but
no matter, I congratulate you all the same. I fancied it
would end in this. Where is she- the bride-elect?"
Richard was stunned with such a volley of words from
one whom he supposed ignorant of the matter, and observing his evident surprise Grace continued, "You wonder how I know.  Victor told me this morning; he
was too much delighted to keep it to himself. But say,
where is Edith?"
" Here I am," and advancing from the parlor, where she
had overheard the whole, Edith laughed a gay, musical
laugh, as hollow and meaningless as Mrs. Atherton's
forced levity.
Had she followed the bent of her inclinations she would
not have left her pillow that day, but remembering Victor's words, "Unless I see it's killing you," she felt the
necessity of exerting herself, of wearing the semblance of
happiness at least, and about noon she had arisen and
dressed herself with the utmost care, twining geranium
leaves in her hair just as she used to do when going to see
Arthur, and letting them droop from among her braids ire
the way he had told her was so becoming. Then, with
flushed cheeks and bright, restless eyes, she went down to




258           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Richard, receiving his caresses and partially returning them
when she fancied Victor was where he could see her.
"Women are queer," he said again to himself, as he saw
Edith on Richard's knee, with her arm around his neck.
"Their love is like a footprint on the seashore; the first
big wave washes it away, and they ale ready to make
another. I reckon I shan't bother myself about her any
more. If she loved Arthur as I thought she did, she
couldn't hug another one so soon. It isn't nature - man
nature, any way; but Edith's like a reed that bends.
That character of Cooper's suits her exactly. I'll call her
so to myself hereafter - Reed that bends," and Victor hurried off, delighted with his new name.
But if Victor was in a measure deceived by Edith's
demeanor, Grace Atherton was not. Women distrust
women sooner than men; can read each other better, detect the hidden motive sooner, and ere the two had been
five minutes together, Grace had caught a glimpse of the
troubled, angry current over which the upper waters rippled so smoothly that none save an acute observer would
have suspected the fierce whirlpool which lay just below
the surface. Because, he thought, they would like it better, Richard left the two ladies alone at last, and then
turning suddenly upon Edith, Grace said,
"' Tell me, Edith, is your heart in this, or have you done
it in a fit of desperation? "
" I have had a long time to think of it," Edith answered
proudly. "It is no sudden act. Richard is too noble to
accept it if it were. I have always loved him, — not exactly as I loved Arthur, it is true."
Here the whirlpool underneath threatened to betray
itself, but with a mighty effort Edith kept it down, and
the current was unruffled as she continued,
"Arthur is nearer my age - nearer my beau ideal, but
I can't have him, and I'm  not going to play the part of a
love-lorn damsel for a married man. Tell him so when




EDITH AND THE WORLD.             259
you write. Tell him I'm engaged to Richard just as he
said I would be. Tell him I'm happy, too, for I kniow I'm
doing right. It is not wicked to love Richard and it was
wicked to love him."
It cost Edith more to say this than she supposed, and when
she finished, the perspiration stood in drops beneath her
hair and about her mouth.
"You are deceiving yourself," said Grace, who, without
any selfish motive. now, really pitied the hard, white-facedc
girl, so unlike the Edith of other days. " You are taking
Richard from gratitude, nothing else. Victor told me of
your parentage, but because he saved your life, you need
not render yours as a return. Your heart is not in this
marriage."
"Yes, it is- all the heart I have," Edith answered
curtly. Then, as some emotion stronger than the others
swept over her, she laid her head upon the sofa arm and
sobbed, "You are all leagued against me, but I don't
care. I shall do as I like. I have promised to marry
Richard, and Edith Hastings never lied. She will keep
her word," and in the eyes which she now lifted up, Grace
saw the tears glittering like diamonds.
Then a merry laugn iurst from the lips of the wayward
girl as she met MIrs. Atherton's anxious glance, and running to the piano she dashed off a most inspiriting waltz,
playing so rapidly that the bright bloom  came back, settling in a small round spot upon her cheek, and making
her surpassingly beautiful even to Grace, whose great
weakness was an unwillingness to admit that an6ther's
charms were superior to her own. When the waltz was
ended Edith,s mood had changed, and turning to Grace
she nestled closely to her, and twining one of the silken
curls around her fingers, said coaxingly,
" You think me a naughty child no doubt, but you do
not understand me. I certainly do love Richard more
than you suppose; and Grace, I want you to help me, to




260            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
encourage me. Engaged girls always need it, I guess,
and Victor is so mean, he says all sorts of hateful things
about my marrying my father, and all that. Perhaps the
village people will do so, too, and if they do, you'll stand
up for me, won't you? You'll tell thel how much I owe him
-how much I love him, and, Grace," Edith's voice was
very low now, and sad, "and when you write to Arthur
don't repeat the hateful things I said before, but tell him
I'm  engaged; that I'm the Swedish baby; that I never
shall forget him quite; and that I love Richard very
much."
Oh, how soft and plaintive was the expression of the
dark eyes now, as Edith ceased to speak, and pressed the
hand which warmly pressed hers back, for Grace's womanly nature was aroused by this appeal, and she resolved
to fulfill the trust reposed in her by Edith. Instead of
hedging her way with obstacles she would help her, if possible; would encourage her to love the helpless blind man,
whose step was heard in the hall. He was coming to rejoin them, and instantly into Edith's eyes there flashed a
startled, shrinking look, such as the recreant slave may be
supposed to wear when he hears his master's step. Grace
knew the feeling which prompted that look full well.
She had felt it many a time, in an intensified degree,
stealing over her at the coming of one whose snowy locks
and gouty limbs had mingled many a year with the dust
of Shannondale, and on her lips the words were trembling,
"This great sacrifice must not be," when Edith sprang up,
and running out into the hall, met Richard as he came.
Leading him into the parlor, and seating him upon the
sofa, she sat beside him, holding his hand in hers, as if she
thus would defy her destiny, or, at the least, meet it
bravely. Had Grace known of Victor's new name for
Edith she too would have called her "Reed that bends,"
and as it was she thought her a most incomprehensible
girl, whom no one could fathom, and not caring to tarry
longer, soon took her leave, and the lovers were alone.




EDITH AND THE WORLD.             261
Arrived at home, Grace opened her writing desk and
commenced a letter, which started next day for Florida,
carrying to Arthur St. Claire news which made his brain
reel and grow giddy with pain, while his probed heart
throbbed, and quivered, and bled with a fresh agony, as
on his knees by Nina's pillow he prayed, not that the cup
of bitterness might pass from him - he was willing now
to quaff that to its very dregs, but that Edith might be
happy with the husband she had chosen, and that he, the
desolate, weary Arthur might not faint beneath this added
burden.
Five weeks went by - five weeks of busy talk among
the villagers, some of whom approved of the engagement,
while more disapproved. Where was that proud Southerner? they asked, referring to Arthur St. Claire. They
thought him in love with Edith. Had he deserted her,
and so in a fit of pique she had given herself to Richard?
This was probably the fact, and the gossips, headed by
Mrs. Eliakim Rogers, speculated upon it, while the days
glided by, until the five weeks were gone, and Edith, sitting in Grace's boudoir, read, with eyes which had not wept
since the day following her betrothal, the following extract from Arthur's letter to his cousin:
"Richard and Edith! Oh! Grace, Grace! I thought
I had suffered all that mortal man could suffer, but when
that fatal message came, I died a thousand deaths in one,
enduring again the dreadful agony when in the Deering
woods I gave my darling up. Oh, Edith, Edith, Edith,
my soul goes after her even now with a quenchless,
mighty love, and my poor, bruised, blistered heart throbs
as if some great giant hand were pressing its festered
wounds, until I faint with anguish and cry out,'my punishment in greater than I can bear.'
"Still I would not have it otherwise, if I could. I deserve it all, aye, and more, too. Heavenbless them both,
Richard and his beautiful singing bird. Tell her so, Grace.




262           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
Tell her how I blessed her for cheering the blind man's
darkness, but do not.tell her how much it costs me to bid
her, as I now do, farewell forever and ever, farewell."
It was strange that Grace should have shown this letter
to Edith, but the latter coaxed so hard that she reluctantly
consented, repenting of it however when she saw the
effect it had on Edith. Gradually as she read, there crept
over her a look which Grace had never seen before upon the
face of any human being - a look as if the pent-up grief
of years was concentrated in a single moment of anguish
too acute to be described. There were livid spots upon
her neck —livid spots upon her face, while the dry eyes
seemed fading out, so dull, and dim, and colorless they
looked, as Edith read the wailing cry with which Arthur
St. Claire bade her his adieu.
For several minutes she sat perfectly motionless, save
when the muscles of her mouth twitched convulsively, and
then the hard, terrible look gave way - the spots began
to fade - the color came back to her cheeks - the eyes
resumed their wonted brilliancy —the fingers'moved
nervously, and Edith was herself. She had suffered all
she could, and never again would her palsied heart know
the same -egree of pain which she experienced when reading Arthur's letter. It was over now - the worst of it.
Arthur knew of her engagement - blessing her for it, and
saying he would not have it otherwise. The bitterness of
death was past, and henceforth none save Grace and Victor suspected the worm which fed on Edith's very life, so
light, so merry, so joyous she appeared; and Edith was
happier than she had supposed it possible for her to be.
The firm belief that she was doing right, was, of itself, a
source of peace, and helped to sustain her fainting spirits,
still there was about her a sensation of disquiet, a feeling
that new scenes would do her good, and as the summer
advanced, and the scorching July sun penetrated even to
the cool shades of Collingwood, she coaxed Richard, Grace




EDITTI AND THE WORLD.            263
and Victor to go away. She did not care where, she said,
"anything for a change; she was tired of seeing the same
things continually. She never knew, before how stupid
Shannondale was. It must have changed within the last
few months."
" I think it is you who have changed," said Grace, fancying that she could already foresee the restless, uneasy,
and not altogether agreeable woman, which Edith, as Richard's wife, would assuredly become.
Possibly Richard, too, thought of this, for a sigh escaped
hibn as he heard Edith find fault with her beautifill homle.
Still he offered no remonstrance to going from home
awhile, and two weeks more found them at the Catskill
Mountain House, where at first not one of the assembled
throng suspected that the beautiful young maiden who in
the evening danced like a butterfly in their midst, and in
the morning bounded up the rocky heights like some
fearless, graceful chamois, was more than ward to the man
who had the sympathy of all from the moment the whispered words went round, " He is blind."
Hour after hour would Edith sit with him upon the
grass plat overlooking the deep ravine, and make him see
with her eyes the gloriously magnificent view, than which
there is surely none finer in all the world; then, when the
sun looked toward the west, and the mountain shadow
began to creep across the valley, the river, and the hills
beyond, shrouding them in an early twilight, she would
lead him away to some quiet, sheltered spot, where unobserved, she could lavish upon him the little acts of love
she knew he so much craved and which she would not
give to him when curious eyes were looking on. It was
a blissful paradise to Richard, and when in after years he
looked back upon the past, he always recurred to those
few weeks as the brightest spot in his whole life, blessing
Edith for the happiness she gave him during that' season
of delicious quiet spent amid the wild scenery of the
Catskill Mountains.




264          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LAND OF FLOWERS.
It was the original plan for the party to remain two
weeks or more at the Mountain House, and then go on
to Saratoga, but so delighted were they with the place
that they decided to tarry longer, and the last of August
found them still inmates of the hotel, whose huge white
walls, seen from the Hudson, stand out from the dark
wooded landscape, like some mammoth snow bank, suggestive to the traveller of a quiet retreat and a cool shelter from the summer's fervid heat. Edith's health and
spirits were visibly improved, and her musical laugh often
rang through the house in tones so merry and gleeful that
the most solemn of the guests felt their boyhood coming
back to them as they heard the ringing laugh, and a softer
light suffused their cold, stern eyes as they paused in the
midst of some learned discussion to watch the frolicsome,
graceful belle of the Mountain House - the bride elect
of the blind man.
It was known to be so now. The secret was out -
told by Victor, when closely questioned with regard to
Edith's relationship to Mr. Harrington. It created much
surprise and a world of gossip, but shielded Edith from
attentions which might otherwise have been annoying,
for more than Richard thought her the one of all others
whose presence could make the sunshine of their life.
But Edith was betrothed. The dun leaves of October
would crown her a wife, and so one pleasant morning
some half a score young men, each as like to the other as
young men at fashionable places of resort are apt to be,
kicked their patent leather boots against the pillars of
the rear piazza, broke a part of the tenth commandment




THE LAND OF FLOWERS.             265
shockingly, muttered to themselves speeches anything but
complimentary to Richard, and then, at the appearance of
a plaid silk travelling dress and brown straw flat, rushed
forward en masse, each contending frantically for the honor of assisting Miss Hastings to enter the omnibus, where
Richard was already seated, and which was to convey a
party to the glens of the Kauterskill Falls.
Edith had been there often. The weird wildness of
the deep gorge suited her, and many an hour had she
whiled away upon the broken rocks, watching the flecks
of sunlight as they came struggling down through the
overhanging trees, listening to the plaintive murmur of
the stream, or gazing with delight upon the fringed,
feathery falls which hung from the heights above like some
long, white, gauzy ribbon. Richard, on the contrary, had
never visited them before, and he only consented to do so
now from a desire to gratify Edith, who acted as his escort in place of Victor. Holding fast to her hand he
slowly descended the winding steps and circuitous paths,
and then, with a sad feeling of helpless dependence, sat
down upon the bank where Edith bade him sit, herself
going off in girlish ecstasies as a thin spray fell upon her
face and she saw above her a bright-hued rainbow, spanning the abyss.
"They are letting the water on," she cried, " Look, Richard! do look! " and she grasped his hand, while he said to
her mournfully,
"Has Birdie forgotten that I am blind, and helpless,
and old- that she must lead me as a child? "
There was a touching pathos in his voice which went
straight to Edith's heart, and forgetting the rainbow, she
sat down beside him, still keeping his hand in hers, and
asked what was the matter? She knew he was unusually
disturbed, for seldom had she seen upon his face a look of
so great disquiet. Suddenly as she remembered his unwillingness to come there alone, it flashed upon her that
12




266          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
it might arise from an aversion to seem so dependent upon a weak girl in the presence of curious strangers. With
Victor he did not mind it, but with her it might be different, and she asked if it were not so.
"Hardly that, darling; hardly that;" and the sightless
eyes drooped as if heavy with unshed tears. "Edith,"
and he pressed the warm hand he held. " ours will be an
unnatural alliance. I needed only to mingle with the
world to find it so. People wonder at your choicewonder that one so young as you should choose a battered, blasted tree like me round which to twine the tendrils of your green, fresh life."
" What have you heard?" Edith asked, half bitterly,
for since their engagement was known at the hotel, she
had more than once suspected the truth of what he said
to her. The world did not approve, but she would not
tell Richard that she knew it, and she asked again what
he had heard.
"The ear of the blind is quick," he replied; "and as I
sat waiting in the stage this morning I heard myself denounced as a'blind old Hunks,' a selfish dog, who had
won the handsomest girl in the country. Then, as we were
descending to this ravine you remember we stopped at
the foot of some stairs while you removed a brier fiom
your dress, and from a group near by I heard the whispered words,'There they come - the old blind man,
who bought his ward with money and gratitude.'Twas
a horrid sacrifice! Look, how beautiful she is!' Darling,
I liked to hear you praised, but did not like the rest. It
makes me feel as if I were dragging you to the altar
against your will. And what is worse than all, the verdict of the people here is the verdict of the world. Edith,
you don't want me. You cannot wish to call one husband whose dependence upon you will always make you
blush for your choice. It was gratitude alone which
prompted your decision. Confess that it was, and I give




THE LAND OF FLOWERS.             267
you back your troth. You need not be the old blind
man's wife."
For an instant Edith's heart leaped up, and the sun
spots dancing on the leaves were brighter than she had
ever seen them, but the feeling passed away, and laying
both her hands reverently in Richard's, she said,
" I will be your wife. I care nothing for the world, and
we won't mingle in it any more to cause remarks. We'll
stay at Collingwood, where people know us best. Let's
go home to-morrow. I'm tired of this hateful place.
Will you go? "
Ere Richard could answer, Grace Atherton was heard
exclaiming,
"Ah, here you are. I've hunted everywhere. Mr. Russell," and she turned to the dark man at her side,
"this is Mr. Harrington - Miss Hastings - Mr. Russell,
from Tallahassee."
Edith did not at first think that Tallahassee was in
Florida, not many miles from Sunnybank, and she bowed
to the gentleman as to any stranger, while Grace, who
had just arrived in another omnibus, explained to her
that Mr. Russell was a slight acquaintance of Arthur's;
that the latter being in town, and accidentally hearing
that he was coining North, had intrusted him with some
business matters, which would require his visiting Grassy
Spring - had given himn a letter of introduction to herself, said letter containing a note for Edith — that
Mr. Russell had been to Shannondale, and ascertaining
their whereabouts, had followed them, reaching the M1ountain House in the morning stage.
" He can spend but one day here," she added, in conclusion, " and wishing him to see as much as possible of
our northern grandeur I brought him at once to the Falls.
Here is your note," and tossing it into Edith's lap she
moved away.
A note from Arthur! How Edith trembled as she held




268          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
it in her hand, and with a quick, furtive glance at the
sightless eyes beside her, she raised the dainty missive to
her lips, feeling a reproachful pang as she reflected that
she was breaking her vow to Richard. Why had Arthur
written to her —she asked herself this question many
times, while Richard, too, asked,
"What news from Florida?" ere she broke the seal
and read, not words of changeless and dark despair, but
words of entreaty that for the sake of Nina, sick, dying
Nina, she would come at once to Florida, for so the crazy
girl had willed it, pleading with them the live-long day to
send for Miggie, precious Miggie, with the bright, black
eyes, which looked her into subjection, and the soft hands
which drove the ugly pain away.
" All the summer," Arthur wrote, " she has been failing.
The heat seems to oppress her, and several times I've
been on the point of returning with her to the North,
thinking I made a mistake in bringing her here, but she
refuses to leave Sunnybank. Old sights and familiar places
have a soothing effect upon her, and she is more as she
used to be before the great calamity fell upon her. Her
disease is consumption, hereditary like her insanity, and
as her physical powers diminish her mental faculties seem
to increase. The past is not wholly a blank to her now;
she remembers distinctly much that has gone by, but of
nothing does she talk so constantly as of Miggie, asking
every hour if I've sent for you - how long before you'll
come; and if you'll stay until she's dead. I think your
coming will prolong her life; and you will never regret
it, I am sure. Mr. Russell will be your escort, as he will
return in three weeks."
To this note two postscripts were appended - the first
in a girlish, uneven hand, was redolent of the boy Arthur's "Florida rose."
"' Miggie, precious Miggie - come to Sunnybank; come
to Nina. She is waiting for you. She wants you here -




THE LAND OF FLOWERS.             269
wants to lay her poor, empty head, where the bad pain
used to be, on your soft, nice bosom - to shut her eyes
and know it is your breath she feels - your sweet, fragrant breath, and not Arthur's, brim full of cigar smoke.
Do come, Miggie, won't you? There's a heap of things I
want to fix before I die, and I am dying, Miggie. I see
it in my hands, so poor and thin, not one bit like they
used to be, and I see it, too, in Arthur's actions. Dear
Arthur boy! He is so good to me - carries me every
morning to the window, and holds me in his lap while I
look out into the garden where we used to play, you and
I. I think it was you, but my brain gets so twisted, and
I know the real Miggie is out under the magnolias, for it
says so on the stone, but I can't help thinking you are
she. Arthur has a new name for me, a real nice name, too.
He took it from a book, he says - about just such a wee
little girl as I am.' Child-wife,' that's what he calls me,
and he strokes my hair so nice. I'm loving Arthur a
heap, Miggie. It seems just as if he was my mother, and
the name' Child-wife' makes little bits of waves run all over
me. He's a good boy, and God will pay him by and by
for what he's been to me. Some folks here call me
Mrs. St. Claire. Why do they? Sometimes I remember
something about somebody somewhere, more than a hundred years ago, butjust as I think I've got hold of it right,
it goes away. I lose it entirely, and my head is so snarled
up. Come and unsnarl it, wont you? Nina is sick, Nina
is dying, Nina is crazy. You must come."
The second postscript showed a bolder, firmer hand, and
Edith read,
" I, too, echo Nina's words,' Come, Miggie, come.' Nina
wants you, and I - Heaven only knows how much I want
you - but, Edith, were you in verity Richard's wife, you
could not be more sacred to me than you are as his betrothed, and I promise solemnly that I will not seek to
influence your decision. The time is surely coming when




270          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
I shall be alone; no gentle Nina, sweet' Child-wife' clinging to me. She will be gone, and her Arthur boy, as she
calls me, free to love whomsoever he will. But this shall
make no difference. I have given you to Richard. I
will not wrong the blind man. Heaven bless you both
and bring you to us."
The sun shone just as brightly in the summer sky -
the Kauterskill fell as softly into the deep ravine - the
shouts of the tourists were just as gay —the flecks of
sunshine on the grass danced just as merrily, but Edith
did not heed them. Her thoughts were riveted upon the
lines she had read, and her heart throbbed with an unutterable desire to respond at once to that pleading call —to
take to herself wings and fly away - away over mountain
and valley, river and rill, to the fair land of flowers where
Nina was, and where too was Arthur. As she read, she
uttered no sound, but when at last Richard said to her,
" What is it, Birdie? Have you heard bad news? " her
tears flowed at once, and leaning her head upon his shoulder, she answered,
"Nina is dying - dear little, bright-haired Nina. She
has sent for me. She wants me to come so much. May
I, Richard? May I go to Nina?"
" Read me the letter, " was Richard's reply, his voice
unusually low and sad.
Edith could not read the whole. Arthur's postscript
must be omitted, as well as a portion of Nina's, but she
did the best she could, breaking down entirely when she
reached the point where Nina spoke of her Arthur boy's
goodness in carrying her to the window.
Richard, too, was much affected, and his voice trembled
as he said, " St. Claire is a noble fellow. I always felt
strangely drawn toward him. Isn't there something between him and Nina - something more than mere guardianship? "
" They were engaged before she was crazy," returned




THE LAND OF FLOWERS.            271
Edith, while Richard sighed, "poor boy, poor boy! It
must be worse than death. His darkness is greater than
mine."
Then his thoughts came back to Edith's question, " May
I go to Nina?" and his first feeling was that she might,
even though her going would necessarily defer a day to
which he was so continually looking foward, but when he
remembered the danger to which she would be exposed
from the intense heat at that season of the year, he shrank
from it at once, mildly but firmly refusing to let her incur
the fearful risk.
" Could I be assured that, my bird would fly back to me
again with its plumage all unruffled I would let her go,"'
he said, " but the chances are against it. You would surely sicken and die, and I cannot let you go.
Edith offered no remonstrance, but her face was very
white and her eyes strangely black as she said, " Let us go
home, then; go to-morrow. This is no place for me, with
Nina dying.
Nothing could please Richard more than to be back at
Collingwood, and when Grace came to them he announced
his intention of leaving on the morrow. Grace was willing, and Victor, when told of the decision, was wild with
delight. Mr. Russell, too, decided to go with them to
Shannondale, and when, next morning, the party came out
to take the downward stage, they found him comfortably
seated on the top, whither he had but little trouble in
coaxing Grace, who expressed a wish to enjoy the mountain scenery as they descended.
"Will Miss Hastings come up, too? " he asked, but
Edith declined and took her seat inside between Richard
and Victor, the latter of whom had heard nothing of the
letter; neither did Edith tell him until the next day when,
arrived at Collingwood, they were alone for a moment in
the library - then she explained to him that Nina was
sick, possibly had sent for her.




272          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
" I thought things would work out after a time, though
honestly I'd rather that little girl shouldn't die if it could
be brought round any other way," was Victor's reply,
which called a flush at once to Edith's cheek.
"Victor Dupres," said she, "never hint such a thing
again. It is too late now; it cannot be -it shall not be;
and if I go, Arthur has promised not to say one word
which can influence me."
"If you go," repeated Victor, "Then you have some
intention of going -I thought he had objected."
" So he has," returned Edith, the same look stealing into'her eyes which came there at the Falls. "So he has,
but if Nina lives till the middle of October I shall go.
My mind is made up."
"Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel," muttered Victor,
as hearing some one coming, he walked away. " Means
to jump down the lion's throat, but does not expect to be
swallowed! Splendid logic that!" and Victor shrugged
his shoulders at what seemed so contradictory as Edith's
talk and Edith's conduct.
As she had said, Edith meant to go, nay more, was determined to go, and when, on the third day after their return,
Mr. Russell came for her final decision, she said to him,
ere Richard had time to speak,
"I shall not go now; it is too early for that, but if Nina
continues worse, I will come to her the latter part of October. I am writing so to her to-day."
Richard was confounded, and could only stammer out,'"Who is to be your escort? "
-"You, Richard;" and Edith clasped his arm, thus reassuring him at once.
She had some thought, some consideration for him; she
did not intend to desert him wholly, and he playfully
tapped her chin, laughing to think how the little lady had
boldly taken matters into her own hands, telling what
should be with as much sang froid as if she were master




THE LAND OF FLOWERS.            2 73
instead of himself. And Richard rather liked the independent spirit of Edith, particularly when he found that
he was not wholly left out of her calculations. And so
he arranged with Mr. Russell, that if Nina were not better as the autumn advanced, Edith should perhaps go
down to see her.
Arthur had made his marriage with Nina public as
soon as he returned to Sunnybank, but as Mr. Russell's
home was in Tallahassee, and he himself a quiet, taciturn
man, he had not heard of it, and in speaking of Nina to
Edith, he called her Miss Bernard, as usual, and thus
Richard still remained in ignorance, never suspecting that
golden haired Nina was the same young girl he had married years before.
Poor Richard, he was ignorant of many things, and
never dreamed how light and gay was Edith's heart at
the prospect of going to Florida, even though she half
expected that when she went it would be as his wife.
But Richard determined it otherwise. It cost him a
struggle so to do, but his iron will conquered every feeling, save those of his better judgment, and calling Edith
to him one day two weeks after Mr. Russell's departure,
he said,:" Birdie, I've come to the conclusion that a blind man
like me will only be in your way, in case you go to Florida.
I am not an interesting traveling companion. I require
too much care, and I dread the curious gaze of strangers.
It makes me very uncomfortable. So on the whole I'd
rather stay at home and let Victor go in my stead. What
does Birdie -say? "
" She says you are the noblest, most unselfish man that
ever lived," and Edith kissed his lips, chiding herself seriously for the spirit which whispered to her that she too
would rather go without him. " I won't stay very long,"
she said. "Our wedding need not be deferred more than
two months; say, till the first of January, at 7 o'clock,




274            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
just as we before arranged it for October, only a more
quiet affair. I shall then be your New Year's gift. Does
that suit you, dearest? "
She'did not often call him thus, and when she did she
was sure of accomplishing her purpose. The strong man
melted beneath a few words of love, becoming a very
tool in the hands of a weak girl.
" Yes, darling," he replied, " that will do - but supposing we hear that Nina is better, or dead - what then? "
The mere possibility was terrible to Edith, but she answered calmly,
"Then we'll be married in October, just as first proposed;" and thus was the die cast, and a fresh link added
to the chain of Edith's destiny. She was going to Florida; going to Arthur; and going alone, so far as Richard
was concerned.
Spying Victor coming up the walk from the post-office,
she ran out to meet him, telling him of the journey before
him, and almost crying for joy when he placed in her
hand a worn envelope bearing the post-mark of Tallahassee.
It was from Arthur, and contained a few lines only, telling of Nina's increasing illness, and her restless, impatient
desire for Miggie. In conclusion he wrote,
"We have had no fever this summer. You will be
perfectly safe in coming any time after the middle of October. I shall welcome Mr. Harrington most cordially if
he sees fit to accompany you."
Edith could read this to Richard, and she did, feeling
a pang at the perfect faith with which he answered,
" Were it not for the tedious journey I believe I would
go with you, but it's too much of an undertaking. I
won't trammel you with so great a burden. I'd rather
stay at home and anticipate my darling's return."
Then with the same forethought and careful consideration which marked all his actions, Richard consulted with
her as to the best time for her to start, fixing upon the




SUNNYBANK                  275
15th of Octoher, and making all his arrangements subservient to this. He did not tell her how lonely he should
be without her -how he should miss her merry laugh,
which, strange to say, grew merrier each day; but he let
her know in various ways how infinitely precious she was
to him, and more than once Edith felt constrained to give
up the journey, but the influences from Florida drew her
strangely in that direction, and resolving to pay Richard
for his self-denial by an increase of love when she should
return, she busied herself with her preparations until the
15th of October came, and her trunks stood ready in the
hall.
" If I could only read your letters myself, it would not
seem one-half so bad," Richard said, when at the last
moment, he held Edith's hand, "but there's a shadow
over me this morning - a dark presentiment that in suffering you to leave me I am losing you forever."
Edith could not answer, she pitied him so much, and
kissing his lips, she put from her neck his clinging arms,
wiped his tears away, smoothed his ruffled hair, and then
went out from his presence, leaving him there in his sorrow and blindness alone.
CHAPTER XXVIIL
SUNNYBANK.
Berry soon, Miss, an' we're thar. We turns the corner yonder, we drives'cross the plain, down a hill, up
anoder, all' then we's mighty nigh a mile from the spot."
Such was the answer made by Tom, the Bernard coachman to Edith's repeated inquiries, "Are we almost
there."
For three successive days the Bernard carriage had




276          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
been to Tallahassee in quest of the expected guest, whose
coming was watched for so eagerly at Sunnybank, and
who, as the bright October afternoon was drawing to its
close, looked eagerly out at a huge old house which stood
not very far distant with the setting sun shining on
the roof and illuminating all the upper windows. A
nearer approach showed it to be a large, square, wooden
building, divided in the centre by a wide, airy hall, and
surrounded on three sides by a verandah, the whole
bearing a more modern look than most of the country
houses in Florida, for Mr. Bernard had possessed considerable taste, and during his life had aimed at fitting up
his residence somewhat after the northern fashion. To
Edith there was something familiar about that old build.
ing, with its handsome grounds, and she said aloud,
" I've surely dreamed of Sunnybank."
"Berry likely, Miss," answered Tom, thinking the remark addressed to him, inasmuch as Edith's head protruded from the window. " Dreams is mighty onsartin.
Git'long, you Bill, none o' yer lazy carlicues, case don't
yer mind thar's Mars'r Arthur on the v'randy, squinting
to see if I's fotched'em," and removing his old straw hat,
Tom swung it three times around his head, that being the
signal he was to give if Edith were in the carriage.
With an increased flush upon his brow, Arthur St.
Claire hastened down, pausing at an inner room while he
bent over and whispered to a young girl reclining on her
pillow,
"Nina, darling, Miggie's come."
There was a low cry of unutterable delight, and Nina
Bernard raised herself upon her elbow, looking wistfully
toward the door through which Arthur had disappeared.
"Be quiet, la petite Nina," said a short, thick woman,
who sat by the bed, apparently officiating in the capacity
of nurse; then, as the carriage stopped at the gate, she
glided to the window, muttering to herself, " Charmant




SUNNYBANK.                 277
charmant, magniJque," as she caught a full view of the
eager, sparkling face, turned toward the young man hastening down the walk. Then, with that native politeness
natural to her country, she moved away so as not to witness the interview.
"Arthur! "
"Edith!"
That was all they said, for Richard and Nina stood between them, a powerful preventive to the expression of
the great joy throbbing in the heart of each, as hand
grasped hand, and eye sought eye, fearfully, tremblingly,
lest too much should be betrayed.
"Miggie, Miggie, be quick," came from the room where
Nina was now standing up in bed, her white night dress
hanging loosely about her forehead and neck.
It needed but this to break the spell which bound the
two without, and dropping Edith'shand, Arthur conducted her to the house, meeting in the hall with Nina, who,
in spite of Mrs. Lamotte had jumped from her bed and
skipping across the floor, flung herself into Edith's arms,
sobbing frantically,
"You did come, precious Miggie, to see sick Nina,
didn't you, and you'll stay forever and ever, won't you,
my own sweet Miggie, and Arthur's too? Oh, joy, joy,
Nina's so happy to-night."
The voice grew very faint, the white lips ceased their
pressure of kisses upon Edith's - the golden head began
to droop, and Arthur took the fainting girl in his arms,
carrying her back to her bed, where he laid her gently
down, himself caring for her until she began to revive.
Meanwhile Edith was introduced to Mrs. Lamotte, a
French woman, who once was Nina's nurse, and who had
come to Sunnybank a few weeks before. Any one at all
interested in Nina was sure of a place in Edith's affections,
and she readily took Mrs. Lamotte's proffered hand, but
she was not prepared for the peculiarly Serious gaze fast



278          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
ened upon her, as Mlirs. Lamotte waved off Teeny, the
black girl, and taking her traveling bag and shawl, said to
her,
"This way, s'il vous plait, Mademoiselle Marguerite.
Pardonnez moi," she added quickly, as she met Edith's
questioning glance, "Mademoiselle Miggie, as lapetite
Nina calls you."
Once in Edith's room, Mrs. Lamotte did not seem in
haste to leave it, but continued talking in both English
and French to Edith, who, more than once, as the tones
fell upon her ear, turned quickly to see if it were not
some one she had met before.
" Je m'en irai, Mrs. Lamotte said at last, as she saw
that her presence was annoying Edith; and as the latter
offered no remonstrance, she left the room, and Edith was
alone with her confused thoughts.
Where was she? What room was this, with the deep
window seats, and that wide-mouthed fire-place? Who
was this woman that puzzled her so? Edith kept asking
herself these questions, but could find for them no satisfactory answer. Struggle as she might, she felt more like a
child returned to its home than like a stranger in a strange
land. Even the soft south wind, stealing through the
open casement, and fanning her feverish cheek, had something familiar in its breath, as if it had stolen in upon her
thus aforetime; and when across the fields, she heard the
negroes' song as they came homeward from their toil, she
laid her head upon the window sill, and wept for the
something which swept over her, something so sweet, so
sad, and yet so indescribable.
Fearing lest the Frenchwoman should return, she made
a hasty toilet, and then stole down to Nina, who, wholly
exhausted with the violence of her emotions at meeting
Edith, lay perfectly still upon her pillow, scarcely whiter
than her own childish face, round which a ray of the setting sun was shining, encircling it with a halo of glorious




SUNNYBANK.                 27 9
beauty, and making her look like an angel of purity and
love. She did not attempt to speak as Edith came in,
but her eyes smiled *-welcome, and her thin, wasted fingers
pointed to where Edith was to sit upon the bed beside
her. Arthur sat on the other side, holding one of Nina's
hands, and the other was given to Edith, who pressed it
to herlips, while her tears dropped upon it like rain. The
sight of them disturbed the sick girl, and shaking her
wealth of curls which, since Edith saw them, had grown
thick and long, she whispered,
"Don't, Miggie; tears are not for Nina; she's so glad,
for she is almost home. She'll go down to the river brink
with your arms and Arthur boy's around her. Precious
Miggie, nice Arthur. Nina is happy to-night."
Such were the disjointed sentences she kept whispering,
while her eyes turned from Edith to Arthur and from Arthur back to Edith, resting longer there, and the expression of the face told of the unutterable joy within. Softly the twilight shadows stole into the room, and the servants glided in and out, casting furtive and wondering
glances at Edith, who saw nothing save the clear blue
eyes shining upon her, even through the gathering darkness, and telling her of the love which could not be expressed.
As it grew darker Nina drew the two hands she clasped
together-Arthur's and Edith's - laid them one above the
other upon her bosom, pressed her own upon them, and when,
at last, the candles were brought in and placed upon the
table, Edith saw that the weary lids had closed and Nina
was asleep. Every effort, however, which she made to
disengage her hand from its rather embarrassing position,
threatened to arouse the sleeper, and for nearly half an
hour she sat there with her hand beneath Arthur's, but
she dared not look at him, and with her face turned away,
she answered his questions concerning Shannondale and
its inhabitants.




280          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
After a time Mrs. Lamotte came in and asked if mademoiselle would like to retire. Edith would far rather
have gone to her room alone, but Mrs. Lamotte seemed
bent upon hovering near her, and as there was no alternative she followed her up the stairs and into the chamber,
where she had lain aside her things. To her great relief
her companion did not stay longer than necessary, and
ere the entire household was still, Edith was dreaming of
Collingwood and Richard.
The next morning was bright, balmy, and beautiful, and
at an early hour Edith arose and went down to Nina, who
heard her step in the hall, and called to her to come.
"Darling Miggie, I dreamed you were gone," she said,
" and, I cried so hard that it woke Arthur up. He sleeps
here every night, on that wide lounge," and she pointed
toward a corner. "I've grown so silly that I won't let
any body else take care of me but Arthur boy - he does
it so nice and lifts me so carefully. Hasn't he grown pale
and thin?"
Edith hardly knew, for she had not ventured to look
fully at him, but she assumed that he had, and Nina continued: "He's a darling boy, and Nina loves him now."
"How is your head this morning," Edith asked, and
Nina replied, " It's better. It keeps growing better, some
days it's clear as a bell, but I don't like it so well, for I
know then that you ain't Miggie, -not the real Miggie
who was sent home in mother's coffin. We have a new
burying ground, one father selected long ago, the sweetest spot you ever saw, and they are moving the bodies
there now. They are going to take up my last mother,
and the little bit of Miggie to-day, and Marie is so flurried."
Arthur's step was now heard in the hall, and this it
was which so excited Edith that she failed to catch the
word Marie, or to understand that it was Mrs. Lamotte
who was worried about the removal of the bodies. In a




SUNNYBANK.                 281
moment Arthur appeared, bringing a delicate bouquet for
Nina, and a world of sunshine to Edith. He was changed,
Edith saw as she looked at him now, and yet she liked
his face better than before. He seemed to her like one
over whom the fire had passed, purifying as it burned,
and leaving a better metal than it had found. He was
wholly self-possessed this morning, greeting her as if the
scene in the Deering woods had never been enacted, and
she could hardly believe that they were the same, the
Arthur of one year ago, and the Arthur of to-day; the
quiet, elegant young man, who, with more than womanly
tenderness, pushed Nina's curls back under her lace cap,
kissed her forehead, and then asked Edith if she did not
look like a little nun with her hair so plain.
Nina liked to be caressed, and she smiled upon him a
smile so full of trusting faith and love, that Edith's eyes
filled with tears, and her rebellious heart went out toward
Arthur as it had never done before, inasmuch as she felt
that he was now far more worthy of her.
Very rapidly the morning passed away, and it was after
three o'clock P. M., when, as Arthur sat with Edith upon
the cool piazza, one of the negroes came running up, the
perspiration starting from every pore, and himself almost
frantic with excitement.
"What is it, Caesar? Arthur asked. " What has happened to you?"
"Nothing to me, Mars'r," returned the negro; "but
sumfin mighty curis happen over dar," and he pointed in
the direction where his comrades were busy removing the
family dead to a spot selected by Mr. Bernard years before as one more suitable than the present location. " You
see, we was histin' de box of the young Miss and de chile,
when Bill let go his holt, and I kinder let my hands slip
ofi when, Lor' bless you, the box busted open, an' we seen
the coffin spang in the face. Says Bill, says he — he's
allus a reasonin', you know - an', says he,' that's a mighty




282           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHIT.
narrer coffin for two;' and wid that, Mr. Berry, the overseer, Miss," turning to Edith, "He walked up, and findin'
de screws rattlin' and loose, just turned back de top piece,
an', as true as Caesar's standin' here, there wasn't no chile
thar; nothin''tall but the Miss, an' she didn't look no
how; never should have guessed them heap of bones had
ever been Miss Petry."
Edith started from her chair and was about to speak
when a hand was laid upon her wrist, and turning, she
saw Mrs. Lamotte standing behind her, and apparently
more excited than herself.
"Come with me," she said, leading the unresisting Edith
away, and leaving Arthur to follow Cvesar.
Of all the household at Sunnybank no one had been so
much interested in the removal of the bodies as Mrs. Lamotte, and yet her interest was all centered upon the
grave of Miggie Bernard's mother. When that was disturbed, she was watching from her window, and when the
accident occurred which revealed the fraud of years, she
hurried down and, with a cat-like tread, glided behind
Edith's chair where she stood while Ceesar told his story.
It would be impossible to describe Edith's feeling as
she followed the strange woman up to her own room, sitting down just where Mrs. Lamotte bade her sit, and
watching nervously'the restless rolling of the eyes, which
had no terror for her now, particularly after their owner
said to her in French,
"Do you know me, Edith Hastings, Eloise Temple,
Marguerite Bernard? Have we never met before?"
Like the rushing of some mighty, pent up flood the
past swept over her then, almost bearing her senses down
with the headlong tide; link after link was joined, until
the chain of evidence was complete, and with a sqream of
joy Edith went forward to the arms unfolded to receive
her.
"Marie, Marie!" she cried. "How is it? When was
it? Where was it? Am I anybody or not, tell me? "




SUNNYBANK.                 283
Then question followed question so rapidly that Marie,
with all her voluble French and broken English, was hardly able to keep up. But the whole was told at last;
everything was clear to Edith as the daylight, and tottering to the bed, she asked to be alone, while she wept and
prayed over this great joy, which had come so suddenly
upon her.
"Nina, Nina. I thank thee, oh, my Father, for sweet,
precious Nina."
That was all she could say, as with her face in the pillows, she lay until the sun went down, and night fell a
second time on Sunnybank.
"No one shall tell her but myself," she thought as she
descended to Nina's room, where Arthur was telling of
the discovery they had made -a discovery for which he
could not account, and about which the negroes, congregated together in knots, were talking, each offering his or
her own theory with regard to the matter, and never once
thinking to question Mrs. Lamotte, who, they knew, had
been with Mrs. Bernard when she died.
"Oh, Miggie!" Nina cried. ".Have you heard?,do
you know? Little Miggie isn't there where we thought
she was. She's gone. Nobody's there but my other
mother."
"Xes, I know," Edith answered, and laying her hand
on Arthur's she said, "Please, Mr. St Claire, go away
awhile. I must see Nina alone. Don't let anybody disturb us, will you? Go to Mrs. Lamotte. Ask her what I
mean. She can tell you. She told me."
Thus importuned, Arthur left the room, and Edith was
alone with Nina.




284          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SISTERS.
Oh, how Edith yearned to take that sweet young creature to her bosom, and concentrate in one wild, passionate
hug the love of so many wasted years; but Nina must
not be unduly startled if she would make her, comprehend what she had to tell, and conquering her own agitation with a wondrous effort she sat down upon the bed,
and said,
" How is my darling? Is her head all in a twist?"
Nina smiled, a rational, knowing smile, and answered,
" There wasn't the least bit of a twist in it till Arthur
told me about that in the graveyard, and then it began to
thump so loud, but with you sitting here, I'm better.
You do me so much good, Miggie. Your eyes keep me
quiet. Where do you suppose she is - the other Miggie;
and how did she get out of the coffin? "
"'Nina," said Edith, "can you understand me if I tell
you a story about a little girl who resembled your sister
Miggie?"
Nina liked stories, and though she would rather have
talked of the real Miggie, she expressed a willingness to
listen, and by the dim candle light Edith saw that the
blue eyes, fixed so intently upon her, still retained the
comparatively rational expression she had observed when
she first came in. Moving a little nearer to her, she began,
" A great many years ago, nearly eighteen, we will say,
a beautiful little girl, eight years old, I guess, with curls
like yours, waited one night in just suoh a house as this, for
her father, who had been long in Eurdpe, and who was to
bring her a new mother, and a dear baby sister, two years
old or thereabouts."




THE SISTERS.               285
"Didn't I wear my blue dress, trimmed with white? "
Nina asked suddenly, her mind seeming to have followed
Edith's, and grasped the meaning of what she heard.
"I dare say you did," Edith answered; "at all events
this little girl was very beautiful as she waited in the
twilight for the travellers."
"Call the little girl Nina, please, I'll get at it better
then," was the next interruption; and with a smile, Edith
said,
"Nina, then, waited till they came — her father, her
new mother Petrea, and -.  "
"Beautiful Petrea," Nina exclaimed, "la belle Petrea,
black hair like yours, Miggie, and voice like the soft notes
of the piano. She taught me a heap of tunes which I
never have forgotten, but tell me more of the black-eyed
baby, Nina's precious sister. I did hug and squeeze her
so -' la jolie elfant,' Marie called her."
Nina seemed to have taken the story away from Edith,
who, when she ceased speaking, again went on:
" Eloise Marguerite was the baby sister's name; Eloise,
for a proud aunt, who, after they came home, would not
suffer them to call her so, and she was known as Marguerite, which Nina shortened into Miggie, Nina darling," and
Edith spoke sadly now. "Was your father always kind
to Petrea? "
There was a look in Nina's face like a scared bird, and
raising her hands to her head, she said,
"Go away, old buzzing. Let Nina think what it was
they used to do - pa and grandma and aunt Eloise. I
know now; grandma and auntie were proud of the Bernard blood, they said, and they called Petrea vulgar, and
baby sister a brat; and pa- oh, Miggie, I reckon he was
naughty to the new mbther. He had a buzz in his head
most every night, not like mine, but a buzz that he got at
the dinner and the side-board, where they kept the bottles, and he struck her, I saw him, and Marie, she was




286          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
here, too, she stepped between them, and called him a
drunken, deceitful beast, and a heap more in French.
Then one morning when he was gone to New Orleans,
and would come home pretty soon, mother and Marie and
MIiggie went a visiting to Tallahassee, or somewhere, and
they never came back again, though pa went after them
as soon as he got home. Why didn't they, Miggie?"
" Petrea was very unhappy here," Edith answered.
"Mr. Bernard abused her, as did his haughty mother, and
once when he was gone Petrea said she would go to Tallahassee to see a lady who had visited her at Sunnybank.
So she went with Marie, and Miggie, then three years old,
but did not stop in Tallahassee. They ran away to New
York, where Marie's sister lived. Here Petrea was taken
sick and died, making Marie promise that Miggie should
never go back to her bad father and his proud family.
And Marie, who hated them bitterly, all but Nina, kept
her word. She wrote to Sunnybank that both were dead,
and the letter was forwarded by your grandmother to
Mr. Bernard, who had gone after his wife, but who lay
drunk many days at a hotel. The letter sobered him, and
as it contained Marie's address, he found her at last, crying bitterly for little Miggie, up stairs asleep, but he
thought her in the coffin with her mother. Marie said so
and he believed her, bringing the bodies back to Sunnybank,
and burying them beneath the magnolias."
"And built a great marble there with both their
names cut on it," chimed in Nina, fearful lest any part of
the story should be omitted.
"Yes," returned Edith, "he raised a costly monument
to their memory; but don't you wish to know what became of Miggie?"
"Yes, yes, oh, yes, go on," was Nina's answer; and
Edith continued,
"Marie was too poor to take care of Miggie, and she
put her in the Asylum."




TIHE SISTERS.              287
"The Asylum!" Nina fairly screamed. "Nina's baby
sister in the nasty old Asylum. No, no, it ain't. I won't,
I shan't listen to the naughty story," and the excited girl
covered her head with a pillow.
But Edith removed it gently, and with a few loving
words quieted the little lady, who said again, "Go on."
" It was the Orphan Asylum, where Nina's sister was
put, but they didn't call her Miggie. Her dying mother
gave her another name lest the father should some time
find her, and there in that great noisy city Miggie lived
five or six long years, gradually forgetting everything in
the past, everything but Marie's name and the airs her
mother used to sing. Miggie had a taste for music, and
she retained the plaintive strains sung to her as lullabys."
" I know them, too," Nina said, beginning to hum one,
while Edith continued,
"After a time Marie went back to France. She did
not mean to stay long, but she was attacked with a lingering, painful sickness, and could not return to Miggie,
whom a beautiful lady took at last as her waiting-maid.
Then Arthur came - Arthur, a boy - and she saw Nina's
picture."
" The one in the locket! Nina asked, and Edith answered, "Yes,'twas in a locket, and it puzzled Miggie till she
spoke the name, but thought it was Arthur who told her."
"Wait, wait," cried Nina, suddenly striking her forehead a heavy blow; "I'm getting all mixed up, and something flashes across my brain like lightning. I reckon
it's a streak of sense. It feels like it."
Nina was right. It was "a streak of sense," and when
Edith again resumed her story the crazy girl was very
calm and quiet.
"After a time this Miggie went to live with a blind
man —with Richard," and Edith's hands closed tightly
around the snowy fingers, which crept so quickly toward
her. "She grew to be a woman. She met this golden



288           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
haired Nina, but did not know her, though Nina called
her Miggie always, because she looked like Petrea, and the
sound to Miggie was very sweet, like music heard long
ago. They loved each other dearly, and to Miggie there
was nothing in the whole world so beautiful, so precious,
as poor little crazy Nina, Arthur' Nina, Dr. Griswold's
Nina.'Snow-Drop,' Richard called her. You remember Richard, darling?"
"Yes, yes, I remember everything," and Nina's chest
began to heave, her chin to quiver, her white lips, too, but
still she shed no tear, and the dry, blue eyes seemed
piercing Edith's very soul as the latter continued, rapidly,
"Nina came home to Florida; she sent for Miggie, and
Miggie came, finding Marie who told her all —told her
where the baby was —and the real Miggie fell on her
face, thanking the good Father for giving her the sweetest,
dearest sister a mortalever had. Do you understand me,
darling? Do you know now who I am- know who
Miggie is? "
Edith's voice began to falter, and when she had finished
she sat gazing at the fairy form, which trembled and
writhed a moment as if in fearful convulsions, then the
struggling ceased, the features became composed, and
raising herself in bed Nina crept closer and closer to
Edith, her lips quivering as if she fain would speak but
had not the power. Slowly the little hands were raised
and met together around Edith's neck; nearer and nearer
the white face came to the dark glowing one, until
breath met breath, lip met lip, golden tresses mixed with
raven braids, and with a cry which made the very rafters
ring and went echoing far out into the darkness, Nina
said, "You are —that - that —ba-baby -the one we
thought was dead. You are my — my- Nina's - oh,
Miggie, say it for me or Nina'll choke to death. She can't
think what the right word is — the word that means.Miggie," and poor exhausted Nina fell back upon the pil



THE SISTERS.                289
low, while Edith, bending over her, whispered in her ear,
"MBiggie means sister, darling; your sister; do you
hear'?"
"Yes, yes," and again the wild, glad cry went ringing
through the house, as Nina threw herself a second time
on Edith's bosom. "Sister, sister, Nina's sister. Nina's
little MIiggie once, great tall Miggie now,- mine, my own
— nobody's sister but mine. Does Arthur know. Ho,
Arthur! come quick! He is coming, don't you hear him.
Arthur, Arthur, Miggie is mine. My precious sister," and
Nina Bernard fell back fainting just as Arthur appeared
in the room, and just as from the yard without there
went up from the congregated blacks, who together with
their master and Victor, had listened to Marie's story,
a deafening shout, a loud huzza for "Miggie Bernard,"
come back to Sunnybank, and back to those who generously
admitted her claim, and would ere long acknowledge her
as their mistress.
The few particulars which Edith had omitted in her
story to Nina may, perhaps, be better told now than at
any other time. Mr. Bernard, while in Paris, had been
implicated in some disgraceful affair which rendered him
liable to arrest, and taking the name of Temple, by way
of avoiding suspicion, he fled to Germany, where he met
and married the beautiful Swedish Petrea, who, being
young and weary of a governess's life, was the more easi
ly charmed with his wealth and rather gentlemanly
address. Because it suited his peculiar nature to do so,
he kept his real name from her until they reached New
York, when, fearful of meeting with some of his acquaintances there, he confessed the fraud, laughing at it as a
good joke, and pronounced Petrea over nice for saying he
had done wrong.
The year which followed their arrival at Sunnybank
was a year of wretchedness and pining home-sickness on
the part of both mistress and maid, until at last the for13




290          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
mer, with her love for her husband changed to hate, determined to leave him; and in his absence, planned the
visit to Tallahassee, going instead to New York, where she
died at the house of Mrs. Jamieson, Marie's sister. Even
to the last the dread of her hated husband prevailed, and
she made Marie swear that her child should not go back
to him.
"She will be happier to be poor," she said, "and I
would rather far that not a cent of the Bernard property
should ever come into her possession than that she should
return to Sunnybank; but sometime, Marie, when she is
older, you may tell her my sad story, and if he has become a better man, tell her who she is, and of the brighthaired Nina. They will love each other, I am sure, for
Nina possesses nothing in common with her father, and
lest she should think ill of me for having married him,
tell her how young, how inexperienced I was, and how
he deceived me, withholding even his real namle."
This was the point on which Petrea dwelt the most,
shrinkirig, with a kind of pride, firom having it generally
known, and persisting in calling herself Temple to Mrs.
Jamieson, who supposed this to be her real name, inasmuch as Marie had called her so on the occasion of her
first visit after landing in New York the year previous,
and before the deception had been confessed.
"Don't undeceive her," Petrea said to Marie, who did
her mistress's bidding; and as Mrs. Jamieson was sick
when Mr. Bernard came, she did not see him, and was
thus effectually kept in ignorance that Edith's real name
was Marguerite Bernard, else she had divulged it to Richard, when in after years he came inquiring for her parentage.
The rest the reader knows, except, indeed, how Marie
came to Sunnybank a second time, and why she had so
long neglected Edith. She was with her mistress in Germany when Richard saved the child from drowning. She




THE SISTERS.                291
never forgot him, and when from her sister she learned
that Edith was with him, she felt that interference on her
part was unnecessary. So even after recovering from her
illness she deferred returning to America, marrying, at
last, and living in an humble way in Paris, where she
more than once saw Mr. Bernard in the streets, when he
was there with Nina. So many years had elapsed since
his first visit that he had no fears of arrest, and openly appeared in public, recognized by none save Marie, who never could forget him. Her husband's sudden death determined her upon coming to America and looking up her
child. The vessel in which she sailed was bound for New
Orleans, and, with a desire to visit Sunnybank once more,
she first wended her way thither, expecting to find it inhabited by strangers; for, from an American paper, which
accidentally fell into her hands, she had heard of Mr. Bernard's decease, and later still had heard from one who was
Nina's waiting maid while in Paris, that she, too, was
dead.  How  this information was obtained she did
not know, but believing it to be authentic, she supposed
strangers, of course, were now the tenants of Sunnybank;
and anticipated much pleasure in restoring to the so-called
Edith Hastings her rightful heritage. Great then was
her surprise to find'Nina living, and when she heard that
Edith was soon expected in Florida, she determined to
await her coming.
This was the story she told to Edith and also to the negroes, many of whom remembered their unfortunate young
mistress and her beautiful baby Miggie still; but for the
missing body they might have doubted Marie's word, but
that was proof conclusive, and their loud hurrahs for Miss
Miggie Bernard were repeated until Nina came back to
consciousness, smiling as she heard the cry and remembered what it meant.
"Go to them —let them  see you, darling," she said;
and, with Arthur as her escort, Edith went out into the




292          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
midst of the sable group, who crowded around her, with
blessings, prayers, tears and howlings indescribable, while
many a hard, black hand grasped hers, as negro after
negro called her "mistress," adding some word of praise,
which showed how proud they were of this beautiful,
queenly scion of the Bernard stock, which they had feared
would perish with Nina. Now they would be kept
together - they would not be scattered to the four winds,
and one old negro fell on his knees, kissing Edith's dress,
and crying,
"Cato bresses you for lettin' his bones rot on de ole
plantation."
Edith was perplexed, for to her the discovery had only
brought sweet images of sistership with Nina. Money
and lands formed no part of her thoughts, and turning to
Arthur she asked what it all meant.
Arthur did not reply at once, for he knew he held that
which would effectually take away all right from Edith.
After Nina he was Mr. Bernard's chosen heir, but not for
an instant did he waver in the course he should pursue,
and when the interview was ended with the negroes, and
Edith was again with Nina, he excused himself for a moment, but soon returned, bearing in his hand Mr. Bernard's will, which he bade Edith read.
And she did read it, feeling intuitively as if her father
from the grave were speaking to her, the injured Petrea's
child, and virtually casting her aside.
The tears gathered slowly in her eyes, dropping one by
one upon the paper, which without a word she handed
back to Arthur.
"What is it, Arthur boy? " Nina asked. "What is it
that makes Miggie cry?"
Arthur doubted whether either of the girls would understand him if he entered into an explanation involving
many technical terms, but he would do the best he could,
and sitting down by Nina, he held her upon his bosom,




THE SISTERS.                293
while he said, "Does my little girl remember the time
when I met her in Boston, years ago, and Charlie Hudson
brought me papers from her father?"
"Yes," answered Nina; "there was one that had in it
something about straight jackets, and when I read it, I
hit my head against the bureau. It's never been quite
right since. Is this the letter that made Miggie cry? "
"No," returned Arthur. "This is your father's will,
made when he thought there was no Miggie. In it, I am
his heir after you, and Miggie hasn't a cent."
"You may have mine, Miggie. Nina'll give you hers,
she will," and the little maiden made a movement toward
Edith, while Arthur continued,
"You can't, darling. It's mine after you;" and this he
said, not to inflict fresh pain on Edith, but to try Nina,
and hear what she would say.
There was a perplexed, troubled look in her eyes, and
then, drawing his head close to her, she whispered,
" Couldn't you scratch it out, just as Richard did, only
he didn't. That's a good boy. He will, Miggie," and she
nodded toward Edith, while Arthur rejoined,
"Would it please my child-wife very much to have me
scratch it out? "
He had never called her thus before Edith until now, and
he stole a glance at her to witness the effect. For an instant
she was white as marble; then the hot blood seemed bursting from the small round spot where it had settled in her
cheeks, and involuntarily she extended her hand toward
him in token of her approval. She could not have reassured him better than by this simple act, and still retaining
her hand, he went on,
" When I came to Florida, after Mr. Bernard's death,
my first step was to have the will proved, and consequently this sheet is now of very little consequence; but as
you both will, undoubtedly, breathe more freely if every
vestige of this writing is removed, I will destroy it at




294           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
once, and, as soon as possible, take the legal steps for reinstatinc Edith."
Then releasing Edith's hand, Arthur took the candle
from the stand, and said to Nina,
"HIave you strength to hold it?"." Yes, yes," she cried, grasping it eagerly, while, with a
hand far steadier than hers, Arthur held the parchment in
the flame, watching as the scorched, brown flakes dropped
upon the floor, nor sending a single regret after the immense fortune he was givinc ulp.
It was done at last. The will lay crisped and blackened upon the carpet; Edith, in her own estimation was
reinstated in her rights, and then, as if demanding something for the sacrifice, Arthur turned playfully to her, and
winding his arm around her said,
" Kiss me once as a sister, for such you are, and once for
givinc you back your inheritance."
The kisses Arthur craved were given, and need we say
returned! Alas, those kisses! How they burned on
Edith's lips, making her so happy — and how they blistered on Arthur's heart, making him doubt the propriety
of having given or received them. His was the braver
spirit now. He had buffeted the billow with a mightier
struggle than Edith had ever known. Around his head a
blacker, fiercer storm had blown than any she had ever
felt, and from out that tumultuous sea of despair he had
come a firmer, a better man, with strength to bear the
burden imposed upon him. Were it not so he would never have sent for Edith Hastings - never lhave perilled his
soul by putting himself a second time under her daily influence..But he felt that there was that within him which
would make him choose the right, make him cling to Nina, and so he wrote to Edith, meeting her when she came
as firiend meets friend, and continually thanking Heaven
which enabled him to hide from every one the festered
wound, which at the sound of her familiar voice smarted




THE SISTERS.                295
and burned, and throbbed until his soul was sick and faint
with pain.
The discovery of Edith's parentage filled him with joy
-joy for Nina, and joy because an opportunity was thus
afforded him of doing an act unselfish to the last degree,
for never for a single moment did the thought force itself
upon him that possibly Edith might yet be his, and so the
property come back to him again. He had given her up,
surrendered her entirely, and Richard's interests were as
safe with him as his gold and silver could have been.
Much he wished he knew exactly the nature of her feelings toward her betrothed, but he would not so much as
question Victor, who, while noticing his calmness and selfpossession, marvelled greatly, wondering the while if it
were possible that Arthur's love were really all bestowed
on Nina. It would seem so, from the constancy with
which he hung over her pillow, doing for her the thousand tender offices, which none but a devoted husband
could do, never complaining, never tiring even when she
taxed his good nature to its utmost limit, growing sometimes so unreasonable and peevish that even Edith wondered at his forbearance.
It was a whim of Edith's not to write to Richard of
her newly-found relationship. She would rather tell it to
him herself, she said, and in her first letter, she merely
mentioned the incidents of her journey, saying she reached
Sunnybank in safety, that Nina was no better, that Mr.
St. Claire was very kind, and Victor very homesick, while
she should enjoy herself quite well, were it not that she
knew he was so lonely without her. And this was the
letter for which Richard waited so anxiously, feeling when
it came almost as if he had not had any, and still exonerating his singing bird firom blame, by saying that she could
not write lovingly to him so long as she knew that Mrs.
Matson must be the interpreter between them.
It was an odd-looking missive which he sent back, and




296          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Edith's heart ached to its very core as she saw the uneven handwriting, which went up and down, the lines
running into and over each other, now diagonally, now at
right angles, and again darting off in an opposite direction
as he held his pencil a moment in his fingers and then
began again. Still she managed to decipher it, and did
not lose a single word of the message intended for Nina.
"Tell little Snowdrop the blind man sends her his blessing and his love, thinking of her often as he sits here
alone these gloomy autumn nights, no Edith, no Nina,
nothing but lonesome darkness. Tell her that he prays
she may get well again, or if she does not, that she may
be one of the bright angels which make the fields of Jordan so beautiful and fair."
This letter Edith took to Nina one day, when Arthur
and Victor had gone to Tallahassee, and Mrs. Lamotte
was too busy with her own matters to interrupt them.
Nina had not heard of the engagement, for Arthur could
not tell her, and Edith shrank from the task as from something disagreeable. Still she had a strong desire for Nina to know how irrevocably she was bound to another,
hoping thus to prevent the unpleasant allusions frequently made to herself and Arthur. The excitement of finding a sister in Miggie, had ill a measure overturned Nina's
reason again, and for many days after the disclosure she
was more than usually wild, talking at random of the most
absurd things, but never for a moment losing sight of the
fact that Edith'was her sister. This seemed to be the one
single clear point from which her confused ideas radiated,
and the love she bore her sister was strong enough to
clear away the tangled web of thought arid bring her at
last to a calmer, more natural state of mind. There were
hours in which no one would suspect her of insanity, save
that as she talked childish, and even meaningless expressions
were mingled with what she said, showing that the woof
of her intellect was defective still, and in such a condition as




THE SISTERS.                297
this Edith found her that day when-, with Richard's letter
in her hand, she seated herself upon the foot of the bed
and said, " I heard from Richard last night. You remember him, darling?"
"Yes, he made me Arthur's wife; but I wish he hadn't,
for then you would not look so white and sorry."
" Never mind that," returned Edith, " but listen to the
message he sent his little Snowdrop," and she read what
Richard had written to Nina.
"I wish I could be one of those bright angels," Nina said,
mournfully, when Edith finished reading; "but, Miggie,
Nina's so bad. I can think about it this morning, for the
buzzing in my head is very faint, and I don't get things
much twisted, I reckon. I've been bad to Arthur a heap
of times, and he was never anything but kind to me. I
never saw a frown on his face or heard an imp atient word,
only that sorry look, and that voice so sad."
"Don't, Nina, don't.
" Even Dr. Griswold was not patient as Arthur. He was
quicker like, and his face would grow so red. He used to
shake me hard, and once he raised his hand, but Arthur
caught it quick and said' No, Griswold, not that -not strike
Nina,' and I was tearing Arthur's hair out by handfuls,
too. That's when I bit him. I told you once." 
"Yes, I know," Edith replied; "but I wish to talk of
something besides Arthur, now. Are you sure you can
understand me? "
" Yes, it only buzzed like a honey-bee, right in here," and
Nina touched the top of her head, while Edith continued.
" Did Arthur ever tell you who it was that fell into the
Rhine?"
" Yes, Mrs. Atherton wrote, and I cried so hard, but he
did not say your name was Eloise, or I should have guessed
you were Miggie, crazy as I am."
" Possibly Grace did not so write to him," returned Edith;
"but let me tell you of Edith Hastings as she used to be




298           DARKNE SS AND DAYLIGHT.
when a child; " and with the blue eyes of Nina fixed upon
her, Edith narrated that portion of her history already
known to the reader, dwelling long upon Richard's goodness, and thus seeking to prepare her sister for the last, the
most important part of all.
"After Arthur deceived me so," she said, "I thought nmy
heart would never cease to ache, and it never has."
" But it will - it will," cried Nina, raising herself in bed.
" When I'm gone, it will all come right. I pray so every
day, though it's hard to do it sometimes now I know you
are my sister. It would be so nice to live with you and
Arthur, and I love you so much. You can't begin to
know," and the impulsive girl fell forward on Edith's
bosom sobbing impetuously, "I love you so much, so
much, that itnlakes it harder to die; but I must, and when
the little snow-birds come back to the rose bushes beneath
the windows of Grassy Spring a great ways off, the hands
that used to feed them with crumbs will be laid away where
they'll never tear Arthur boy's hair any more. Oh, I wish
they never had - I wish they never had," and sob after sob
shook Nina's delicate firame as she gave vent to her sorrow
for the trial she had been to Arthur.
Edith attempted to comfort her by saying, "He has
surely forgiven you, darling; and Nina, please don't talk so
much of dying. Arthur and I both hope you will live yet
many years."
"Yes, Arthur does," Nina rejoined quickly. "I heard
him praying so one night when he thought I was asleep -
I make believe half of the time, so as to hear what he says
when he kneels down over in that corner; and once, Miggie, a great while ago, it was nothing but one dreadful
groan, except when he said,'God help me in this my
darkest hour, and give me strength to drink thTs cup.'
But there wasn't any cup there for I peeked, thinking maybe
he'd got some of my nasty medicine, and it wasn't dark, either, for there were two candles on the mantel and they




THE SISTERS.                299
shone on Arthur's face,which looked to me as if it were a
thousand years old. Then he whispered,'Edith, Edith,'
and the sound was so like a wail that I felt my blood growing cold. Didn't you hear him, Miggie, way off to the
north; didn't you hear him call? God did, and helped him,
I reckon, for he got up and came and bent over me, kissing
me so much, and whispering,' My wife, my Nina.' It was
sweet to be so kissed, and I fell away to sleep; but Arthur
must have knelt beside me the livelong night, for every
time I moved I felt his hand clasp mine. The next day
he told me that Richard saved you from the river, and his
lips quivered as if he feared you were really lost."
Alas! Nina had come nearer the truth than she supposed,
and Edith involuntarily echoed her oft-repeated -words,
" Poor Arthur," for she knew now what had preceded that
cry of more than mortal anguish which Arthur sent to
Grace after hearing first of the engagement.
"Nina," she said, after a moment's silence, "before that
time of which you speak, there came a night of grief to
me - a night when I wished that I might die, because
Richard asked me to be his wife - me, who looked upon
him as my father rather than a husband. I can't tell you
what he said to me, but it was very touching, very sad,
and my heart ached so much for the poor blind man."
" But you didn't tell him  yes," interrupted Nina.
" You couldn't. You didn't love him. It's wicked to act
a lie Miggie - as wicked as'tis to tell one. Say you told
him no; it chokes me just to think of it."
"Nina," and Edith's voice was low and earnest in its
tone, "I thought about it four whole weeks and at last I
went to Richard and said,' Iwill be your wife.' I have
never taken it back. I am engaged to him, and I shall
keep my word. Were it- not that you senL for me I
should have been his bride ere this. I shall be hl',rlide
on New Year's night."
Edith spoke rapidly, as if anxious to have the task com



300           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
pleted, and when at last it was done, she felt that her
strength was leaving her, so great had been the effort with
which she told her story to Nina. Gradually as she
talked Nina had crept away from her, and sitting upright
in bed, stared at her fixedly, her face-for once putting on
the mature dignity of her years, and seeming older than
Edith's. Then the clear-minded, rational Nina spoke out,
"Miggie Bernard, were you ten thousand times engaged
to Richard, it shall not be. You must not stain your soul
with a perjured vow, and you Would, were this sacrifice
to be. Your lips would say'I love,' but your heart
would belie the words, and God's curse will rest upon
you if you do Richard this cruel wrong. He does not
deserve that you should deal so treacherously with him,
and Miggie, I would far rather you were lying in the
grave-yard over yonder, than to do this great wickedness.
You must not, you shall not," and in the eyes of violet
blue there was an expression beneath which the stronger
eyes of black quailed as they had done once before, when
delirium had set its mark upon them.
It was in vain that Edith persisted in saying she did, or
at least should love Richard as he deserved.  Nina was
not to be convinced, and at last, in self-defence, Edith broke
out bitterly against Arthur as the immediate cause of her
sufferings. Had he not been faithless to his marriage
vow, and might she not keep hers quite as well as he
kept his.
Nina was very white, and the swollen veins stood out
full upon her forehead as she lay panting on her pillow,
but the eyes never for an instant left Edith's, as she
replied, " Arthur was in fault, Miggie, greatly in fault, but
there was much to excuse his error. He was so young;
not as old as you, Miggie, and Sarah Warren urged us on.
I knew  afterward why she did it, too.  She is dead
now, and I would not speak against her were it not
necessary, but, Miggie, she wanted Dr. Griswold, and she




THE SISTERS.               301
fancied he liked me, so she would remove me from her
path; and she did. She worked upon my love of the
romantic, and Arthur's impulsive nature, until she persuaded us to run away. While we were on the road,
Arthur whispered to me,' Let's go back,' but I said,' No,'
while Sarah, who overheard him, sneered at him as cowardly, and we went on. Then father took me off to Paris,
and I dared not tell him, he was so dreadful when he was
angry; and then I loved Charlie Hudson, and loved him
the more because I knew I musn't."
The mature expression was passing rapidly from Nina's
face, and the child-like one returning in its stead as she
continued,
" I couldn't bear to think of Arthur, and before I came
home I determined never to tive with him as his wife.
I didn't know then about this buzzing in my head, and
the first thing I did when alone with him at the Revere
House was to go down on my knees and beg of him not
to make me keep my vow. I told him I loved Charlie
best, and he talked so good to me - said maybe I'd get
over it, and all that. Then he read pa's letter, which
told what I would some time be, and he didn't ask me
after that to live with him, but when he came from
Florida and found me so dreadful, he put his arms around
me, loving-like, and cried, while I raved like a fury and
snapped at him like a dog. You see the buzzing was like
a great noisy factory then, and Nina didn't know what
she was doing, she hated him so, and the more he tried
to please her the more she hated him. Then, when I
came to my senses enough to think I did not want our
marriage known, I made him promise not to tell, in
Florida or any where, so he didn't, and the weary years
wore on with people thinking I was his ward. Dr. Griswold was always kind and good, but not quite as patient
and woman-like as Arthur. It seemed as if he had a different feeling toward me, and required more of me, for he




302          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
was not as gentle when I tore as Arthur was. I was terribly afraid of him, though, and after a while he did me
good. The buzzing wasn't bigger than a mill-wheel, and
it creaked just as a big wheel does when there is no water to carry it. It was crying that I wanted. I had not'
wept in three years, but the sight of you touched a spring
somewhere and the waters poured like a flood, turning the
wheel without that grating noise that used to drive me
mad, and after that I never tore but once. He didn't tell
you, because I asked him not, but I scratched hinm, struck
Phillis, burned up his best coat, broke the mirror, and oh,
you don't know how I did cut up! Then the pain went
away and has never come back like that. Sometimes I
can see that it was wrong for him to love you, and then
again I can't, but if it was he has repented so bitterly of
it since. He would not do it now. He needn't have told
you, either, for everybody was dead, and it never would
have come back to me if he hadn't said it in the Deering
Woods. Don't you see?"
"Yes, I see," cried Edith, her tears dropping fast into
her lap. "I see that I tempted him to sin. Oh, Arthur,
I am most to blame- most to blame."
"'And you will give up Richard, won't you?" Nina
said. " Arthur is just as good, just as noble, just as true,
and better too, it may be, for he has passed through -a
fiercer fire than Richard ever did. Will you give up
Richard 9?"
"I can't," and Edith shook her head. "The chords by
which he holds me are like bands of steel, and cannot be
sundered. I promised solemnly that by no word or deed
would I seek to break our engagement, and I dare not.
I should not be happy if I did."
And this was all Nina could wring from her, although
she labored for many hours, sometimes rationally, sometimes otherwise, but always with an earnest simplicity
which showed how pure were her motives, and how great
her love for Edith.




ARTHUR AND NINA.               803
CHAPTER XXX.
ARTHUR AND NINA.
It was rather late in the evening when Arthur returned,
looking more than usually pale and weary, and.still there
was about him an air of playful pleasantry, such as there
used to be, when Edith first knew him. During the long
ride to Tallahassee, Victor, either from accident or design,
touched upon the expected marriage of his master, and
although Arthur would not ask a single question, he was
a deeply-interested auditor, and listened intently, while
Victor told him much which had transpired between himself and Edith, saying that unless some influence stronger
than any he or Grace could exert were thrown aroun'l
her, she would keep her vow to Richard, even though she
died in keeping it.
" Girls like Edith Hastings do not die easily," was Arthur's only comment, and Victor half wished he had kept
his own counsel and never attempted to meddle in a love
affair.
But if Arthur said nothing, he thought the more, and
the warfare within was not the less severe, because his
face was so unruffled and his manner so composed.
Thought, intense and almost bewildering, was busy at
work, and ere the day was done, he had resolved that he
would help Edith if all else forsook her. He would not
throw one single obstacle across her pathway. He would
make the sacrifice easier for her, even if to do it, he suffered her to think that his own love had waned. Nothing
could more effectually cure her, and believing that she
mnight be happy with Richard if she did not love another,
he determined to measure every word and act so as to
impress her with the conviction that though she was dear




304          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
to him as a sister and friend, he had struggled with his
affection for her and overcome it. It would be a living
death to do this, he knew- to act so contrary to what he
felt, but it was meet that he should suffer, and when at
last he was left alone- when both were lost to him forever -Edith and his child-wife Nina, he would go away
across the sea, and lose, if possible, in foreign lands, all
remembrance of the past. And this it was that made
him seem so cheerful when he came in that night, calling
Edith "little sister," winding his arm around Nina, kissing her white face, asking if she had missed him any, if
she were glad to have him back, and how she and Miggie
had busied themselves during the day.
" We talked of you, Arthur, and of Richard," Nina said.
"Miggie has promised to marry him! Did you know
it?"
" Yes, I know it, was Arthur's reply; " and there is no
person in the world to whom I would sooner give her than
to Richard, for I know he will leave nothing undone to
make her happy."
There was no tremor in Arthur's voice, and Nina little
guessed how much it cost him thus to speak, with Edith
sitting near. Looking up into his face with a startled, perplexed expression, she said, " I did not expect this, Arthur
boy. I thought you loved Miggie."
"Nina, please don't," and Edith spoke entreatingly, but
Nina answered pettishly, "I ain't going to please, for
everything has got upside down. It's all going wrong, and
it won't make a speck of difference, as I see, whether I
die or not."
" I think I'd try to live then," Arthur said, laughingly,
while Edith hailed the appearance of Marie as something
which would put a restraint upon Nina.
It had been arranged that Edith should take Arthur's
place in the sick room that night, but Nina suddenly
changed her mind, insisting that Arthur should sleep there
as usual.




ARTHUR AND NINA.              305
"There's a heap of things I must tell you," she whispered
to him; "and my head is clearer when it's darker and the
candles are on the stand."
So Edith retired to her own room, and after a time Arthur was alone with Nina. He was very tired, but at her
request he sat down beside her, where she could look into
his face and see, as she said, if he answered her for true.
At first it was of herself she spoke - herself, as she used
to be.
"I remember so well," she said " when you called me
your Florida rose, and asked for one of my curls. That
was long ago, and there have been years of darkness since,
but the clouds are breaking now - daylight is coming up,
or rather Nina is going out into the daylight, where there
is no more buzzing, no more headache. Will I be crazy in
Heaven, think?"
"No, darling, no," and Arthur changed his seat from
the chair to the bed, where he could be nearer to the little
girl, who continued,
" I've thought these many weeks how good you've been
to me -how happy you have made my last days, while I
have been so bad to you, but you musn't remember it
against me, Arthur boy,-vhen I'm dead and there isn't any
naughty Nina anywhere, neither at the Asylum, nor Grassy
Spring, nor here in bed, nothing but a teenty grave, out in
the yard, with the flowers growing on it, I say you must
not remember the wicked things I've done, for it wasn't
the Nina who talks to you now. It was the buzzing Nina
who tore your hair, and scratched your face, and bit your
arm. Oh, Arthur, Nina's so sorry now; but you musn't
lay it up against me."
" No, my darling, God forbid that I, who have wronged
you so terribly, should remember aught against you," and
Arthur kissed the slender hands which had done him so
much mischief.
They were harmless now, those little waxen hands, and
they caressed Arthur's face and hair as Nina went on.




306           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
" Arthur boy, there's one question I must ask you, now
there's nobody to hear, and you will tell me truly. Do
you love me any - love me differently from what you did
when I was in the Asylum, and if the buzzing all was gone,
and never could come back, would you really make me
your wife just as other husbands do - would you let me
sit upon your knee, and not wish it was some one else, and
in the night when you woke up and felt me close to you
would you be glad thinking it was Nina? And when you
had been on a great long journey, and were coming home,
would the smoke from the chimney look handsomer to you
because you knew it was Nina waiting for you by the
hearth-stone, and keeping up the fire? Don't tell me a
falsehood, for I'll forgive you, if you answer no."
"Yes, Nina, yes. I would gladly take you as my wife
if it could be. My broken lily is very precious to me
now, far more so than she used to be. The right love for
her began to grow the moment I confessed she was my
wife, and when she's gone, Arthur will be so lonely."
" Will you, Arthur boy? Will you, as true as you live
and breathe, miss poor, buzzing Nina? Oh, I'm so glad, so
glad," and the great tears dimmed the brightness of the
blue eyes, which looked up so confidingly at Arthur. I,
too, have loved you a heap; not exactly as I loved Charlie
Hudson, I reckon, but the knowing you are my husband,
makes Nina feel kind of nice, and I want you to love me
some  miss me some - mourn for me some, and then,
Arthur, Nina wants you to marry Miggie. There is no
buzzing; no twist in her head. It will rest as quietly on
your bosom where mine has never lain, not as hers will,
I mean, and you both will be so happy at last - happy in
knowing that Nina has gone out into the: eternal daylight,
where she would rather be. You'll' do it, Arthur; she
must not marry Richard, and you must speak to her quick,
before she goes home, so as to stop it, for New Year's is
the time. Will you, Arthur?"




ARTHUR AND NTMA.               307
There was an instant of silence in the room- Nina
waiting for Arthur to speak, and Arthur mustering all his
strength to answer her as he felt he must.
"My darling," laying his face down upon her neck
among her yellow curls, "I shall never call another by the
dear name I call you now, my wife."
" Oh, Arthur," and Nina's cheeks flushed with indignant
surprise, that he, too, should prove refractory. Everything
indeed, was getting upside down. "Why not? " she asked.
" Don't you love Miggie? "
"Yes, very, very dearly! but it is too much to hope
that she will ever be mine. I do not deserve it. You
ask me my forgiveness, Nina. Alas! alas! I have tenfold
more need of yours. It did not matter that we both
wearied of our marriage vows, made when we were children -did not matter that you are crazy - I had no right
to love another.
"But you have paid for it all a thousand times! " interrupted Nina. You are a better Arthur than you were
before, and Nina never could see the wrong in your preferring beautiful, sensible Miggie, to crazy, scratching, biting, teasing Nina, even if Richard had said over a few
words, of which neither of us understood the meaning, or
what it involved, this taking for better or worse. It surely cannot be wrong to marry Miggie when I'm gone, and
you will, Arthur, you will!"
"No, Nina, no! I should be adding sin to sin did I seek
to change her decision, and so wrong the noble Richard.
His is the first, best claim. I will not interfere. Miggie
mustkeep her word uninfluenced by me. I shall not raise
my voice against it."
"Oh, Arthur, Arthur! " Nina cried, clasping her hands
together; "Miggie does not love him, and you surely know
the misery of a marriage without love. It must not be!
It shall not be! You can save 5Miggie, and you must!"
Every word was fainter than the preceding, and, when the




308          DARKN1ESS AND DAYLIGHT.
last was uttered, Nina's head dropped from Arthur's shoulder to the pillow, and he saw a pinkish stream issuing from
her lips. A small blood vessel had been ruptured, and
Arthur, who knew the danger, laid his hand upon her
mouth as he saw her about to speak, bidding her be quiet
if she would not die at once.
Death, however long and even anxiously expected is unwelcome at the last, and Nina shrank from its near approach, laying very still, while Arthur summoned aid. Only
once she spoke, and then she whispered, "Miggie," thus
intimating that she would have her called. In much alarm
Edith came, trembling when she saw the fearful change
which had passed over Nina, whose blue eyes followed
her movements intently, turning often from her to Arthur
as if they fain would utter what was in her mind. But
not then was Nina St. Claire to die. Many days and nights
were yet appointed her, and Arthur and Edith watched
her with the tenderest care; only these two, for so Nina
would have it. Holding their hands in hers she would
gaze from one to the other with a wistful, pleading look,
which, far better than words, told what she would say,
were it permitted her to speak, but in the deep brown
eyes of Arthur, she read always the same answer, while
Edith's would often fill with tears as she glanced timidly
at the apparently cold, silent man, who, she verily believed, had ceased to love her.
But Nina knew better. Clouded as was her reason, she
penetrated the mask he wore, and saw where the turbulent waters surged around him, while with an iron will
and a brave heart he contended with the angry waves,
and so outrode the storm. And as she watched them day
after day, the purpose grew strong within her that if it
were possible the marriage of Edith and Richard should
be prevented, and as soon as she was able to talk she
broached the subject to them both.
"Stay, Miggie," she said to Edith, who was stealing




ARTHUR AND NINA.               309
from the room. "Hear me this once. You are together
now, you and Arthur."
" Nina," said the latter, pitying Edith's agitation, "You
will spare us both much pain if you never allude again to
what under other circumstances might have been."
"But I must," cried Nina. "Oh, Arthur, why won't
you go to Richard and tell him all about it?"
" Because it would be wrong," was Arthur's answer, and
then Nina turned to Edith, "Why won't you, Miggie?"
"Because I have solemnly promised that I would not,"
was her reply.
And Nina rejoined, " Then I shall write. He loved little Snow Drop. He'll heed what she says when she speaks
from the grave. I'll send him a letter."
"' Who'll take, it or read it to him if you do?" Arthur
asked, and the troubled eyes of blue turned anxiously to
Edith.
"Miggie, sister, won't you?"
Edith shook her head, not very decidedly, it is true, still
it was a negative shake, and Nina said, " Arthur boy, will
you? "
"No, Nina, no."
His answer was determined, and poor, discouraged Nina sobbed aloud, " Who will, who will?"
In the adjoining room there was a rustling sound - a
coming footstep, and Victor Dupres appeared in the door.
He had been an unwilling hearer of that conversation,
and when Nina cried "who will?" he started up, and
coming into the room as if by accident, advanced to the
bedside and asked in his accustomed friendly way, " How
is Nina to-night?"  Then bending over her so that no
one should hear, he whispered softly, "Don't tell them,
but i'll read that letter to Richard!"
Nina understood him  and held his hand a moment
while she looked the thanks she dared not speak.
" Nina must not talk any more " Arthur said, as Victor




310          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
walked away, "she is wearing out too fast," and with
motherly tenderness he smoothed her tumbled pillow -
pushed back behind her ears the tangled curls - kissed
her forehead, and then went out into the deepening night,
whose cool damlp air was soothing to his burning brow,
and whose sheltering mantle would tell no tales of his
white face or of the cry which came heaving up from
where the turbulent waters lay, "if it be possible let
this temptation pass from me, or give me strength to resist it."
His prayer was heard- the turmoil ceased at last
the waters all were stilled, and Arthur went back to Nina, a calm, quiet man, ready and willing to meet whatever the future might bring.
CHAPTER XXXI.
LAST DAYS.
"Aunt Hannah will stay with me to-night," Nina said
to Arthur the next day, referring to an old negress who
had taken care of her when a child; and Arthur yielded
to her request the more willingly, because of his own
weariness.
Accordingly old Hannah was installed watcher in the
sick room, receiving orders that her patient should not on
any account be permitted to talk more than was absolutely necessary. Nina heard this injunction of Arthur and
a smile of cunning flitted across her face as she thought
how she would turn it to her own advantage, in case
Hannah refused to comply with her request, which she
made as soon as they were left alone.
Hannah must first prop her up in bed, she said, and then
give her her port-folio, paper, pen and ink. As she expect



LAST DAYS.                  311
ed, the negress objected at once, bidding her be still, but
Nina declared her intention of talking as fast and as
loudly as she could, until her.wish was gratified. Then
Hannah thi'eatened calling Arthur, whereupon the willful
little lady rejoined, "I'll scream like murder, if you do,
and burst every single blood-vessel I've got, so bring me
the paper, please, or shall I get it myself," and she made
a motion as if she would leap upon the floor, while poor
old Hannah, regretting the task she had undertaken, was
compelled to submit and bring the writing materials as
desired.
"Now you go to sleep," Nina said coaxingly, and as
old Hannah found but little difficulty in obeying the conmmand, Nina was left to herself, while she wrote that long,
long message, a portion of which we give below.
"Dear Mr. Richard:
"Poor blind man! Nina is so sorry for you to-night,
because she knows that what she has to tell you will crush
the strong life all out of your big heart, and leave it as
cold and dead as she will be when Victor reads this to
you. There won't be any Nina then, for Aiggie and
Arthur, and a heap more, will have gone with her way
out where both my mothers are lying, and Miggie'll cry,
I reckon, when she hears the gravel stones rattling down
just over my head, but I shall know they cannot hit nle,
for the coffin-lid will be between, and Nina'll lie so still.
No more pain; no more buzzing; no more headache; no
more darkness; won't it be grand, the rest I'm going to.
I shan't be crazy in Heaven. Arthur says so, and he
knows.
"Poor Arthur! It is of him and Miggie I am writing
to you, if I ever can get to them; and Richard; when
you hear this read, Nina'll be there with you; but -you
can't see her, because you're blind, and you couldn't see
her if you wern't, but she'll be there just the same.




312'         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
She'll sit upon your knee, and wind her arms around your
neck, so as to comfort you when the great cry comes in, the
crash like the breaking up of the winter ice on the northern ponds, and when you feel yourself all crushed like
they are in the spring, listen and you'll hear her whispering,'Poor Richard, Nina pities you so much! She'll
kiss your tears away, too, though maybe you won't feel
her. And, Richard, you'll do right, won't you. You'll
give Miggie up. You'll let Arthur have her, and so bring
back the sunshine to her face., She's so pale now and
sorry, and the darkness lies thickly around her.
"There are three kinds of darkness, Richard. One like
mine, when the brain has a buzz in the middle, and everything is topsy-turvy. One, like yours, when the world is
all shut out with its beauty and its flowers; and then there's
another, a blacker darkness, when the buzz is in the heart,
making it wild with pain. Such, Richard, is the darkness,
which lies like a pall around our beautiful sister Miggie,
and it will deepen and deepen unless you do what Nina
asks you to do, and what Miggie never will, because she
promised that she wouldn't-   "
Then followed the entire story of the marriage performed by Richard, of the grief which followed, of Arthur's gradually growing love of Edith, of the scene of
the Deering woods, of the incidents connected with
Edith's sickness, her anguish at parting with Arthur, her
love for him still, her struggles to do right, and her determination to keep her engagement even though she
died in doing it.
All this was told in Nina's own peculiar style; and
then came her closing appeal that Richard himself should
break the bonds and set poor Miggie free.
~"....  It will be dreadful at first, I know, and may
be all three of the darknesses will close around you for a




LAST DAYS.                3t3
time, - darkness of the heart, darkness of the brain, and
darkness of the eyes, but it will clear away and the daylight will break, in which you will be happier than in
calling Miggie your wife, and knowing how she shrinks
from you, suffering your caresses only because she knows
she must, but feeling so sick at her stomach all the time,
and wishing you wouldn't touch her. I know just how it
feels, for when Arthur kissed me, or took my hand, or even
came in my sight, before the buzz got into my head, it
made me so cold and faint and ugly, the way the Yankees
mean, knowing he was my husband when I wanted Charlie Hudson.  Don't subject Miggie to this horrid fate.
Be generous and give her up to Arthur. He may not deserve her more than you, but she loves him the best and
that makes a heap of difference.
" It's Nina who asks it, Richard; dead Nina, not a living one. She is sitting on your knee; her arms are round
your neck; her face against yours and you must not tell
her no, or she'll cling to you day and night, night and
day; when you are in company and when you are alone.
When it is dark and lonely and all but you asleep, she'll
sit upon your pillow and whisper continually,' Give Miggie up, give Miggie up,' or if you don't, and Miggie's there
beside you, Nina'll stand between you; a mighty, though
invisible shield, and you'll feel it's but a mockery, the calling her your wife when her love is given to another.
" Good bye, now, Richard, good bye. My brain begins
to buzz, my hand to tremble. The lines all run together,
and I am most as blind as you. God bless you, Mr. Richard; bless you any way, but a heap more if you' give
Miggie up. May be He'll give you back your sight to
pay for Miggie. I should rather have it than a wife who
did not love me; and I'll tease Him till He'll let me bring
it to you some day.
"Good bye, again, good bye.
4" NINA ARTHIUR BERN~ARD."
14




314          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
The night was nearly worn away, ere the letter was
finished; and Nina's eyes flashed with unwonted fire as
laughing aloud at the Arthur added to her name, she laid
it away beneath her pillow and then tried herself to sleep.
But this last was impossible, and when the morning broke
she was so much worse that the old nurse trembled lest
her master should censure her severely for having yielded
to her young-mistress's whim. Mild and gentle as he
seemed, Arthur could, if necessary, be very stern, and
knowing this, old Hannah concluded at last that if Nina
did not betray herself she would not, and when Arthur
came, expressing his surprise at the change, and asking
for its cause, she told glibly "how restless and onquiet
Miss Nina done been flirtin' round till the blood all got in
her head and she was dreadful."
" You should have called me," Arthur said, sitting down
by Nina, whose feverish hands he clasped, while he
asked, "Is my little girl's head very bad this morning?"
Nina merely nodded, for she really was too weak to
talk, and Arthur watched her uneasily, wondering why it
was that her eyes were fixed so constantly upon the door,
as if expecting some one. WVhen breakfast was announced
she insisted that both he and Edith should leave her, and,
the moment they were gone, she asked for Victor, who
came at once, half guessing why he was sent for.
" Under my pillow," she whispered, as he bent over her,
and in an instant the letter, of whose existence neither
Arthur nor Edith suspected, was safe in Victor's pocket.
Nina had accomplished her object, and she became
unusually quiet. Richard would get the letter - Richard
would do right, she knew, and the conviction brought to
her a deep peace, which nothing ever after disturbed.
She did not speak of him again, and her last days were
thus pleasanter to Edith, who, from the sweet companionship held with her gentle sister, learned in part what Nina
Bernard was, ere the darkness of which she had written




LAST DAYS.                 315
to Richard crept into her brain. Fair and beautiful as
the white pond lily, she faded rapidly, until Arthur carried
her no longer to the window, holding her in his arms while,she looked out upon the yard and garden where she used
to play — but she lay all day-upon her bed holding Edith's
hands, and talking to her of that past still so dim and
vague to the latter. Marie, too, often joined them, repeating to Edith many incidents of interest connected with
both her parents, but speaking most of the queenly Petrea,
whom Edith so strongly resembled. Nina, too, remembered her well, and Edith was never weary of hearing her
tell of the "beautiful new mamma," who kissed her so
tenderly that night when she first came home, calling her
la petite enfant, and placing in her arms a darling little
sister, with eyes just like the stars!
Very precious to Edith was the memory of those days,
when she watched the dying Nina, who, as death drew
near, clung closer and closer to her sister, refusing to let
her go.
" I want you with me," she said, one afternoon, when
the late autumn rain was beating against the windowpane, and the clouds hung leaden and dull in the Southern sky. " I want you and Arthur, both, to lead me down
to the very edge of the river, and not let go my hands
until the big waves wash me away, for Nina's a wee bit
of a girl, and she'll be afraid to launch out alone upon the
rushing stream. I wish you'd go too, Miggie, — go over
Jordan with me. Why does God make me go alone? "
"You will not go alone, my darling! " and Edith's voice
was choked with tears as she told the listening Nina of
one whose arm would surely hold her up, so that the waters should not overflow.
" It's the Saviour you mean," and Nina spoke reverently. "I loved Him years ago before the buzzing came, but
I've been so bad since then, that I'm afraid that He'll cast
me oft Will He, think?  When I tell him I am little




316          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Nina Bernard come from Sunnybank, will He say,'Go'way old crazy Nina, that tore poor Arthur boy's hair?"
"No, no, oh, no," and Edith sobbed impetuously as she
essayed to comfort the bewildered girl, whose mind grasped but faintly the realities of eternity.
"And you'll stand on the bank till I am clear across,"
she said, when Edith had ceased speaking, "You and
Arthur stand where I can see you if I should look back.
And, Miggie, I have a presentiment that Nina'll go to
night, but I don't want any body here except you and
Arthur. I remember when grandma died the negroes
howled so dismally, and they didn't love her one bit either.
They used to make mouths at her, and hide her teeth.
But they do love me, and their screeches will get my
head all in a twist. I'd rather they wouldn't know till
morning; then when they ask for me Arthur'll tell them
sorry like that Nina's dead; Nina's gone into the daylight,
and left a world of love to them who have been so kind
to her. Don't let them crowd up around me, or make too
much ado. It isn't worth the while, for I'm of no account,
and you'll be good to them Miggie -good to the poor
ignorant blacks. They are your's after me, and I love
them a heap. Don't let them be sold, will you?"
Here Nina paused, too much exhausted to talk longer,
and when about dark Arthur came in, he found her asleep
with Edith at her side, while upon her face and about
her nose there was a sharp, pinched look he had never
seen before. Intuitively, however, he knew that look
was the harbinger of death, and when Edith told him
what Nina had said, he felt that ere the morning came his
broken lily would be gone.
Slowly the evening worle on, and one by one the family
retired, leaving Arthur and Edith alone with the pale
sleeper whose slumbers ended not until near the midnight
hour; silently, sadly, Arthur and Edith watched her, she
on one side, he upon the other, neither speaking for the




LAST DAYS.                 317
sorrow which lay so heavy at their hearts. She was very
beautiful as she lay there so motionless, and Arthur felt
his heart clinging more and more to his fair, childish wife,
while his conscience smote him cruelly for any wrong he
might have done to her. She was going from him now
so fast, and as the clock struck twelve the soft blue eyes
unclosed and smiled up in his face with an expression
which, better than words could do, told that she bore no
malice toward him, nothing but trusting faith and confiding love. He had been kind to her, most kind, and she.
told him so again, for she seemed to know how dear to
him such testimonial would be when she was gone.
" The clouds are weeping for Nina," she said, as she
heard the rain still beating against the window. " Will it
make the river deeper, think? I hear its roar in the distance. It's just beginning to heave in sight, and I dread
it so much.'Twill be lonesome crossing this dismal, rainy
night. Oh, Arthur - boy, Arthur - boy, let me stay with
you. Can't you keep me?  Can't you hide me somewhere? you, Miggie? I won't be in the way. It's so icy,
and the river is so deep. Save me, do! " and she stretched
out her hands to Arthur as if imploring him to hold her
back from the rushing stream bearing down so fast upon
her.
Forcing down his own great grief, Arthur took her in
his arms and hugging her fondly to him, sought to comfort her by whispering of the blessed Saviour who would
carry her in His bosom beyond the swelling flood, and
Nina, as she listened, grew calm and still, while something
like the glory of the better land shone upon her face as
she repeated after him," There'll be no night, no darkness there, no headache, no pain,- nor buzzing either?"
she suddenly asked.  "Say, will there be any buzzing
brains in Heaven?"
Arthur shook his head, and she continued, "That will
he so nice, and Dr. Griswold will be so glad when he




318          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
knows Nina is not crazy. He's gone before, I reckon,
to take care of me, —:gone where there's nothing but
dayligllt, glorious, grand; kiss me again, Arthur boy.'Tis sweet to die upon your bosom with Miggie standing
near, and when you both are happy in each other's love,
don't quote forget little Nina, -Nina out under the flowers, will you?  She's done a heap of naughtiness, I know;
but she's sorry, Arthur, she is so sorry that she ever bit
your arm or tore your hair! Poor hair! Pretty brown
hair! Bad Nina made the white threads come," and her
childish hands caressed the thick brown locks mingling
with her sunny curls, as Arthur bent over her, answering
only with his tears, which fell in torrents.
" Don't, darling, don't," he said, at last. "The bad has
all been on my side, and I would that you should once
more say I am forgiven."
Nina gazed wonderingly at him a moment, then made
a motion that he should lay her back upon the pillow.
"' Now put your head down here, right on my neck -
80so.
He complied with her request, and placing both her
hands upon the bowed head of the young.man, Nina
whispered,
"May the Good Shepherd, whose lamb Nina hlopes to
be, keep my Arthur boy, and bless him a hundred fold for
all he's been to me, and if he has wronged me, which I
don't believe, but if he has, will God please forgive him
as fully, as freely as Nina does - the best Arthur boy that
ever lived. I'll tell God all about it, and how I pestered
you, and how good you were, my Arthur boy -Nina's
Arthur first and Miggie's after me. Now put your arms
around me again," she said, as she finished the blessing
which brought such peace to Arthur. "Put them around
me tight, for the river is almost here. Don't you hear its
splashing? Miggie, Miggie," she cried, shivering as with
an ague chill, " hold my hand with all your might, but don't




LAST DAYS.                 819
let me pull you in. I'm going down the bank. My feet
are in the water, and it's so freezing cold. I'm sinking,
too, and the big waves roll over me. Oh, Arthur, you
said it would not hurt," and the dim eyes flashed upon the
weeping' man a most reproachful glance, as if he had deceived her, while the feet were drawn shudderingly up,
as if they had, indeed, touched the chill tide of death, and
shrank affrighted from it. Edith could only sob wildly,
as she grasped the clammy hand stretched toward her,
but Arthur, more composed, whispered to the dying girl,
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow
of death, I will fear no evil, for thou, Lord, art with me;
thy staff and thy rod, they comfort me."
1" Look away to the shore," he continued, as Nina ceased
to struggle, and lay still on his bosom. "Look away to
the glorious city - my darling is almost there."'"Yes, yes, I do, I am," came faintly up, and then with
a glad cry of joy, which rang in their ears for many a day
and night, Nina said,
" You may lay me down, my Arthur boy, and take your
arm away. There's a stronger one than your's around me
now. The arm that Miggie told me of, and it will not
let me down. I'm going over so easy, easy, in a cradlelike, and Dr. Griswold's there waiting for clipped-winged
birdie. He looks so glad, so happy. It is very nice to
die; but stand upon the bank, Arthur and Miggie. Wait
till I'm across."
They thought she had left them, when softly, sweetly,
as if it were a note of heavenly music sent back to them
from the other world, there floated on the air the words,
"Climb up the bank, I'm most across. I do not see
you now. Mother - and Miggie's mother - and Dr. Griswold have waded out to meet me. The darkness is passed,
the daylight has dawned; Miggie precious, and darling
Arthur boy, good-bye, for Nina's gone, good-bye."
The white lips never moved again, the waxen hands lay




320          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
lifelessly in Arthur's, the damp, bright hair lay half-uncurled upon the pillow, the blue eyes were closed, the aching
head was still, the " twisted brain " had ceased to " buzz,"
the Darkness for her was over, and Nina had gone out into the Daylight.
CHAPTER XXXII.
PARTING WITH THE DEAD, AND PARTING WITH THE
LIVING.
Softly the morning broke and the raindrops glittered
like diamonds in the rising sun, whose rays fell mockingly
upon desolate Sunnybank, where the howling of the blacks
mingled with the sobs of those more nearly bereaved. Very
troublesome had the beautiful departed been in life; none
knew how troublesome one-half so well as Arthur, and
yet of all the weeping band who gathered around her bed,
none mourned her more truly than did he who had been
her husband in name for eleven years. Eleven years!
How short they seemed, looked back upon, and how much
sorrow they had brought him. But this was all forgotten,
and in his heart there was naught save tender love for
the little maiden now forever at rest.
All the day he sat by her, and both Edith and Victor
felt that it was not the mere semblance of grief he wore,
while others of the household, who knew nothing of his
past in connection with Edith, said to each other, "It is
strange he should love her so well when she was so much
care to him."
They did not know it was this very care for her; this
bearing with her which made her so dear to him, and as
the mother longs for and wishes back the unfortunate but
beloved child which made her life so wearisome so Arthur




PARTINGS.                  321
mourned and wept for Nina, thanking God one moment
that her poor, pain-worn head was at rest, and again murmuring to himself, "I would that I had her back again."
He scarcely spoke to Edith, although he knew whenever her footsteps crossed the threshold of the darkened
room; knew when she bent over Nina; heard the kisses
she pressed on the cold lips; and even watched until it
was dry the tear she once- left on Nina's cheek, but he
held no communication with her, and she was left to battle with her grief alone. Once, indeed, she went to him
and asked what Nina should be buried in, and this for a
time roused him from his apathetic grief.
"Nina must be buried in white," he said; " she looked
the best in that; and, Edith, I would have her curls cut off,
all but those that shade her face. You have arranged
them every day. Will you do so once more if I will hold
her up?"
Edith would rather the task had devolved upon some
one else, but she offered no objection, though her tears
fell like rain when she brought the curling-stick and brush
and began to separate the tangled locks, while Arthur encircled the rigid form with his arm, as carefully as if she
still were living, watching her with apparent interest as
she twined about her fingers the golden hair. But when,
at last, she held the scissors which were to sever those
bright tresses, his fortitude all gave way, for he remembered another time when he had held poor Nina, not as
he held her now, but with a stronger, firmer grasp, while,
by rougher hands than Edith's, those locks were shorn
away. Groan after groan came from his broad chest, and
his tears moistened the long ringlets he so lovingly caressed.
" You may cut them now," he said at last, holding his
breath as if the sharp steel were cutting into his heart's
core, as, one by one, the yellowish curls were severed, and
dropped, some into Edith's lap, while others, lodging upon
14*




322          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
his fingers, curled about them  with a seemingly human
touch, making him moan bitterly, as he pressed them to
his lips, and then shook them gently off.
Nina's hail;r, like her sister's, had been her crowning
glory — so thick, so wavy, so luxuriant it was; and when
the task was done, and the tresses divided, five heavy
curls were Arthur's, and five more were Edith's.
"Where shall I put yours?" Edith asked, and for a
moment Arthur did not answer.
In a rosewood box, into which he had not looked for
years, there was a mass of longer, paler, more uneven curls
than these, but Arthur would not distress Edith by telling
her about them, and he replied, at last, "I will put them
away, myself." Then taking them from her and going
to his own private chamber, he opened the box and
dropped them in, weeping when he saw how strongly they
contrasted with the other faded crazy curls,'as he called
them.
In a plain white muslin, which had been made for Nina
at Grassy Spring, they arrayed her for the coffin, the soft,
rich lace encircling her throat and falling about her slener arms folded so meekly together. Flowers were twined
about her head - flowers were on her pillow - flowers in
her hands - flowers upon her bosom - flowers of purest
white, and meet emblems of the sweet young girl, whose
features, to the last, retained the same childlike, peaceful
expression which had settled upon them when she called
back to Arthur, "Climb up the bank. I'm most across."
- The day of her burial was balmy and warm, and the
southern wind blew softly across the fields as the weeping
band followed the lost one across the threshold and laid
her away where the flowers of spring would blossom above
her little grave. Very lonely and desolate seemed the
house when the funeral train returned to it, and the lamentations of the blacks broke out afresh as they began
to realize that their young mistress was really gone, and




PARTINGS.                 323
henceforth another must fill her place. Would it be Arthur or would it be the queenly Edith, whose regal beauty
had captivated all their hearts? Assembled in the kitchen
they discussed this question, giving to neither the preference, for though they had tried Arthur and found him a
kind and humane master, they felt that after Nina, Edith
had the right. Then, as other than blacks will do, they
speculated upon the future, wondering why both Arthur
and Edith could not rule jointly over them; they would
like that vastly, and had nearly decided that it would be,
when Victor, who was with them, tore down their castle
by telling them that Edith was already engaged to some
one else. This changed the channel of conversation, and
Victor left them wondering still what the future would
bring.
Slowly the evening passed, in kitchen and in parlor
and only those who have felt it can tell the unspeakable
loneliness of that first evening after the burial of the
dead. Several times Arthur started as if he would go to
the bed standing empty in the corner, while Edith, too,
fancied that she heard the name " AMiggie," spoken as only
Nina could speak it. Then came a feeling of desolation
as the thought was forced upon them, " She is gone;" and
as the days went on till three suns had risen on her grave,
the loneliness increased until Edith could bear it no longer, and to Victor she said, "We will go back to Richard,
who is waiting so anxiously for us."
Everything which Arthur could do he did to reinstate
Edith in her rights. Not one dollar of the Bernard estate
had he ever spent for himself, and very little for Nina, preferring to care for her out of his own resources, and thus
the property had increased so rapidly that Edith was richer than her wildest hopes. But not one feather did this
weigh with her, and on the day when matters were arranged, she refused to do or say anything about it, persisting so obstinately in her refusal, that the servants whis



324           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
pered slily to each other, " Thar's a heap of old marster's
grit thar."
For a time Arthur coaxed and reasoned with her; then
finding that this did not avail, he changed the mnode of
treatment, and, placing a chair by his own, said to her commandingly, " Edith, sit here!" and she sat there, for therb
was that in Arthur's sternness which always enforced obedience.
" It cannot be more unpleasant for you than for me, but it
is necessary," he said to her, in a low tone, as she sank into
her seat, and ashamed of her willfulness, Edith whispered
back, "I am sorry I behaved so like a child. Forgive me
woll't you?"
Still it grated harshly, this bein(r compelled to listen
while the lawyer, summoned by Arthur, talked to her of
lands and mortgages, of bank stock, and, lastly, of the
negroes.  Would she have themin sold, or what?  Then
Edith roused from her apathy. Nina had entrusted thenm
to her, and she would care for them. They should not lbe
sold, and so she said; they should still live at Sunnybank,
having free papers made out in case of accident to herself,
or, if they preferred, they should go with her at once to
Collingwood, and Sunnybank to be sold.
Oh, Heavens!" exclaimed Victor, who had stationed
himself behind Edith. "Forty niggers at Collingwood!
Mr. Harrington never would stand that. Leave them
here."
Arthur smiled at the Frenchman's evident distress, while
Edith made a gesture that Victor should be still, and then
continued, "It maybe better to leave them here for a time at
least, and Mr. Harrington shall decide upon their future
home."
She said this naturally, and as a matter of course, but her
heart leaped to her throat when she saw the pallor which
for an instant overspread Arthur's face at her allusion to
one who would soon have the right to rule her and hers.




PARTINGS.                 325
"Is Mr. Harrington your guardian, Miss Bernard?" the
lawyer asked, and ere Edith could reply, Arthur answered
for her, " He is to be her husband."
The lawyer bowed and went on with his writing, all
unconscious of the wounds his question had tore open,
leaving them to bleed afresh as both Arthur and Edith assumed a mask of studied indifference, never looking at or
addressing each other again while that painful interview
lasted. It was over at length, and the lawyer gone. Matters were adjusted as well they could be at present. The
negroes were to remain at Sunnybank under charge of an
overseer as usual, while Arthur was to stay there, too, until he decided upon his future course. This was his own
proposition, and Edith acceded to it joyfully. There were
no sweet home associations, connected in her mind with
Sunnybank, it is true, for she was too young when she left
it to retain more than a dim, shadowy remembrance of a
few scenes and places; but it had been Nina's home; there
she was born, there she had lived, there she had died, and
Edith felt that it would not be one half so dreary looked
back upon, if Arthur would stay there always.
" Why can't you? " she asked of him when in the evening
she sat with him in the rather gloomy parlor. " I'll make
you my agent in general, giving you permission to do
whatever you please, or would you rather live at Grassy
Spring?"
"Anywhere but there," was Arthur's quick response.
"I shall sell Grassy Spring and go abroad. I shall be
happier so. I have never known the comfort of a home
for any length of time, and it does not matter where I am.
MIy mother, as Grace may have told you, was a gay, fashionable woman, and after the period of mourning had expired, I only remember her resplendent in satin and diamonds, kissing me good-night ere her departure for some
grand party. Then, when I was eight years old, she, too,
died, leaving me to the care of a guardian. Thus, you




326          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
see, I have no pleasant memories of a home, and the cafes
of Paris will suit me as well as anything, perhaps. Once
I hoped for something better, but that is over now, Nina
is dead, while you, on whom, as my wife's sister, I have
some claim, will soon be gone from here and I shall be
alone. I shall sell Grassy Spring,- shall place the negroes there in your keeping, and then next spring leave
the country, never to return, it may be."
He ceased speaking, and there was a silence in the room
which Edith could not break. Arthur had told her fiankly of his intended future, but she could not speak of hers
- could not tell him that Collingwood's doors were ever
open to him - that she would be his sister in very deed
that Richard would welcome him as a brother for her
sake, and that the tinle might come when they could behappy thus. All this passed through her mind, but
not a word of it escaped her lips, lest by doing so she
would betray her real feelings. Arthur did not seem, to
her now as he had done a few days previous; their relations to each other had changed, and were there no
Richard, it would not be wicked to love him now. Nina
was gone; the past was more than atoned for; the marble,
at first unsightly to some degree, had been hewn and
polished, and though the blows had each struck deep, they
wrought in Arthur St. Claire a perfect work. Ennobled,
subdued, and purified, he was every way desirable, both
as brother, friend, and husband, but he was not for her,
and the consciousness that it was so, palsied her powers
of speech.
Wishing to say something to break the awkward silence,
Arthur asked at last, if it were true, as Victor had said,
that she intended starting for Collingwood the day after
to-morrow, and then she burst into tears, but made him
no reply, only passionate sobs which smote cruelly upon
his heart, for well he guessed their meaning. Ile could
read Edith Hastings aright - could fathom her utmost




PARTINGS.                 327
thoughts, and he knew how she shrank from the future
dreading a return to Collingwood, and what awaited her
there. He knew, too, that but a few words from himself
were needed to keep her at Sulnnybank with him forever,
Others might be powerless to influence her decision, but
he was not; he could change her whole future life by
whispering in her ear, "Stay with me, Edith; don't go
back," but the Arthur of to-day was stronger than the
Arthur of one year ago, and though the temptation was
a terrible one, he met it bravely, and would not deal thus
treacherously with Richard, who had so generously trusted
her with him. Edith must keep her vow, and when at last
he spoke, it was to say something of the journey, as if that
had all the time been uppermost in his mind.
" He does not love me any more, and I don't care," was
Edith's mental comment, as she soon after left him and
hurried to her room, where she wept herself to sleep,
never suspecting how long and dreary was that night
to the young man whose eyelids never for a moment
closed, and who, as the day was breaking, stole out to
Nina's grave, finding there a peace which kept his soul
from fainting.
At the breakfast table he was the same easy, elegant,
attentive host he always was in his own house, conversing
pleasantly upon indifferent topics, but he could not look at
her now, on this her last day with him; could not endure
to hear her voice, and he avoided her presence, seeing as
little of her as posssible, and retiring unusually early, even
though he read in her speaking eyes a wish that he would.
tarry longer.
The next morning, however, he knew the instant she
was astir, listening eagerly to the sound of her footsteps as she made her hasty toilet, and watching her
from his window as she went to Nina's grave, sobbing
out her sad farewell to the loved dead. He saw her, too,
as she came back to the house, and then with a beating
heart went down to meet her.




328          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
The breakfast was scarcely touched, and the moment it
was over Edith hurried to her chamber, for it was nearly
time to go. The trunks were brought down -Edith's
and Marie's- for the latter was to live henceforth with her
young mistress; the servants had crowded to the door,
bidding their mistress good bye, and then it was Arthur's
turn. Oh, who shall tell of the tempest which raged within as he held for a moment her soft, white hand in his
and looked into the face which, ere he saw it again, might
lose its girlish charm forhin, inasmuch as a husband's kisses
would have been showered upon it. Many times he attempted to speak, but could not, and pressing his lips to
hers, he hastened away, going straight to Nina's grave,
which had become to him of late a Bethel.
Scarcely was he gone, when Tom, the driver, announced
that something was the matter with the harness, and by
this delay, Edith gained a few moments, which she resolved
to spend with Nina. She did not know that Arthur, too,
was there, until she came close upon him, as he bent over
the little mound. He heard her step, and turning toward
her, said, half bitterly, " Edith, why will you tempt me
so?"
" Oh, Arthur, don't," and with a piteous cry Edith sank
at his feet, and laying her face oil Nina's grave, sobbed out,
"I did not know that you were here, but I am so glad
that you are, for I cannot go without your blessing. You
must tell me I am doing right, or I shall surely die. The
world is so dark - so dark."
Arthur had been tempted before —sorely, terribly
tempted - but never like this, and recoiling a pace or two,
he stood with the dead Nina between himself and the
weeping Edith, while the wild thought swept over him,
" Is it right that I should send her away?" but only for
an instant, and stretching his hand across the grave, he
laid it on the head of the kneeling girl, giving her the
blessing she so much craved, and then bidding her leave
him.




PARTINGS.                 329
"They are calling to you," he added, as he heard Victor's
voice in the distance, and struggling to her feet, Edith
started to go, but forgetting all sense of propriety in that
dreadful parting, she turned to him again and said,
"I am going, Arthur, but I must ask one question. It
will make my future brighter if I know you love me still,
be it ever so little. Do you, Arthur, and when you know
I am Richard's wife will you think of me sometimes, and
pity me, too? I shall need it so much I "
Arthur had not expected this, and he reeled as if smitten with a heavy blow. Leaning for support against
Petrea's monument, whence Miggie's name had been effaced, he gasped:
" God help me, Edith. You should have spared me this.
Do I love you? Oh Edith, alas, alas! Here with Nina,
whom, Heaven is my witness, I did love truly at the
last - here with her, I say, lying dead between us, I swear
to you that never was maiden loved as I this moment love
you; but I cannot make you mine. I dare not prove thus
treacherous to Richard, who trusted you with me, and,
Edith, you can be happy with him, and you will. You
must forget that I ever crossed your path, thinking of me
only as one who was your sister's husband. And God
will give you strength to do this if you ask it of him aright
I shall not forget you, Edith. That cannot be. Across
the sea, wherever I may be, I shall remember you, enshrining your memory in my heart, together with Nina, whom
I so much wish I had loved earlier, and so have saved us
both from pain. And now go- go back to Collingwood,
and keep your vow to Richard. He is one of God's
noblest works, an almost perfect man. You will learn to
love him. You will be happy. Do not write to me till
it is over, then send your cards, and I shall know'tis done.
Farewell, my sister - farewell forever."
Without a word of reply Edith moved away, nor cast
a backward glance at the faint, sick man, who leaned his




8i30         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
burning forehead against the gleaming marble; while drop
after drop of perspiration fell upon the ground, but brought
him no relief. He heard the carriage wheels as they rolled
from the door, and the sound seemed grinding his life to
atoms, for by that token he knew that Edith was gone
that to him there was nothing left save the little mound
at his feet and the memory of his broken lily who slept
beneath it. How he wanted her now - wanted his childish Nina —his fair girl-wife, to comfort him. But it
could not be. Nina was dead - her sweet, bird-like voice
was hushed; it would never meet his listening ear again,
and for him there was nothing left save the wailing wind
to whisper sadly to him as she was wont to do, "Poor
Arthur boy, poor Arthur boy."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOME.
Oh, what a change it was from sunny Florida to bleak
New England, and how both Edith and Victor shivered
when, arrived at the last stage of their journey, they looked out upon the snow-clad hills and leafless trees which
stood out so bare and brown against the winter sky. West
Shannondale! the brakeman shouted, and Edith drew her
furs around her, for in a few moments more their own station would be reached.
" The river is frozen; it must be very cold," said Victor,
pointing to the blue-black stream, skimmered over with a
thin coat of ice.
"Yes, very, very cold," and Edith felt the meaning of
the word in more senses than one.
Why wasn't she glad to be home again? Why did her
thoughts cling so to distant Sunnybank, or her heart die




HOME.                   331
within her as waymark after waymark told her Collingwood was near?  Alas! she was not a loving, eager bride
elect, returning to the arms of her beloved, but a shrinking,
hopeless, desolate woman, going back to meet the destiny
she dared not avoid. The change was all in herself, for
the day was no colder, the clouds no greyer, the setting
sun no paler than New England wintry days and clouds
and suns are wont to be. Collingwood was just the same,
and its mssive walls rose as proudly amid the dark evergreens around it as they had done in times gone by, when
to the little orphan it seemed a second Paradise. Away
to the right lay Grassy Spring, the twilight shadows gathering around it, piles of snow resting on its roof, and a thin
wreath of smoke curling from. a single chimney in the
rear.
All this Edith saw as in the village omnibus she was
driven toward home. Richard was not expecting them
until the morrow, and thus no new fires were kindled, no
welcoming lights hung out, and the house was unusually
gloomy and dark.  During Edith's absence Richard had
staid mostly in the library, and there he was sitting now,
with his hands folded together in that peculiarly helpless
way which characterized all his motions.  lie heard the
sound of wheels, the banging of trunks, and then his ear
caught a footstep it knew full well, a slow, shuffling tread,
but Edith's still, and out into the silent hall he' groped his
way, watching there until she came.
How he hugged her to his bosom - never heeding thatshe gave him back but one answering kiss, a cold, a fiozen
thing, which would not thaw even after it touched hislips, so
full of life and warmth. Poor, deluded man! he fancied that
the tears he felt upon his face were tears of joy at being
home again; but alas! alas! they were tears wrung out by
a feeling of dreary home-sickness - a longing to be somewhere else - to have some other one than Richard chafing
her cold hands and calling her pet names. He looked old



332           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
er, too, than he used to do, and Edith thought of what
he once had said about her seeing the work of decay go
on in him while she yet was young and vigorous. Still
her voice was natural as she answered his many questions
and greeted Mlrs. ]Matson who came in to see her as soon as
she heard of her arrival.
" In mourning! " the latter exclaimed, as with womanly
curiosity she inspected Edith's dress'
Richard started, and putting his hand to Edith's neck,
felt that her collar was of crape, and a shadow passed over
his face. He liked to think of her as a bright plumaged
bird, not as sombre-hued and wearing the habiliments
which come only from some grave.
" Was it necessary that my darling should carry her
love for a stranger quite so far as this? " he asked. Need
you have dressed in black? "
Without meaning it, his tone implied reproach, and it
cut Edith cruelly, making her wish that she had told him
all, when she wrote that she was corning home.
" Oh, Richard," she cried, "don't chide me for these outward tokens of sorrow. Nina, dear, darling Nina, was my
sister -my father's child. Temple was only a name he
assumed to avoid arrest, so it all got wrong. Everything
is wrong," and Edith sobbed impetuously, while Richard
essayed to comfort her.
The dress of black was not displeasing to him now, and
he passed his hands caressingly over its heavy folds as if
to ask forgiveness for having said aught against it.
Gradually Edith grew calm, and after she had met the
servants, and the supper she could not taste was over, she
repeated to Richard the story she had heard from Marie,
who had stopped for a time in New York to visit her
sister.
A long time they sat together that night, while Richard
told her how lonely he had been without her, and asked
her many questions of Nina's last days.




ROME.                    333
"Did she send no message to me?" he said. She used
to like me, I fancied."
Edith did not know how terrible a message Nina had
sent to him, and she replied, " She talked of you a great
deal, but I do not remember any particular word. I told
her I was to be your wife," and Edith's voice trembled,
for this was but a prelude to what she meant to say ere
she bade him good night. She should breathe so much
more freely if she knew her bridal was not so near, and
her sister's death was surely a sufficient reason for deferring it.
Summoning all her courage, she arose, and sitting on
Richard's knee, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat in a
kind of abstracted manner, while she asked if it might be
so. "I know I promised for New Year's night," she said,
" but little Nina died so recently and I loved her so much.
May it be put off, Richard- put over until June? "
Edith had not thought of this in Florida, but here at
home, it came to her like succor to the drowning, and she
anxiously awaited Richard's answer.
A frown for an instant darkened his fine features, for
he did not like this second deferring the day, but he was
too unselfish to oppose it, and he answered,
"Yes, darling, if you will have it so. It may be better
to wait at least six months, shall it be in June, the fifteenth
say?"
Edith was satisfied with this, and when they parted her
heart was lighted of a heavy load, for six months seemed
to her a great, great while.
The next day when Grace came up to call on Edith, and
was told of the change, she shrugged her shoulders, for
she knew that by this delay Richard stood far less chance
of ever calling Edith his wife. But she merely said it
was well, congratulating Edith upon her good fortune in
being an heiress, and asking many questions about Arthur
and Nina, both, and at last taking her leave without a




334          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
hint as to her suspicions of the future. To Edith the
idea had never occurred. She should marry Richard of
course, and nothing could happen to defer the day a third
time. So she said at least to Victor, when she told him
of the arrangement, and with a very expressive whistle,
Victor, too, shrugged his shoulders, thinking, that possibly
he need not read Nina's letter after all. He would rather
not if it could be avoided, for he knew how keen the pang
it would inflict upon his noble master, and he would not
add one unnecessary drop to the cup of sorrow he saw
preparing for poor Richard.
After a few days of listless languor and pining homesickness, Edith settled into her olden routine of reading,
talking and singing to Richard, who thought himself happy even though she did not caress him as often as she
used to do, and was sometimes impatient and even illnatured towards him.
"She mouns so much for Nina was the excuse which
Richard wrote down in his heart for all her sins, either of
omission or commission; and in a measure he was right.
Edith did mourn for sweet little Nina, but mourned not
half so much for her as for the hopes forever fled- for
Arthur, at whose silence she greatly marvelled, thinking
sometimes that she would write to him as to her brother,
and then shrinking from the task because she knew not
what to say.
Spite of her feelings the six months she had thought so
long were passing far too rapidly to suit her. Time lingers for no one, and January glided into February, February into March, whose melting snows and wailing winds
gave place at last to April, and then again the people of
Shannondale began to talk of "that wedding," fixed for
the 15th of June. Marie had become domesticated at
Collingwood, but the negroes, who now called Edith mistress, still remained at Grassy Spring, waiting until Arthur
should come, or some message be received from him. It




nOME.                    335
was four months now since Edith left Sunnybank, and in
all that time no tidings had come to her from Arthur.
Grace's letters were unanswered, and Grace herself was
beginning to feel alarmed, when, one afternoon, Victor
called Edith to an upper balcony and pointing in the
direction of Grassy Spring, bade her look where the graceful columns of smoke were rising from all its chimneys,
while its windows were opened wide, and the servants
hurried in and out, seemingly big with some important
event.
"Saddle Bedouin," said Edith, more excited than she
had deemed it possible for her to be. "M Ir. St. Claire must
be expected. I am going down to see."
Victor obeyed, and without a word to Richard, Edith
was soon galloping off toward Grassy Spring, where she
found Grace hurriedly giving orders to the delighted
blacks, who tumbled over each other in their zeal to have
everything in readiness for "MIarster Arthur."  He was
coming that night, so Grace had told them, she having
received a telegram that morning from New York, together with a letter.
"He started North the first of Feb." she said to Edith,
"taking Richmond on the way, and has been detained
there ever since by sickness. IHe is very feeble yet, but
is anxious to see us all. He has received no letters from
me, it seems, and thinks you are married."
Edith turned very white for a moment, and then there
burned upon her cheek a round, red spot, induced by the
feeling that the believing she was married had been the
immediate cause of Arthur's illness. Edith was no longer the pale, listless woman who moved so like a breathing
statue around Collingwood, but a flushed, excited creature,
flitting from room to roomn, and entering heart and soul
into Grace's plans for having everything about the house
as cheerful and homelike as possible for the invalid. She
should stay to welcome him, too, she said, bidding one of




336           DARKNESS AlID DAYLIGHT.
the negroes put Bedouin in the stable and then go up to
Collingwood to tell Richard where she was.
Arthur was indeed coming to Grassy Spring, brought
thither by the knowing that something must be done with
the place ere he went to Europe as he intended doin,, and
by the feverish desire to see Edith once more even though
she were the wife of Richard, as he supposed her to be.
Grace's first letter had been lost, and as he had been some
weeks on the way he knew nothing of matters at Collingwood, though occasionally there crept into his heart a
throb of hope that possibly for Nina's sake the marriage
had been deferred and Edith might be Edith Hastings
still. It was very sad coming back to the spot so fraught
with memories of Nina, and this it was in part which
made him look so pale and haggard when at last he stood
within the hall and was met by Grace, who uttered an exclamation of surprise at seeing him so changed.
"I am very tired," he said, with the tone and air of an
invalid, "Let me rest in the library awhile, before I see
the negroes. Their noise will disturb me," and he walked
into' the very room where Edith stood waiting for him.
She had intended to meet him as a brother, the husband
of her sister, but the sight of his white, suffering face
swept her calmness all away, and with a burst of tears she
cried, "Oh, Arthur, Arthur, I did not think you had
been so sick. Why did you not let us know; I would
have come to you," and she brought herself the arm-chair
which he took, smiling faintly upon her and saying,
" It was bad business being sick at a hotel, and I did
sometimes wish you were there, but of course I could not
expect you to leave your husband. How is he?"
Edith could hear the beating of her heart and feel the
blood tingling her cheeks as she replied, "lou mean
Richard, but he is not my husband. He   "
Quickly, eagerly Arthur looked up, the expression of.
his face speaking volumes of joy, surprise, and even hope,




HOME.                    337
but all this faded away, leaving him paler, sicker-looking
than before, as Edith continued,
"The marriage was a second time deferred on account
of Nina's death. It will take place in June."
Grace had left the room and an awkward silence ensued
during which Arthur looked absently into the fire, while
Edith gazed out upon the darkening sky, wondering if
life would always be as hard to bear as now, and half
wishing that Arthur St. Claire had staid at Sunnybank
until the worst was over.
There was a sound of wheels outside, and Edith heard
Richard as he passed into the hall. lie had received her
message, and thinking it proper for him to welcome Mr.
St. Claire, he had come to, Grassy Spring to do so, as well
as to escort Edith home. Richard could not see how
much Arthur was changed, but his quick ear detected the
weak, tremulous tones of the voice, which tried to greet
him steadily, and so the conversation turned first upon
Arthur's recent illness, and then upon Nina, until at last, as
Richard rose to leave, he laid his arm across Edith's shonlder and said playfully, "You know of course, that what
you predicted, when years ago you asked me to take a
certain little girl, is coming true. Edith has promised
to be my wife. You will surely remain at Grassy Spring
through the summer, and so be present at our wedding on
the 15th of June. I invite you now."
" Thank you," was all Arthur could say, as with his accustomed politeness he arose to bid his guests good night;
but his lip quivered as he said it, and his eye never for a
moment rested upon Edith, who led Richard in silence
to the carriage, feeling that all she loved in the wide world
was left there in the little library where the light was
shining, and where, although she did not know it, Grace
was ministering to the half fainting Arthur.
The sight of Edith and Richard had affected him more
than he supposed it would, but the worst was over now,
15




338          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and as he daily grew stronger in the bracing northern air
he felt more and more competent to meet what lay before
him.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
NINA S LETTER.
After a week or two had passed, Arthur went occasionally to Collingwood, where Richard greeted him most cordially, urging him to come more frequently and wondering why he always seemed in so much haste to get away.
On the occasion of these visits Edith usually kept out of
the way, avoiding him so studiously that Richard began
to fear she might perhaps dislike him, and he resolved to
ask her the first good opportunity. But Edith avoided
him, too, never coming now to sit with him alone; somebody must always be present when she was with him, else
had her bursting heart betrayed the secret telling so fearfully upon her. jOh, how hateful to her were the preparations for her bridal, which had commenced on a most
magnificent scale, for Richard, after waiting so long, would
have a grand wedding, and that all who chose might witness the ceremony, it was to be performed in the church,
from which the guests would accompany him back to Collingwood.
All Shannondale was interested, and the most extravagant stories were set afloat, not only concerning the trouseau of the bride, but the bride herself. What ailed her?
What made her so cold, so white, so proudly reserved, so
like a walking ghost? She, who had been so full of vigorous life, so merry, so light-hearted. Could it be the mourning for sweet little Nina, or was it?
And here the knot of gossippers, at the corner of the




NINA'S LETTER.               339
streets, or in the stores, or in the parlors at home, would
draw more closely together as they whispered,
"Does she love Richard Harrington as she ought? Is
not her heart given rather to the younger, handsomer
St. Claire?"
How they pitied her if it were so, and how curiously
they watched her whenever she appeared in their midst,
remarking every action, and construing it according to
their convictions.
Victor, too, was on the alert, and fully aware of the
public feeling. Day after day he watched his young mistress, following her when she left the house alone, and
seeing her more than once when in the Deering woods
she laid her face in the springing grass and prayed that
she might die. But for her promise, sworn to Richard,
she would have gone to him, and kneeling at his feet begged him to release her from her vow, and so spare her the
dreadful trial fioom which she shrank more and more as
she saw it fast approaching.
Edith waG almost crazy, and Arthur, whenever he
chanced to meet her, marvelled at the change since he saw
her last. Once he, too, thought of appealing to Richard to save her from so sad a fate as that of an unloving
wife, but he would not interfere, lest by so doing he should
err again, and so in dreary despair, which each day grew
blacker and more hopeless, Edith was left alone, until Victor roused in her behalf; and without allowing himself time
to reflect, sought his master's presence, bearing with him
Nina's letter, and the soiled sheet on which Richard had
unwittingly scratched out Arthur's marriage.
It was a warm, balmy afternoon, and through the open
windows of the library, the south wind came stealing in,
laden with the perfume of the pink-tinted apple blossoms,
and speaking to the blind man of the long ago, when it
was his to see the budding beauties now shut out from
his sight. The hum of the honey-bee' was heard, and the




3 10         DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
air was rife with the sweet sounds of later spring. On the
branch of a tree without, a robin was trilling a song. It
had sung there all the morning, and now it had come back
again, singing a second time to Richard, who thought of
the soft nest up in the old maple, and likened that robin
and its mate to himself and Edith, his own singing-bird.
But why linger so long over that May-day which Rich.
ard remembered through many, many future years, grow.
ing faint and sick as often as the spring brought back the
apple-blossom perfume or the song of mated robins.
It is, alas, that we shrink as Victor did from the task
imposed, that, like him, we dread the blow which will
strike at the root of Richard's very life, and we approach
tearfully, pityingly, half remorsefully, as we stand sometimes by a sunken grave, doubting whether our conduct
to the dead were always right and just. So Victor felt,
as he drew near to Richard; and sitting down beside him
said,
" Can I talk with you awhile about Miss Hastings?"
Richard started. Victor had come to tell him she was
sick, and he asked if it were not so.
"Something has ailed her of late," he said.
"' She is greatly changed since Nina's death. She mourns
much for her sister."
" Yes," returned Victor; " she loved Nina dearly, but it
is more than this which ails her. God forbid that I should
unnecessarily wound you, Mr. Harrington, but I think it
right for you to know."
The dark face, shaded with the long beard, was very
white now, and the sightless eyes had in them a look of
terror as Richard asked,
"What is it, Victor?  Tell me."
" Come to the sofa first," Victor rejoined, feeling intuitively that he was safer there than in that high arm chair,
and with unusual tenderness he led his master to the spot,
then sitting down beside him, he continued, " Do you re



NIN A'S LETTER.              341
member Nina once made you write something upon a sheet
of paper, and that you.bade me ascertain what it was?"
"Yes, I remember," answered Richard, "you told me
you had not read it, and imputing it to some crazy fancy of
no importance, I gave it no more thought. What of it,
Victor?"
"I had not read it then,?' answered Victor, "but I have
done so since. Ihave it in my possession — here in my
hand. Would you like to hear it?"
Richard nodded, and Victor read aloud: " I, the blind
manl, Richard Harrington, do hereby solemnly swear that
the marriage of Arthur St. Claire and Nina Bernard, performed by me and at my house, is null and void."
"'What! Read it again! It cannot be that I heard
aright," and Richard listened while Victor repeated the
lines. "Arthur andNina! Was she the young girl wife,
he, the boy husband, who came to me that night? " Richard exclaimed. "Why have I never known of thisbefore? Why did Edith keep it from me? Say, Victor," and
again Richard listened, this time, oh, how eagerly, while
Victor told him what he knew of that fatal marriage, kept
so long a secret, and as he listened, the beaded drops
stood thickly upon his forehead and gathered around his
ashen lips, for Victor purposely let fall a note of warning
which shot through the quivering nerves of the blind man
like a barbed burning arrow, wringing from him the piteous
cry,
"Oh, Victor, Victor, does she - does Edith love Arthur? Has she loved him all the time? Is it this which
mnakes her voice so sad, her. step so slow?  Speak -better that I know it now than after'tis too late. What
other paper is it you are unfolding? "
"'Tis a letter from Nina to you. Can you hear it now?"
"Yes, but tell me first all you know. Don't withhold
a single thing. I would hear the whole."
So Victor told him what he knew up to the time of




342           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
their going to Florida; and then, opening Nina's letter, he
began to read, pausing, occasionally, to ask if he should
stop.
"No, no; go on!" Richard whispered, hoarsely, his
head dropping lower and lower, until the face was hidden
from view and the chin rested upon the chest, which heaved with every labored breath.
Once at the words, "When you hear this Nina'll be
there with you. She'll sit upon your knee and wind her
arms around your neck "- he started, and seemed to be
thrusting something from his lap - something which made
him shiver. Was it Nina? He thought so, and strove to
push her off, but when Victor read, " She will comfort you
when the great cry comes in - the crash like the breaking
up of the ice in the Northern ponds," he ceased to struggle, and Victor involuntarily stopped when he saw the long
arms twine themselves as it were around an invisible form.
Then he commenced again: " And when you feel yourself
broken up like they are in the spring, listen and you'll
hear me whispering,'Poor Richard! I pity you so much,
and I'll kiss your tears away."'
Did he hear her? hear Nina whispering comfort to his
poor bruised heart? We cannot tell. We only know he
bent his ear lower, as if to catch the faintest breath; but
alas! there were no tears to kiss away. The blind eyes
could not weep - they were too hot, too dry for that -
and blood-red rings of fire danced before them as they
did when Nina came to him with the startling news that
MIiggie was dead in the Deering woods.
Victor was reading now about these woods and the
scene enacted there, and Richard understood it all, even
to the reason why Edith had persisted in being his wife.
The deepest waters run silently, it is said, and so, perhaps,
the strongest heart when crushed to atoms lies still as
death, aud gives outwardly no token of its anguish.
True it is that Ridhard neither moaned, nor moved, nor




NINA'S LETTER.               343
spoke; only the head drooped lower, while the arms clung
tightly to the fancied form he held, as if between himself
and Nina, wherever she was that dreary day, there was a
connecting link of sympathy which pervaded his whole
being, and so prevented him from dying outright as he
wished he could.
It was finished at last, Nina's letter- and it seemed to
Richard as if the three kinds of darkness, of which she
told him, had indeed settled down upon him, so confused
was his brain, so crushed his heart, and so doubly black
his blindness. Hie looked to Victor like some great oak,
scathed and blasted with one fell blow, and he was trembling for the result, when the lips moved and he caught the
words, " Leave me little Snow Drop. Go back to Heaven,
whence you came. The blind man will do right."
Slowly then the arms unclosed, and as if imbued with
sight, the red eyes followed something to the open window and out into the bright sunshine beyond; then they
turned to Victor, and a smile broke over the stormy features as Richard whispered:
" Nina's gone! Now take me to my room."
Across the threshold Victor led the half-fainting man,
meeting with no one until his master's chamber was reached, when Edith came through the hall, and, glancing in,
saw the white face on the pillow, where Victor had laid
his master down, Richard heard her step, and said, faintly,
" Keep her off; I cannot bear it yet!" But even while
he spoke Edith was there beside him, asking, in much
alarm, what was the matter. She did not observe how
Richard shuddered at the sound of her voice; she only
thought that he was very ill, and, with every womanly,
tender feeling aroused, she bent over him and pressed
upon his lips a kiss which burned him like a coal of fire.
She must not kiss him now, and, putting up his hands with
the feebleness of a little child, he cried piteously,
"Don't Edith, don't! Please leave me for a time. I'd
rather be alone!"




344          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
She obeyed him then, and went slowly out, wondering
what it was which had so affected him as to make even
her presence undesirable.
Meantime, with hands pressed over his aching eyes, to
shut out, if possible, the rings of fire still dancing before
them, Richard Harrington thought of all that was past
and of what was yet to come.
" How can I lose her now," he moaned. " Why didn't
she tell me at the first? It would not then have been
half so bad. Oh, Edith, my lost Edith. You have not
been all guiltless in this matter. The bird I took to my
bosom has struck me at last with its talons, and struck so
deep. Oh, how it aches, how it aches, and still I love her
just the same; aye, love her more, now that I know she
nlust not be mine. Edith, oh, my Edith!"
Then Richard's thoughts turned upon Arthur. He
must talk with him, and he could not meet him there at
Collingwood. There were too many curious eyes to see,
too many ears to listen. At Grassy Spring they would
be more retired, and thither he would go, that very night.
He never should sleep again until he heard from Arthur's
own lips a confirmation of the cruel story. He could not
ask Edith. Her voice would stir his heart-strings with a
keener, deeper agony than he was enduring now. But to
Arthur he could speak openly, and then too - Richard
was loth to confess it, even to himself, but it was, never
theless, true -Arthur, though a man, was gentler than
Edith. He would be more carefill, more tender, and while
Edith might confirm the whole with one of her wild, imnpulsive outbursts, Arthur would reach the same point
gradually and less painfully.
" Order the carriage, Victor," he said, as it was growing
dark in the room. "I am going to Grassy Spring."
It was in vain that Victor attempted to persuade him
to wait until the morrow. Richard was determined, and
when Edith calue from her scarcely tasted supper, she saw




THE FIERY TEST.               845
the carriage as it passed through the Collingwood grounds
on its way to Grassy Spring, but little dreamed of what
would be ere its occupant returned to them again.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE FIERY TEST.
Arthur was not at home. From the first he had intended making Edith a bridal present - a life-sized portrait of
Nina, which he knew she would value more than gifts of
gold and silver. He had in his possession a daguerreotype
taken when she was just eighteen, and sent to him by her
filther among other things, of which Charlie Hudson was
the bearer. From this he would have a picture painted,
employing the best artist in Boston, and it was upon this
buisiness that he left Grassy Spring the previous day, saying he should probably be home upon the next evening's
train.
Just before Richard arrived at Grassy Spring, however,
a telegram had been received to the effect that Arthur
was detained and would not return until midnight. This
Phillis repeated to Richard, who for an instant stood thinking, and then said to Victor, "I shall stay. I cannot go
back to Collingwood till I have talked with Arthur. But
you may go. I would rather be left alone, and, Victor,
you will undoubtedly think it a foolish fancy, but I must
sleep in NinaP'oom. There will be something soothing
to me in a place so hallowed by her former presence.
Ask old Phillis if I may. Tell her it is a whim, if you
like, but get her consent at all hazards."
Phillis' consent was easily won, and after Victor was
gone, Richard sat alone in the parlor until nearly eleven,
when, feeling weary, he consented to retire, and Ike led
15g




346          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
him up the two flights of stairs into the Den, where he
had never been before.
" I do not need your services," he said to the negro, who
departed, having first lighted the gas and turned it on to
its fullest extent out of compliment to the blind man.
Gas was a luxury not quite two years old in Shannondale, and had been put in Arthur's house just before he
left for Florida. Collingwood being further from the village could not boast of it yet and consequently Richard
was not as much accustomed to it as he would otherwise
have been. On this occasion he did not know that it was
lighted until, as he stood by the dressing bureau, he felt
the hot air in his face. Thinking to extinguish the light
by turning the arm of the fixture just as he remembered
having done some years before, he pushed it back within
an inch of the heavy damask curtain which now shaded
the window, and too much absorbed in his own painful
reflections to think of ascertaining whether the light was
out or not, he groped his way to the single bed, and threw
himself upon it, giving way to a paroxysm of grief.
It was strange that one in his frame of mind should
sleep, but nature was at last exhausted, and yielding to the
influence of the peculiar atmosphere slowly pervading the
room, he fell away into a kind of lethargic slumber, while
the work of destruction his own hand had prepared, went
silently on around him. First the crimson curtain turned
a yellowish hue, then the scorched threads dropped apart
and the flame crept into the inner lining of cotton, running swiftly through it until the whole was in a blaze,
and the wood-work of the window, charred and blackened,
and bore the deadly element still onward, but away from
the unconscious Richard, leaving that portion of the room
unscathed, and for the present safe. Along the cornice
under the lathing, beneath the eaves they crept - those
little fiery tongues — lapping at each other in wanton
playfulness, and whispering to the dry old shingles on the
roof above of the mischief they meant to do.




THE FIERY TEST.               347
Half an hour went by, and from the three towers of
Shannondale the deep toned bells rang out the watchword
of alarm, which the awakened inhabitants caught up,
echoing it from lip to lip until every street resounded with
the fearful cry, " Fire, fire, Grassy Spring is all on fire."
Then the two engines were brought from their shelter, and
went rattling through the town and out into the country,
a quarter of a mile away, to where the little forked
tongues had grown to a mammoth size, darting their vicious heads from beneath the rafters, reaching down to
touch the heated panes, hissing defiance at the people below, and rolling over the doomed building until billow of
flame leaped billow, both licking up in their mad chase
the streams of water poured continually upon them.
Away to the eastward the night express came thundering on, and one of its passengers, looking from his window,
saw the lurid blaze, just as once before he had seen the
bonfire crazy Nina kindled, and as he watched, a horrible
fear grew strong within him, manifesting itself at last in
the wild outcry, "'Tis Grassy Spring,'tis Grassy Spring."
Long before the train reached the depot, Arthur
St. Claire, had jumped from the rear car, and was flying
across the meadow toward his burning home, knowing
ere he reached it that all was lost. Timbers were falling,
glass was melting, windows were blazing, while at every
step the sparks and cinders whirled in showers around his
head.
And where all this time was Richard? Victor was
asking that question - Victor, just arrived, and followed
by the whole household of Collingwood. They were the
last to waken, and they came with headlong haste but
Victor's longer strides outran them all, and when Arthur
appeared, he was asking frantically for his master. The negroes in their fright had forgotten him entirely, and the
first words which greeted Arthur were, "Mlr. Hayrington
is in the buildiqg!'




348          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Where'? where?" he shrieked, darting away, and
dragging Victor with him.
"In Nina's room. He would sleep there," Victor answered, and with another cry of horror, Arthur sprang to
the rear of the building, discovering that the stairs leading to the Den were comparatively unharmed as yet.
"Who will save him?" he screamed, and he turned
toward Victor, who intuitively drew back from incurring
the great peril.
There was no one to volunteer, and Arthur said,
"I will do it myself."
Instantly a hundred voices were raised against it. It
were worse than madness, they said. The fire must have
caught in the vicinity of that room, and Richard was
assuredly dead.
"He may not be, and if he is not, I will save him or
perish too," was Arthur's heroic reply, as.he sprang up
the long winding stairs, near which the flames were roa*ing like some long pent up volcano.
He reached the door of the Den. It was bolted, but
with superhuman strength he shook it down, staggering
backward as the dense clouds of yellowish smoke rolled
over and around him, warning him not to advance. But
Arthur heeded no warning then. By the light which
illumined the entire front of the house, he saw that two
sides of the room were not yet touched; the bed in the
recess was unharmed, but Richard was not there, and a
terrible fear crept over Arthur lest he had perished in his
attempt to escape. Suddenly he remembered Nina's cell,
and groping his way through fire and smoke, he opened the oaken door, involuntarily breathing a prayer of
thanksgiving when he saw the tall form stretched upon
the empty bedstead. He had probably mistaken the way
out, and by entering here, had prolonged his life, for save
through the glass ventilator the smoke could not find entrance to that spot. Arthur knew that he was living, for




THE FIERY TEST.               349
the lips moved once and whispered, "Edith," causing
Arthur's brain to reel, and the cold sweat to start from
every pore as he thought for what and for whom he was
saving his rival. Surely in that terrible hour, in Nina's
cell, with death staring him in the face on every side,
Arthur St. Claire atoned for all the past, and by his noble
unselfishness proved how true and brave he was.
Snatching from the nail the heavy sack, he wound it
around Richard's head to shield him from  the flamles,
then recollecting that on the bed without there was a
thick rose blanket, he wrapped that too around him, and
bending himself with might and main, bore him in his
arms across the heated floor and out into the narrow hall,
growing sick and faint when he saw the wall of fire now
rolling steadily up the stairway.
"cOh, must I die!" he groaned, as he leaned panting
against the wall, listening to the roar without, which
sounded in his ear like demons yelling over their prey.
Life looked very fair to the young man then; even life
without Edith was preferable far to a death like this. He
was too young to die, and the heart which had said in its
bitterness, "there is nothing worth living for," clung tenaciously to a world which seemed so fast receding from
view.
By leaving Richard there, by stripping him of his covering, and folding it about himself, he could assuredly
leap down those stairs, and though he reached the bottom
a scarred, disfigured thing, life would be in him yet; but
Arthur did not waver. Richard should share his fate, be
it for weal or woe, and with a prayer for help, he turned
aside into a little room from which a few rude steps led
up into the the cupola. Heaven surely saved this way
for him, for the fire was not there yet, and he passed in
safety to the roof, where he stood, many dizzy feet from
the shouting multitude, who, hoping he might take advantage of it, were watching for him to appear, greeting him




350          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
with many a loud huzza, and bidding him take courage.
The engines had been brought to bear on this part of the
building, subduing the fire to such an extent that it was
barely possible for him to reach the northern extremity,
where, by jumping upon a flat, lower roof, whose surface
was tin, and then walking a beam over a sea of hissing
flame, he could reach the ladder hoisted against the wall.
All this they made him understand, and with but little
hope of his success they watched him breathlessly as he
trod the black, steaming shingles, which crisped the soles
of his boots, and penetrated even to his flesh. He has
passed that point in safety, he leaps upon the wing, staggering, aye, falling with his burden, and when he struggles to his feet, the red blaze, wheeling in circles around
him, shows where the blood is flowing from a wound upon
the forehead. The batteries of the engine are directed
toward him now, and they saturate his clothes with water,
for the most fearful, most dangerous part is yet to come,
the treading that single beam. Will he do it? Can he
do it? Untrammeled he might, but with that heavy
form he hugs so carefully to him, never! So the drowd
decide, and they shout to him, " Leave him; he is dead.
Save yourself, young man;" but the brave Arthur answers, " No," and half wishes he were blind, so as to shut
out the seething vortex into which one mistep would
plunge him. And while he stood there thus, amid the
roaring of the flames, and the din of the multitude, there
floated up to him a girlish voice,
"Shut your eyes, Arthur, make believe you are blind,
and maybe you can walk the beam."
It was Edith. He saw her where she stood, apart from
all the rest, her long black hair unbound just as she sprang
from her pillow, her arms outstretched toward him, and
the sight nerved him to the trial. He looked at her once
more, it might be for the last time, but he would carry
the remembrance of that dear face even to eternity, and




THE FIERY TEST.              351
with a longing, wistful glance he closed his eyes and prepared -to do her bidding. Then it seemed to him that
another presence than Edith's was around him, another
voice than hers was whispering words of courage, Nina,
who went before, guiding his footsteps, and lightening his
load, screening him from the scorching heat and buoying
him up, while he walked the blackened beam, which shook
and bent at every tread, and at last fell with a crash, but
not until the ladder was reached, and a dozen friendly
arms were outstretched for Richard, and for him, too, for
sight and strength had failed him when they were no longer needed. With countless blessings on the noble young
man, they laid him on the grass at Edith's side, wounded,
burned, smoke-stained, and totally unconscious.
It was well for Richard that the entire household of
Collingwood were there to care for him, for Edith's
thoughts were all bestowed on Arthur. She hardly looked
at Richard, but kneeling down by Arthur, kissed, and
pitied, and wept over his poor, raw, bleeding hands, wiped
the blood from the wound on the forehead, thinking even
then how it would be concealed by the brown hair - the
hair all singed and matted, showing how fiercely he had
battled for his life. Many gathered around her as she sat
there with his head pillowed on her lap, and from the anguish written on her face learned what it was about which
the curious villagers had so long been pondering.
"He must go home with me," Grace Atherton said,
" My carriage will soon be here."
This reminded Edith that she too must act, and beckoning to Victor, she bade him hasten to Collingwood and
see that his master's room was made comfortable.
This was the first token she had given that she knew
of Richard's presence near her. She had heard them say
that he still lived; that not a hair of his head was singed
or a thread of his night garments harmed, and for this she
was glad, but nothing could have tempted her to leave




352          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Arthur, and she sat by him until' the arrival of the carriages which were to convey the still unconscious men to
their respective homes.
At Collingwood, however, her whole attention was given to Richard, who, as he began to realize what was passing around him, seemed so much disturbed at having her
near him that Victor whispered to her, "Hadn't you
better go out? I think your presence excites him."
Edith had fancied so too, and wondering much why it
should, she left him and going to her own room, sat down
by the window, gazing sadly across the fields, to where
Grassy Spring lay in the morning sunshine a blackened,
smouldering ruin.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE SACRIFICE.
For a few days Edith hoped that the fire might defer
her marriage a little longer but almost the first thing
which Richard addressed directly to her was, "Let the
preparations go on as usual; there need be no delay."
So the dressmakers were recalled and bridal finery
tossed about until the whole was finished and the last
sewing woman departed, taking with her, as her predecessors had done, a large budget of items touching the cool
indifference of the bride elect and the icy reserve of the
bridegroom, who was greatly changed, they said. It is
true he was kind and considerate, as of old, and his voice,
whenever he spoke to Edith, was plaintively sad and
touching, but he preferred to be much alone, spending his
tine in his chamber, into which few save his valet was
admlltitted. And thus no one suspected the mighty conflict
he Mwas waging with himself, one moment crying out, "I




THE SACRIFICE.              853
cannot give her up," and again moaning piteously, "I
must, I must."
The first meeting between himself and Arthur after the
fire had been a most affecting one, Richard sobbing like a
child, kissing the hands wounded so cruelly for him, and
whispering amid his sobs, " You saved my life at the peril
of your own, and I shall never forget it. God help me
to do right."
Many times after this he rode down to Brier Hill whither Edith had frequently preceded him; but Richard never
uttered a word of reproach when near the window he
heard a rustling sound and knew who was sitting there.
Neither would he ask a single question when soft footsteps glided past him and out into the hall, but he always
heard them until they died away, and he knew those little
feet were treading the verge of the grave he had dug
within nis heart. It was not yet filled up - that grave
- but his mighty love for Edith lay coffined there, and he
only waited for the needful strength to bury it forever by
verbally giving her up.
And while he waited the May-days glided by, and where
the apple blossoms once had been, the green hard fiuit
was swelling now, the lilacs, purple and limp, had dropped fiomn the tree, the hyacinths and daffodils were gone,
and June with her sunny skies and wealth of roses,
queened it over Collingwood. It lacked but a week now of
the day appointed for the wedding, and Edith wished the
time would hasten, for anything was preferable to the
numb, apathetic feeling which lay around her heart. She
had no hope that she should not be Richard's wife, and
she wondered much at his manner, trying more than once
to coax him from his strange mood by playful words, and
even by caresses, which won from him no response - only
once, when, he hugged her tightly to him, kissing her lips
and hair, and saying to her, "God forgive me, Birdie, I
never meant to wrong you and I am going to make
amends."




354          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
The next day when Victor went up to his master's
room he was struck with the peculiar expression of his
face - a subdued, peaceful expression which told that he
was ready at last to make the great sacrifice- to fold the
darkness more thickly around himself, and give to Arthur
the glorious daylight he once hoped would shine for him.
and Richard would make this sacrifice in his own way.
Edith should read Nina's letter aloud to him, with
Arthur sitting near, and then, when it was finished, he
would ask if it were true, and why she had not told him
before.
Dinner was over, and in the library, where Richard had
asked Edith to be his wife, he sat waiting for her now,
and for Arthur who had been invited to Collingwood that
afternoon. The day was much like that other day when
Victor alone sat with him, save that the south wind stealing through the casement was warmer, more fragrant than
the breath of May had been. The robin was not now
singing in the maple tree, but it would come home ere long,
and Richard knew full well the chirping sounds which
would welcome its approach. Once he had likened himself to the mated robin, but now, alas, he knew he was
but the wounded bird, who finds its nest all desolate, its
hopes all fled —" a tough old owl," he said, smiling bitterly
as he remembered when first he used that term. Edith
was right; she could not mate with the owl, he thought,
just as Arthur stepped across the threshold, and Edith
came tripping down the stairs.
"Sit on a stool at my feet, as you used to do," Richard
said to her; " and you, Arthur, sit by me upon this sofa."'
They obeyed hii, and after a moment he began, "I have
sent for you my children, not to inflict pain, but to remove
it. Heaven forbid that through me you should suffer longer, or that any act of mine should embitter your young
lives. Do not interrupt me," he continued, as Edith was
about to speak. "I must hasten on, or my courage all




THE SACRIFICE.              353
will fail me. Arthur, give me your hands, the hands that
saved my life. I will touch them as carefilly, as tenderly
as I am about to deal with you."
Arthur complied with hisrequest, and pressing the right
one, Richard continued,
" I joined this once with another, a tiny, little hand, now
laid away beneath the Southern flowers; and you said
after me,'I, Arthur, take thee, Nina, for my wife.' You
remember it, don't you?"
Arthur could not speak, and, save the violent start which
Edith gave, there came no answer to Richard's question
as he went on:
"It is only a few weeks since I learned who was that
boy huslband of eighteen and that girlish bride of fifteen
and a half, but I know it now. I know it all, and this
explains much that has been strange in me of late. Edith,"
and he felt for her bowed head, " Edith, I have here Nina's
letter, written by stealth, and brought by Victor to me,
and you must read it to us - then tell me, if you can, why
I have so long been deceived?"
Edith had glanced at the beginning, and with a choking
voice she said,
"No, no, oh, Richard, no. Don't require it of me.
Anything but that. I never knew she wrote it. I never
meant- oh, Richard, Richard! "
She laid her head now on his knee and sobbed aloud,
while he continued:
"You must read it to me.'Tis the only punishment
I shall inflict upon you."
"Read it, Edith," Arthur said, withdrawing one of his
hands from Richard's, and resting it up6n her head thus
to re-assure her.
Richard guessed his intention and laid his own on
Arthur's. Edith felt the gentle, forgiving pressure, even
through the wounded, bandaged hand, and this it was
which gave her strength to read that message, which




356          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
brought Nina before them all, a seemingly living, breathing
presence. And when it was finished there was heard in
that library more than one "g reat cry, like the breaking
up of the ice on the Northernr ponds."
Richard was the calmest of the three. The contents of
the letter were not new to him, and did not touch so
tender a chord as that which thrilled and quivered in
Arthur's heart as he listened to the words of his sweet
child-wife, the golden haired Nina. Though  dead she
was all powerful yet, and Nina, fiom her grave, swayed a
mightier sceptre than Nina living could have done.
"Edith," Richard said, when her agitation had in a
measure subsided, "you have read the letter, now tell me,
is it true? Crazy people do not always see or hear aright.
Did Nina? Has Arthur loved you all the time?"
"Spare Edith," Arthur cried; "and question me. I
did love Edith Hastings, even when I had no right so to do.
" And would you ask her to be your wife if there were
no Richard in the way, and she was free as when you first
knew and loved her?"
Arthur knew the blind man was not trifling with him,
and he answered promptly,
"I would, but she will bear me witness that never since
Nina died, have I sought, by word or deed, to influence her
decision."
" I believe you," Richard said; A" and now, let us compare our love for her one with the other. Let us see
which is the stronger of the two. Do you love Edith so
much that you would give her to another, if you knew she
loved.that other best? If she were promised to you by a
vow she dared nrot break, would you give her to me, supposing I was preferred before you?"
Arthur was very white, as he answered,
"That would not be one-half so hard as the yielding
her to one whom she did not love, and, Richard, I have
done this. I have given her to you, even when I knew
that a word from me would have kept her from you."




TIIE SACRIFICE.             357
" That is hardly an answer to my question," Richard rejoined, "but it shows how honorable you have been. I
question whether I could have done as much. Your sense
of right and wrong was stronger than your love."
"But," said Arthur, quickly interrupting him, "you
must not think that I loved Edith less, because I did not
speak. Silence only fed the flame, and she cannot be so
inexpressibly dear to you as she is to me. Oh, Richard,
Richard, you do not know how much I love her."
"Don't I?" and Richard smiled mournfully; then turning
to Edith, he continued, "And you, my darling, I would
hear from you now. Is it Richard or Arthur you prefer?"
" Oh, Richard," Edith cried, "I meant to keep my vow,
and never let you know. I was going to be a true, a faithful wife, even if it killed me - I certainly was - but, forgive me, Richard, I did love Arthur first, Arthur best,
Arthur most of all," and again the "great cry" smote on
Richard's ear, touching.a chord like that which is touched
in a mother's bosom when she hears her suffering infant's
wail.
" Edith," he said, " if I insist upon it, will you still be my
wife? "
"Yes, Richard, and it will not be so dreadful now that
you know I do love Arthur best, for I do, I do, I can't help
it, and I have tried so hard. He is young like me, and
then I loved him first, I loved him best."
And in this last the whole was embodied.- Edith loved
Arthur best. Richard knew  she did, and turning to
Arthur, he continued,
" And what will you do if I insist? Nill memories of
the love you bore your lost Nina sustain and comfort you? "
Richard spoke half-tauntingly, but Arthur conquered the
emotion of anger he felt arising within him at this allusion to the past, and answered mildly,
"As I hope for Heaven, I did love my poor Nina at the




358          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
last, with a love which, had it been sooner born, would
have made me a happier man; and Nina knew it too.
I told her so before she died, and I would fain have kept
her with me, but I could not, and now, if I lose Edith,
too, it will not be so hard, because I did love Nina, and
sweet memories of her will keep my soul from fainting,
when I am far away from her little grave, far away from
you, and far away from Edith."
Arthur arose to leave the room, but Richard held him
back, saying to him,
"You have answered well. Now listen to me. Edith
Hastings cannot be dearer to you than she is to me, but
think you I will compel her to be mine? Should I be
happy, knowing that always in her dreams another arm
than mine encircled her dear form, that other lips than
mine were pressed to hers, which moaned in sleep not
Richard's, but Arthur's name? And this would surely
be. The wife I mockingly called mine would be yours in
spirit, whether on land or sea, and I ask for no such bride.
Were I sure I could win her love, even though it might
not be in years, not all the powers of earth should wrest
her from me. But I cannot. Such is her temperament
that she would give me only hatred, and I do not deserve
this from her."
" Oh, I wouldn't, I wouldn't," Edith sobbed, and Richard
continued,
" Hush, my child, I know how it would be, even if I did
forget it for a time. You must not be the blind man's
wife, though the giving you up is like tearing me asunder.
And now, Edith, let me hold you once more as I never
shall hold you again. It will make me strong to do what
I must do."
Edith could not move, but Arthur lifted her up, and
placing her in Richard's lap, laid one of his own hands
pityingly on the head of the blind man, whose tears dropped on Edith's neck, as he breathed over her his farewell.
"Light of my eyes, joy of my heart, you know not




rIuE SACRIFICE.             359
what it costs me to give you up, but God in Heaven
knows. He will remember all my pain, removing it in
His own good time, and I shall yet be happy. It is true,
a black, dreary waste stretches on into the future, but beyond it, even in this world, the bright daylight is shining,
and Richard will reach it at last, —will learn to think of
you without a pang, to love you as his sister. Arthur,
I give to you my darling. I' release her from her vow,
and may the kind Father bless you both, giving you
every possible good. Let no sorrow for me mingle with
your joy. I shall have grief and heaviness for a time,
but I am strong to bear it. Morning will break at last.
Let the wedding night be kept the same as is appointed,
there need be no change, save in the bridegroom, and of
that the world will all approve. And, Edith, if during
the coming week I am not much with you, if I stay
altogether in my room, do not try to see me. I once
thought you would be my wife. I know you cannot now,
and you must not come to me at present. But on your
bridal night, I shall go with you to the church. It would
look strangely if I did not. I shall return with you to
the house, shall force myself to hear them call you by
another name than mine, and then, the next morning
Arthur must take you away - for a time, I mean. I know
you will wish to thank me, but I'd rather you would not.
God will reward me in some way for the sacrifice I make
this day. Now, Edith, kiss me once, kiss me twice, with
your arms around my neck. Lay your soft cheek against
mine. Yes - so - so -" and over the dark face there
broke a shadowy smile, as Edith did his bidding, kissing
him many, many times, and blessing him for the great
happiness bestowed upon her.
"There, that will do. Now, Arthur, lead me to my
room, and sit with me until this honrid giddiness is gone,
and my heart beats more naturally."
He put Edith from his lap — passed his hand slowly




360          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
over her face, as if thus he would remember it, and then,
leaning heavily on Arthur's arm, tottered from the room
- the noble Richard who had made this mighty sacrifice.
CHAIPTER XXXVII.
THE BRIDAL.
The week went by as all weeks will, whether laden with
happiness or pain, and the rosy light of the 15th morning
broke over the New England hills and over Collingwood,
where the servants, headed by Grace Atherton, were all
astir, and busy with their preparations for the festive scene
of the coming night. Edith had made strenuous efforts
to have the party given up, sending message after message to Richard, who, without any good reason for it, was
determined upon this one point, and always answered
" No."'
He had adhered to his resolution of staying in his room,
and Edith had not seen him since the eventful day when
he had made the great sacrifice. Arthur, however, was
admitted daily to his presence, always coming from those
interviews with a sad look upon his face, as if his happiness were not unmixed with pain. And still Richard
tried to be cheerful, talking but little of Edith, and appearing so calln when he did mention her, that a casual
observer would have said he did not care.
In the village nothing was talked about save the change
of bridegrooms and the approaching wedding, and when
the mlorning came, others than the inmates of Collingwood
were busy and excited.
It was a glorious day, for leafy June had donned her
gala robes for the occasion, and every heart, save one, beat
with joy, as the sun rose higher and higher in the heavens,




THE BRIDAL.                 361
bringing nearer and nearer the appointed hour. Richard
could not be glad, and that bridal day was the saddest he
had ever known. Not even Arthur was permitted to be
with hin, and none save Victor saw the white, still anguish
creeping over his face as hour after hour went by, and
from the sounds without he knew that they had come
whose business it was to array his Edith in her bridal
robes of costly satin and fleecy lace. Then two more
hours dragged heavily on, and going to his window he
felt that the sun was setting. It was time his own toilet
was commenced, and like a little child he submitted himself to Victor, groaning occasionally as he heard the merry laugh of the bridesmaids on the stairs, and remembered
a time when he, too, felt as light, as joyous as they, aye,
and almost as young. He was strangely altered now,
and looked far older than his years, when, with his wedding garmnents on, he sat in his arm-chair waiting for the
bride.  Ite had sent Victor for her, knowing it would be
better to meet her once before the trying moment at the
altar. Edith obeyed the summons, and in all her wondrous
beauty, which this night shone forth resplendently, she
came and stood before him, saying softly,
"'Richard, I am here."
There was no need to tell him that. IIe knew she was
there, and drawing her to his side, he said,
" I am glad that I am blind for once, for should I behold
you as you are, I could not give you up. Kneel down here,
darling, and let me feel how beautiful you are."
She knelt before him, and her tears fell fast as she felt
his hand moving slowly over her dress, pressing lightly
her round arms, pausing for a moment upon her white
neck, tarrying still longer upon her glowing cheeks, and
finally resting in mute blessing upon her braids of hair,
where the orange blossoms were.
" I must have a lock of my Birdie's hair," he said. "Let
Arthur cut it off to-night. It will be dearer to me than
16




362          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
if'tis later severed. Leave it on the table, where Victor can find it, for, Edith, when you return from your bridal tour, I shall be gone, and I have sent for you because
I would talk with you again ere we part - it may be for
years, and it may be forever."
"No, Richard, no," Edith sobbed. "You must not go
away. I want you here with us."
"It is best that I go for a while," he replied. "I am
almost as much at home in Europe as I am here, and Victor is anxious to see Paris again. I have talked with
Arthur about it, asking him to live here while I am gone
at least and take charge of my affairs. He had thought
to rebuild Grassy Spring, but finally consented to defer it
for a time and do as I desired.  The negroes will be
pleased with this arrangement, and as Grace must wish to
be rid of them, they will come up here at once. I shall be
happier knowing that you are here; and when I feel that
I can, I will come back again, but do not let thoughts of
the wanderer mar your bliss. I have been thinking it
over, Edith, and I see more and more that it was right
for me to release you. I do not censure you for aught
except that you did not tell me in the beginning. For
this I did blame you somewhat, but have forgiven you
now."
"Oh, Richard, Richard," Edith burst out impetuously,
"I never loved you one half so much as since you gave
me to Arthur, and I have wanted to come and tell you
so, but you would not let me."
He knew what kind of love she meant, and his heart
beat just the same as she continued,
"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I was ever
cross to you, and I have been many times since that night
I promised to be yours. I don't know what made me.
I do not feel so now."
"I know what made you," Richard replied. "You
did not love the blind old man well enough to be his wife,




THE BRIDAL.                 363
and the feeling that you must be, soured your disposition.
Forgive me, darling, but I don't believe I should have
been happy with you after a time- not as happy as Arthur, and it is this which helps me bear it."
This was not very complimentary to Edith, but it comforted her just as Richard meant it should, and made the
future look brighter. Richard was dearer to her now than
he had ever been, and the tender, loving caress she gave
him, when at last Arthur's voice was heard without
asking for admission was not feigned, for she felt that he
was the noblest, the best of men, and she told him so, kissing again and again his face, and sighing to think how
white and wan it had grown within the last few weeks.
" Come, darling, we are waiting for you," Arthur said,
as he advanced into the room, and Richard put from his
lap the beautiful young girl around whose uncovered
shoulders Arthur wrapped the white merino cloak which
was to shield her fiom the night air; then bending over
Richard, he said, "Heaven will bless you, even as I do, for
the peerless gift I have received from you, and believe me,
there is much of pain mingled with my joy - pain at leaving you so desolate. I cannot tell you all I feel, but if a
lifetime of devotion can in the smallest degree repay you
what I owe, it shall be freely given. Now bless me once
more, me and my- bride."
Richard had arisen as Arthur was speaking, and at the
word bride he put out his hand as if to keep from falling,
then steadying that on Arthur's head and laying the other
on Edith's he whispered,
" To him who saved my life when he believed I was
his rival I give my singing bird, who for eleven years has
been the blind man's sunshine —give her fireely, cheerfilly,
harboring no malice against him who takes her. My
Arthur and my precious Edith, I bless and love you both."
The nerveless hands pressed heavily for a moment upon
the two bowed heads, and then Arthur led his bride away
to where the carriage waited.




364            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
The ceremony was appointed for half-past eight, but long
before that hour St. Luke's was filled to overflowing, somenic
coming even as early as six to secure seats most favorable
to sight. And there they waited, until the roll of wheels
was heard and the clergyman appeared in the chanoel.
Then seven hundred tired heads turned simultaneously
toward the door through which the party came, the rich
robes of the bride trailing upon the carpet and sweeping from side to side as she moved up the middle aisle.
But not upon her did a single eye in all that vast assemblage linger, nor yet upon the bridegroom, nor yet upon
the bridesmaid, filing in one behind the other, but upon
the stooping figure which moved so slowly, blind Richard
groping his way to the altar, caring nothing for the staring
crowd, nothing for the sudden buzz as he came in, hearing
nothing but Victor's whispered words, "'twill soon be over."
Yes, it would soon be over. It was commencing now,
the marriage ceremony, and Richard listened in a kind of
maze, until the clergyman asked,' "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
As Arthur had supposed this part would, of course, be
omitted, no arrangements had been made for it, and an
awkward pause ensued, while all eyes involuntarily turned
upon the dark man now standing up so tall, so erect, among
that group of lighter, airier forms. Like some frozen statue Richard stood, and the minister, thinking he did not
hear, repeated his demand. Slowly Richard moved forward,
and Grace, who was next to Edith, stepped aside as he
came near. Reverently he laid his hand on Edith's head,
and said aloud,
" I DO!"
Then the hand, sliding fron her head rested on her
shoulder, where it lay all through that ceremony, and the
weeping spectators sitting near, heard distinctly the words
whispered by the white lips which dripped with the perspiration of this last dreadful agony.




THE BRIDAL.                365
" I, Richard, take thee, Birdie, to be my wedded wife, to
have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for
worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to
love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to
God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."
He said it every word, and when it was Edith's turn, he
bent a little forward, while his hand grasped her bare
shoulder so firmly as to leave a mark when she put Arthur's name where his should have been, and the quivering
lips moaned faintly,
"Don't Birdie, don't."
It was a strange bridal, more sad than joyous, for though
in the hearts of bride and groom there was perfect love
for each other, there were too many bitter memories crowding upon them both to make it a moment of unmixed
bliss-memories of Nina, who seemed to stand by Arthur,
blessing him in tones unheard, and a sadder, a living memory of the poor blind man w.hose low wail, when all was
done, smote painfully on Edith's ear.
In a pew near to the altar Victor sat weeping like a
child, and when the last Amen was uttered, he sprang to
his master's side and said,
" Come with me. You cannot wish to go home with
the bride."
Instantly the crowd divided right and left as Victor
passed through their midst, leading out into the open air
the faint, sick man, who, when they were alone, leaned
his head meekly on his faithful valet's arm, saying to him,
" You are all there is left to care for me now. Be good
to me, won't you?"
Victor answered with a clasp of his hand and hurried
on, reaching Collingwood before the bridal guests, who
ere long came swarming in like so many buzzing bees, congratulating the newly-wedded pair, and looking curiously
round for Richard. But Richard was not there. IIe had
borne all he could, and on his bed in his bolted room he




366          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
lay, scarcely giving a token of life save when the sounds
from the parlors reached his ear, when he would whisper,'"'Tis done. It is done."
One by one the hours went by, and then up the gravelled walk the carriages rolled a second time to take the
guests away. Hands were shaken and good nights said.
There was cloaking in the ladies' room and impatient waiting in the gentlemen's; there was hurrying down the stairs,
through the hall, and out upon the7 piazza. There was
banging to of carriage doors, cracking of drivers' whips,
and racing down the road. There was a hasty gathering
up of silver, a closing of the shutters, a putting out of
lamps, until at last silence reigned over Collingwood, from
whose windows only two lights were gleaming. Arthur
was alone with his bride, and Richard alone with his
God.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
SIX YEARS LATER.
The New York and Springfield train eastward bound
stood waiting in the depot at New Haven. There had
been a slight accident which occasioned a detention of
several minutes, and taking advantage of this delay many
of the passengers alighted to stretch their weary limbs or
inhale a breath of purer air than could be obtained within the crowded car. Several seats were thus left unoccupied, one of which a tall, dark, foreign-looking man, with
eyes concealed by a green shade, was about appropriating
to himself, when a wee little hand was laid on his and a
sweet baby voice called out,
"That's my mamma's chair, big man, mamma gone after
cake for Nina!"




SIX YEARS LATER.               867
The stranger started, and his face flushed with some
strong emotion, while his hand rested caressingly upon
the flowing curls of the beautiful three-years-old girl, as
he asked,
"Who is mamma, darling? What is her name, I
mean?"
"I can tell that a heap better'n Nina," chimed in a boy
of five, who was sitting just across the aisle, and joining
the little girl, he continued, " My mother is Edith, so Aunt
Grace calls her, but father says Miggie most all the time.
The stranger yank into the seat, dizzy and faint with
the mighty shock, for he knew now that Edith's children
were standing there before him - that frank, fearless boy,
and that sweet little girl, who, not caring to be outdone
by her brother, said, in a half exultant way, as if it were
something of which she were very proud,
"I've got an Uncle'Ichard, I have, and he's tomin'
home bime by."
"And going to bring me lots of things," interrupted the
boy again, "Marie said so."
At this point a tall, slender Frenchman, who had entered behind the man with the green shade, glided from the
car, glancing backward just in time to see that his master
had coaxed both children into his lap, the girl coming
shyly, while the boy sprang forward with that wide-awake
fearlessness which characterized all his movements. He
was a noble-looking little fellow, and the stranger hugged
himn fondly as he kissed the full red lips so like to other
lips kissed long years ago.
"What makes you wear this funny thing?" asked the
child, peering up under the shade.
" Because my eyes are weak," was the reply. "People
around your home call me blind."
" Uncle'Iehard is blind," lisped the little girl, while the
boy rejoined, " but the bestest man that ever lived. Why,
he's betterer than father, I guess, for I asked ma wan't he,
and pa told me yes."




368           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"Hush-sh, child," returned the stranger, fearing lest they
might attract too much attention.
"Then removing the shade, his eyes rested long and
wistfully upon the little boy and girl as he said,
"I am your Uncle Richard."
"True as you live and breathe are you Uncle Dick," the
boy almost screamed, winding his chubby arms around the
stranger's neck, while Nina standing upon her feet chirped
out her joy as she patted the bearded cheek, and called him
"Uncle'Ick."
Surely if there had been any lingering pain in the heart
of Richard IIarrington it was soothed away by the four
soft baby hands which passed so caressingly over his face
and hair, while honeyed lips touched his, and sweet birdlike voices told how much they had been taught to love
one whom they always called Uncle. These children had
been the hardest part of all to forgive, particularly the
first born, for Richard, when he heard of him had felt all
the old sorrow coming back again; a feeling as if Edith
had no right with little ones which did not call him father.
But time had healed that wound too, until from the
sunny slopes of France, where his home had so long been,
his heart had often leaped across the sea in quest of these
same children now prattling in his ear and calling him
Uncle Dick. There was another, a dearer name by which
they might have called him, but he knew now that'twas
not for him to be thus addressed. And still he felt something like a father's love stealing into his heart as he
wound his arms around the little forms, giving back kiss
for kiss, and asking which was like their mother.
" Ain't none of us much," Dick replied. " We're like
father and Aunt Nina, hanging on the wall in the library.
Mother's got big black eyes, with winkers a rod long, and
her hair shines like my velvet coat, and comes most to her
feet."
Richard smiled, and was about to speak again, when




SIX YEARS LATER.              369
Dick forestalled him by asking'- not if he had brought
him something, but where it was.
"It's in your trunk, I guess," he said, as his busy fingers
investigated every pocket and found nothing savoring of
playthings, except a knife, both blades of which were
opened in a trice, and tried upon the window sill!
Richard, who, never having known much of children,
had not thought of presents, was sorely perplexed, when
luckily Victor returned, bringing a paper of molasses
candy, which he slyly thrust into his master's hand,
whispering to him,
"They always like that."
Victor had calculated aright, for nothing could'have
pleased the St. Claires more; and when, as she entered
at the door, Edith caught sight of her offspring, she hardly
knew them, so besmleared were their little faces with molasses, Nina having wiped her hands first upon her hair
and then rubbed them upon Richard's knee, while Victor
looked on a little doubtful as to what the mother might
say.
"There's mam-ma," SNina cried, trying to shake back
her curls, which nevertheless stuck tightly to her forehead. "There's mam-ma," and in an instant little Dick,
as he was called, found himself rather unceremoniously set
down upon his feet, as Richard adjusted his shade, and
resumed the air of helplessness so natural to the blind.
Edith had been to New York with Marie and the children, leaving the former there for a few weeks, and was
now on her way home, whither she hoped ere long to
welcome Richard, whom she had never seen since the
night of her marriage, when Victor led him half fainting
from the altar. He would not join them at the breakfast
next morning, but sent them his good-bye, and when they
returned from their long, happy bridal tour they found a
letter for them saying Richard was in Paris.
Regularly after that they heard from him, and though
16'




370          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
he never referred to the past, Edith knew how much it cost
him to write to one whom he had loved so much. Latterly,
however, his letters had been far more cheerful in their
tone, and it struck Edith that his hand-writing too, was
more even than formerly, but she suspected nothing and
rather anticipated the time when she should be eyes for
him again, just as she used to be. He had said in his last
letter that he was coming home ere long, but she had no
idea that he was so near, and she wondered what tall, greyish haired gentleman it was who had taken possession of
her seat.
" Mother," little Dick was about to scream, when Victor
placed his hand upon his mouth, at the same time turning
his back to Edith, who, a little surprised at the proceeding,
and a little indignant it may be, said rather haughtily,
and with a hasty glance at Richard,
"M4y seat, sir, if you please."
The boy by this time had broken away from Victor, and
yelled out, "Uncle Dick, ma, Uncle Dick;" but it did not
need this now to tell Edith who it was. A second glance
had told her, and with face almost as white as the linen
collar about her neck, she reeled forward, and would have
fallen but for Victor, who caught her by the shoulder and
set her down beside his master.
Richard was far less excited than herself, inasmuch as
he was prepared for the meeting, and as she sank down
with the folds of her grey traveling dress lying in his lap,
he offered her his hand, and with the same old sunny
smile she remembered so well, said to her,
" Do you not know me?"
"Yes," she gasped, "but it takes my breath away. I
was not expecting you so soon. I am so glad."
He knew she was by the way her snowy fingers twined
themselves around his own and by the fervent pressure of
her lips upon his hand.
" Mam-ma's tyin'," said Nina, and then Edith's tears




SIX YEARS LATER.              871
fell fast, dropping upon the broad hand she still held, and
which very, very gradually, but still intentionally drew
hers directly beneath the green shade, and there Richard
kept it, his thumb hiding the broad band of gold which
told she was a wife.
It was a very small, white, pretty hand, and so perhaps
he imagined, for he held it a long, long time, while he talked
quite naturally of Arthur, of Grace, of the people of Shannondale, and lastly of her children.
" They crept into my heart before I knew it," he said,
releasingEdith's hand and lifting Nina to his knee. "They
are neither of them much like you, my namesake says."
This reminded Edith of the mysterious shade which
puzzled her so much, and, without replying directly to him,
she asked why it was worn. Victor shot a quick, nervous
glance at his master, who without the slightest tremor in
his voice, told her that he had of late been troubled with
weak eyes, and as the dust and sunlight made them worse, he
had been advised to wear it while traveling as a protection.
" I shall remove it by and by, when I am rested," he
said.
And Edith hoped he would, for he did not seem natural
to her with that ugly thing disfiguring him as it did.
When Hartford was reached Richard found an opportunity of whispering something to Victor, who replied,
"Tired and dusty. Better wait, if you want a good
impression."
So, with a spirit of self-denial of which we can scarcely
conceive Richard did wait, and the shade was drawn closely down as little Nina, grown more bold climbed up beside
him, and poised upon one foot, her fat arm resting on his
neck, played "peek-a-boo " beneath the shade, screaming
at every " peek," " I seen your eyes, I did."
A misstep backward, a tumble and a bumped head
brought this sport to an end, just as Shannondale was
reached, and in her attempts to soothe the little girl, Edith




372          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
failed to see that the shade was lifted for a single moment,
while, standing upon the platform, Richard's eyes wandered eagerly, greedily over the broad meadow lands and
fields of waving grain, over the wooded hills, rich in summer glory, and lastly toward Collingwood, with its roofs
and slender tower basking in the July sun.
"Thank God thank God," he whispered, just as Victor
caught his arm, bidding him alight as the train was about
to move forward.
" There's papa, there - right across the track," and Dick
tugged at his father's coat skirts, trying to make him comprehend, but Arthur had just then neither eyes nor ears
for anything but his sobbing little daughter, whose forehead he kissed tenderly, thereby curing the pain and healing the wounded heart of his favorite child, his second
golden-haired Nina.
Dick, however, persevered, until his father understood
what he meant, and Nina was in danger of being hurt
again, so hastily was she dropped when Arthur learned
that Richard had come. There was already a crowd
around him, but they made way for Arthur, who was not
ashamed to show before them all, how much he loved
the noble man, or how glad he was to have him back.
"Richard has grown old," the spectators said to each
other, as they watched him till he entered the carriage
And so he had. His hair was quite grey now, and the
tall figure was somewhat inclined to stoop, while about
the mouth were deep-cut lines which even the heavy mustache could not quite conceal. But he would grow young
again, and even so soon he felt his earlier manhood coming
back as he rode along that pleasant afternoon, past the
fields where the newly-mown hay, fresh from a recent
shower, sent forth its fragrance upon the summer air,
while the song of the mowers mingled with the click of
the whetting scythe, made sweet, homelike sounds which
he loved to hear. Why did he lean so constantly from the




SIX YEARS LATER.               373
carriage, and why when Victor exclaimed, " The old ruin
is there yet," referring to Grassy Spring, did he, too, look
across the, valley?
Arthur asked himself this question many times, and at
last, when they reached Collingwood and Edith had alighted, he bent forward and whispered in Richard's ear, not an,
interrogation, but a positive affirmation, which' brought
back the response,
" Don't tell her - not yet, I mean."
Arthur turned very white and could scarcely stand as
he stepped to the groun/d, for that answer, had taken his
strength away, and Victor led him instead of his master
into the house, where the latter was greeted joyfully by
the astonished servants.
He seemed very weary, and after receiving them all,
asked to go to his room where he could rest.
"You will find it wholly unchanged." Arthur said.
"Nothing new but gas."
" I trust I shall not set the house on fire this time," was
Richard's playful rejoinder, as he followed Victor up the
stairs to the old familiar chamber, where his valet left him
alone to breathe out his fervent thanksgivings for the
many blessings bestowed on one, who, when last he left
that room, had said in his sorrow, there were no sunspots
left.
The first coming home he so much dreaded was over
now, and had been accompanied with far less pain than he
feared. He knew they were glad to have him back - Arthur and his dear sister, as he always called her now.
Never since- the bridal night had the name Edith passed
his lips, and if perchance he heard it from others, he shuddered involuntarily. Still the sound of her voice had not
hurt him as he thought it would; nothing had been half
so hard as he had anticipated; and falling upon his knees,
he poured out his soul in prayer, nor heard the steps upon
the threshold as Arthur came in, his heart too full to tarry




374          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGIIT.
outside longer. Kneeling by Richard, he, too, thanked
the Good Father, not so much for his fiiend's safe return
as for the boon, precious as life itself, which had been
given to that friend.
When at last their prayers were ended, both involunta
rily advanced to the window, where, with his handsome,
manly face turned fully to the light, Arthur stood immovable, nor flinched a hair, as Edith would ere long when
passing the same ordeal. He did not ask what Richard
thought of him, neither did Richard tell, only the remark,
"I do not wonder that she loved you best."
They then talked together of a plan concerning Edith,
after which Arthur left his brother to the repose he so
much needed ere joining them in the parlor below. Never
before had pillows seemed so soft or bed so grateful as
that on which Richard, laid him down to rest, and sleep
was just touching his heavy eyelids, when upon the door
there came a gentle rap, accompanied with the words,
" P'ease, Uncle'Ick, let Nina tome. She's all d essed
up so nice."
That little girl had crept way down into Richard's heart,
just as she did into every body's, and he admitted her at
once, suffering her to climb up beside him, where, with
her fat, dimpled hands folded together, she sat talking to
him in her sweet baby language,
"'Ess go to sleep, Nina tired," she said at last, and folding his arms about her, Richard held her to his bosomn as
if she had been his own. "'Tain't time to say p'ayers, is
it? " she asked, fearing lest she should omit her duty; and
when Richard inquired what her prayers were, she answered,
"Now I lay me - and God bess Uncle'Ick. Mam-ma
tell me that."
Richard's eyes filled with tears, which the waxen fingers
wiped away, and when somewhat later Victor cautiously
looked. in, he saw them sleeping there together, Nina's
golden head nestled in Richard's neck, and one of her little hands lain upon his cheek.




SIX YEARS LATER.              375
Meantime, in Edith's room Arthur was virtually superintending the making of his wife's evening toilet, a most
unprecedented employment for mankind in general, and
him in particular. But for some reason wholly inexplicable to Edith, Arthur was unusually anxious about her personal appearance, suggesting among other things that she
should wear a thin pink muslin, which he knew so well
became her dark style of beauty; and when she reminded
him of its shortcomings with regard to waist and sleeves,
he answered playfully,
" That does not matter.'Twill make you look girlish
and young."
So Edith donned the pink dress, and clasping upon her
neck and arms the delicate ornaments made from Nina's
hair, asked of Arthur, "H Iow she looked."
"Splendidly," he replied. "Handsomer even than on
our bridal night."
And Edith was handsomer than on the night when she
stood at the altar a bride, for six years of almost perfect
happiness had chased away the restless, careworn, sorrowful look which was fast becoming habitual, and now, at
twenty-six, Edith St. Claire was pronounced by the world
the most strikingly beautiful wonian of her age. Poets
had sung of her charms, artists had transferred them to
canvas; brainless beaux, who would as soon rave about
a married woman as a single one, provided it were the
fashion so to do, had stamped them upon their hearts;
envious females had picked them all to pieces, declaring
her too tall, too black, too hoydenish to be even pretty;
while little Dick and Nina likened her to the angels,
wondering if there were anything in heaven, save Aunt
Nina, as beautiful as she. And this was Edith, who when
her toilet was completed went down to meet Grace Atherton just arrived and greatly flurried when she heard that
Richard had come. Very earnestly the two ladies were
talking together when Arthur glanced in for a moment




376         ]DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
and then hastened up to Richard, whom he found sitting
by the window, with Dick and Nina both seated in his
lap, the former utterly astounded at the accuracy with
which his blind uncle guessed every time how many fingers
he held up!
"Father! father!" he screamed, as Arthur came in.
"He can see just as good as if he wasn't blind!" and he
looked with childish curiosity into the eyes which had discovered in his infantile features more than one trace of the
Swedish Petrea, grandmother to the boy.
Arthur smiled, and without replying to his son, said to
Richard,
"I have come now to take you to Edith. Grace Atherton is there, too —a wonderfully young and handsome
woman for forty-two. I am not sure that you can tell
them apart.
" I could tell your wife from all the world," was Richard's answer, as putting down the children and resuming
the green shade, he went with Arthur to the door of the
library, where Grace and Edith, standing with their backs
to them were too much engaged to notice that more than
Arthur was coming.
Him Edith heard, and turning towards him she was
about to speak, when Richard lowered the green shade he
had raised for a single moment, and walking up to her took
her hand in his. Twining his fingers around her slender
wrist he said to her,
" Come with me to the window and sit on a stool at my
feet just as you used to do."
Edith was suprised, and stammered out something about
Grace's being in the room.
"Never mind Mrs. Atherton," he said, " I will attend to
her by and by - my business is now with you," and he
led her to the window, where Arthur had carried a stool.
Like lightning the truth flashed upon Grace, and with a
nervous glance at the mirror to see how she herself was




SIX YEARS LATER.              377
looking that afternoon, she stood motionless, while Richard
dashing the shade to the floor, said to the startled Edith,
"The blind man would know how Petrea's daughter
looks."
With a frightened shriek Edith covered up her face,
and laying her head in its old resting place, Richard's lap,
exclaimed,
"No, no, oh no, Richard. Please not look at me now.
Help me, Arthur. Don't let him," she continued, as she
felt the strong hands removing her own by force. But
Arthur only replied by lifting up her head himself and holding in his own the struggling hands, while Richard examined a face seen now for the first time since its early babyhood. Oh how scrutinisingly he scanned that face, with
its brilliant black eyes, where tears were glittering like
diamonds in the sunlight, its rich healthful bloom, its proudly curved lip, its dimpled chin and soft, round cheeks.
What did he think of it? Did it meet his expectations?
WVas the face he lrad known so long in his darkness as
Edith's, natural when seen by daylight? Mingled there no
shadow of disappointment in the reality? Was Arthur's
Edith at all like Richard's singing bird?  Htow Arthur
wished he knew. But Richard kept his own counsel,
for a time at least. He did not say what he thought of her.
I-e only kissed the lips-beginning to quiver with something
like a grieved expression that Arthur should hold her so
long, kissed them twice, and with his hand wiped her tears
away, saying playfully,
"' Tis too bad, Birdie, I know, but I've anticipated this
hour so long."
He had not called her Birdie before, and the familiar
name compensated for all the pain which Edith had suffered
when she saw those strangely black eyes fastened upon
her, and knew that they could see. Springing to her feet
the moment she was released, she jumped into his lap in
her old impetuous way, and winding her arms around his
neck, sobbed out,




378           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
"I am so glad, Richard, so glad. You can't begin to
guess how glad, and I've prayed for this every night and
every day, Arthur and I. Didn't we, Arthur?  Deal;
dear Richard, I love you so much."
"What he make mani-ma cry for? asked a childish voice
from the corner where little Dick stood, half frightened at
what he saw, his tiny fist doubled ready to do battle for his
mother in case he should make up his mind that her rights
were invaded.
This had the effect of rousing Edith, who, faint with
excitement, was led by Arthur out into the open air, thus
leaving Richard alone with his first love of twenty-five
years ago. It did not seem to him possible that so many
years had passed over the face which, at seventeen, was
narvellously beautiful, and which still was very, very fair
and youthful in its look, for Grace was wondrously well
preserved and never passed for over thirty, save among the
envious ones, who, old themselves, strove hard to make
others older still.
"Time has dealt lightly with you, Grace," Richard said,
after the first curious glance. "I could almost fancy you
were Grace Elmendorff yet," and he lifted gallantly one
of her chestnut curls, just as he used to do in years agone,
when she was Grace Elmnendorff.
This little act recalled so vivedly the scenes of other
d:ays that Grace burst into a flood of tears, and hurried
firom the room to the parlor adjoining, where, unobserved,
she could weep again over the hopes forever fled. Thus
left to himself, with the exception of little Dick, Richard
had leisure to look about him, descrying ere long the lifesized portrait of Nina hanging on the wall. In an instant
he stood before what was to him, not so much a picture
painted on rude canvas, as a living reality - the goldenhaired angel, who was now as closely identified with his
every thought and feeling as even Edith herself had ever
been. She had followed him over land and sea, bringing




SIX YEARS LATER.               379
comfort to him in his dark hours of pain, coloring his
dreams! with rainbow hues of promise, buoying him up
and bidding him wait a little - try yet longer, when the
only hope worth his living for now seemed to be dying
out, and when at last it, the wonderful cure, was done, and
those gathered around him  said each to the other " He
will see," he heard nothing fbr the buzzing sound which
filled his ear, and the low voice whispering to him, " I did
it - brought the daylight straight fi'om heaven. God said
I mnight, and I did. Nina takes care of you."
They told him that he had fainted friom excess of joy,
but Richard believed that Nina had been with him all the
same, cherishing that conviction even to this hour, when
he stood there face to face with her, unconsciously saying
to himself, "Gloriously beautiful Nina. In all my imaginings  of you I never saw aught so fair as this. Edith is
beautiful, but not- "
" As beautiful as Nina was, am I? " said a voice behind
him, and turning round, Richard drew Edith to his side,
and encircling her with his arm answered frankly,
" No, my child, you are not as beautiful as Nina."
"Disappointed in me, are you not?  Tell me honestly,"
and Edith peered up half-archly, half-timidly into the eyes
whose glance she scarcely yet dared meet.
" I can hardly call it disappointment," Richard answered,
smiling down upon her. "You are different looking firom
what I supposed, that is all. Still you are much like what
I remember your mother to have been, save that her eyes
were softer than yours, and her lip not quite so proudly
curved."
" In other words, I show by my face that I am a Bernard,
and something of a spitfire," suggested Edith, and Richard rejoined,
"I think you do," adding as he held her a little closer
to him, "Had I been earlier blessed with sight, I slhould
have known I could not tame you. I should only have
spoiled you by indulgence."




380          DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
Just at this point, little Nina came in, and taking her in
her arms, Edith said,
"I wanted to call her Edith, after myself, as I thought
it might please you; but Arthur said no, she must be Nina
Bernard."
"Better so," returned' Richard, moving away from
the picture. "I can never call another by the name I
once called you, " and this was all the sign he gave that
the wound was not quite healed.
But it was healing fast. Home influences were already
doing him good, and when at last supper was announced,
he looked very happy as he took again his accustomed
seat at the table, with Arthur opposite Edith just where
she used to be, and Grace, sitting at his right. It was a
pleasant family party they made, and the servants marvelled much to hear Richard's hearty laugh mingling with
Edith's merry peal.
That night, when the July moon came up over the New
England hills, it looked down upon the four —Richard
and Arthur, Grace and Edith, sitting upon the broad
piazza as they had not sat in years, Grace a little apart from
the rest, and Edith between her husband and Richard, holding a hand of each, and listening intently while the latter
told them how rumors of a celebrated Parisian oculist had
reached him in his wanderings; how he had soughlt the
rooms of that oculist, leaving them a more hopeful man
than when he entered; how the hope then enkindled
grew stronger month after month, until the thick folds of
darkness gave way to a creamy kind of haze, which hovered
for weeks over his horizon of sight, growing gradually
whiter and thinner, until faint outlines were discovered,
and to his unutterable joy he counted the window panes,
knowing then that sight was surely coming back. He did
not tell them how through all that terrible suspense Nina
seemed always with hin; he would not like to confess
how  superstitious he had become, fully believing that




SIX YEARS LATER.              381
Nina was his guardian angel, that she hovered near him,
and that the touch of her soft little hands had helped to
heal the wound gaping so cruelly when he last bade adieu
to his native land. Richard was not a spiritualist. He
utterly repudiated their wild theories, and built up one of
his own, equally wild and strange, but productive of no
evil, inasmuch as no one was admitted into his secret, or
suffered to know of his one acknowledged sphere where
Nina reigned supreme. This was something he kept to
himself, referring but once to Nina during his narrative,
and that when he said to Edith,
"You remember, darling, Nina told me in her letter
that she'd keep asking God to give me back my sight."
Edith cared but little by whose agency this great cure
had been accomplished, and laying her head on Richard's
knee, just as a girl she used to do, she wept out her joy
for sight restored to her noble benefactor, reproaching him
for having kept the good news from them so carefiully,
even shutting his eyes when he wrote to them so that his
writing should be natural, and the surprise when he did
return, the greater.
Meanwhile Grace's servant came up to accompany her
home, and she bade the happy group good night, her heart
beating faster than its wont as Richard said to her at parting, "I was going to offer my services, but I see I am forestalled. My usual luck, you know," and his black eyes
rested a moment on her face and then wandered to where
Edith sat. Did he mean anything by this? Had the
waves of time, which had beaten and battered his heart
so long, brought it back at last to its first starting point,
Grace Elmendorff?  Time only can tell. I-e believed his
youthful passion had died out years ago, that matrimony
was for him an utter impossibility.
He had been comparatively happy across the sea, and he
was happier still now that he was at home, wishing he
had come before, and wondering why it was that the sight




382            DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
of Edith did not pain him, as he feared it would. IHe
liked to look at her, to hear her musical voice, to watch
her graceful movements as she flitted about the house, and
as the days and weeks went on he grew young again in
her society, until he was much like the Richard to whom
she once said, "I will be your wife," save that his raven
hair was tinged with grey, making him, as some thought,
finer-looking than ever. To Arthur and Edith he was
like a dearly beloved brother; while to Dick and Nina he
was all the world. He was very proud of little Dick, but
Nina was his pet, as she was everybody's who knew her,
and she ere long learned to love him better, if possible,
than she did her father, calling him frequently "her oldest
papa," and wondering in her childish way why he kissed
her so tenderly as often as she lisped out that dear name.
And now but little more remains to tell. It is four
months since Richard came home, and the hazy Indian
summer sun shines o'er the New England hills, bathing
Collingwood in its soft, warm rays, and falling upon the
tall bare trees and the withered grass below, carpeted
with leaves of many a bright hue. On the velvety sward,
which last summer showed so rich a green, the children
are racing up and down, Dick's cheeks glowing like the
scarlet foliage he treads beneath' his feet, and Nina's fair
hair tossing in the autumn wind, which seems to blow less
rudely on the little girl than on her stronger older brother.
On one of the iron seats scattered over the lawn sits
Richard; watching them as they play, not moodily, not
mournfully, for grief and sorrow have no lodgment in the
once blind Richard's heart, and he verily believes that he
is as happy without Edith as he could possibly have been
with her. She is almost everything to him now that a
wife could be consulting his.wishes before her own or Arthur's, and making all else subservient to them. No royal
sovereign ever lorded it over his subjects more completely




SIX YEARS LATER.                383
than could Richard over Collingwood, if he chose, for master and servants alike yield him unbounded deference;
but Richard is far too gentle to abuse the power vested in
his hands, and so he rules by perfect love, which knows
no shadow of distrust. The gift of sight has compensated
for all his olden pain, and often to himself he says, "I
would hardly be blind again for the sake of Edith's first
affections."
He calls her Edith now, just as he used to do, and Edith
knows that only a scar is left as a memento of the fearfil
sacrifice. The morning has broken at last, the darkness
passed away, and while basking in the full, rich daylight,
both Richard and Arthur, and Edith wonder if they are
the same to whom the world was once so dreary. Only
over Grace Atherton is any darkness brooding. She cannot forget the peerless boon she threw away when she
deliberately said to Richard Harrington, "I will not walk
in your shadow," and the love she once bore him is alive
in all its force, but so effectually concealed that few suspect its existence.
Richard goes often to Brier Hill staying sometimes hours,
and Victor, with his opinion of the " gay widow" somewhat
changed, has more than once hinted at Collingwood how
he thinks these visits will end. But the servants scoffed
at the idea, while Arthur and Edith look curiously on,
half hoping Victor is right, and so that matter remains in
uncertainty.
Across the fields Grassy Spring still lies a mass of shapeless ruins. Frequently has Arthur talked of rebuilding it
as a home for his children, but as Richard has always
opposed it and Edith is indifferent, he will probably remain
at Collingwood.
Away to the south, the autumn winds blow softly around
Sunnybank, where Edith's negroes are living as happy
under the new administration as the old, speaking often
of their beautiful mlistress, iwho, when the winter snows




384           DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
fall on the Bay State hills, will wend her way to the southward, and Christmas fires will again be kindled upon the
hearthstones left desolate so many years. Nor is she,
whose little grave lies just across the field, forgotten. Enshrined is her memory within the hearts of all who knew
and loved her, while away to the northward where the cypress and willow mark the resting-place of Shannondale's
dead, a costly marble rears its graceful column, pointing
far upward to the sky, the home of her whose name that
marble bears. "NINA."  That is all. No  laudations
deeply cut tell what she was or where she died. "NINA."
Nothing more. And yet this single word has a power to
touch the deepest, tenderest feelings of two hearts at
least, Arthur's and Edith's - speaking to them of the little
golden-haired gill who crossed so innocently their pathway, striving hard to efface all prints of her footsteps, caring to the last for her "Arthur boy," and the "Miggie"
she loved so well, and calling to them, as it were, even after
the rolling river was safely forded, and she was landed beside the still waters in the bright, green fields of Eden.
And now to the sweet little girl and the noble man who,
through the mazy labyrinths of Darkness and of Daylight,
have grown so strongly into our love, whose faces were
familiar as our own, whose names were household words,
over whose sorrows our tears have fallen like rain, and in
whose joys we have rejoiced, we bid a final adieu. Farewell to thee, beautiful NINA. "Earth hath none fairer lost.
Heaven none purer gained." Farewell to thee forever,
and blessings, rich and rare, distil like evening dew upon
the dear head of the brave-hearted, generous hero RICHARD IIARRINGTON.
THE END.