DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
A Novel
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF "LENA RIVERS," "MARIAN GREY," "MEADOW BROOK,"
"HOMESTEAD," "DORA DEANE," "COUSIN MAUDE," "TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,"
"ENGLISH ORPHANS," ETC.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. COLLINGWOOD
II. EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD
III. GRACE ATHERTON
IV. RICHARD AND EDITH
V. VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND VISITORS AT BRIER HILL
VI. ARTHUR AND EDITH
VII. RICHARD AND ARTHUR
VIII. RICHARD AND EDITH
IX. WOMANHOOD
X. EDITH AT HOME
XI. MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING
XII. LESSONS
XIII. FRIDAY
XIV. THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING
XV. NINA
XVI. ARTHUR'S STORY
XVII. NINA AND MIGGIE
XVIII. DR. GRISWOLD
XIX. EX OFFICIO
XX. THE DECISION
XXI. THE DEERING WOODS
XXII. THE DARKNESS DEEPENS
XXIII. PARTING
XXIV. THE NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY
XXV. DESTINY
XXVI. EDITH AND THE WORLD
XXVII. THE LAND OF FLOWERS
XXVIII. SUNNYBANK
XXIX. THE SISTERS
XXX. ARTHUR AND NINA
XXXI. LAST DAYS
XXXII. PARTING WITH THE DEAD AND PARTING WITH THE LIVING
XXXIII. HOME
XXXIV. NINA'S LETTER
XXXV. THE FIERY TEST
XXXVI. THE SACRIFICE
XXXVII. THE BRIDAL
XXXVIII. SIX YEARS LATER
DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
COLLINGWOOD.
Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve long years
its massive walls of dark grey stone had frowned in gloomy silence
upon the passers-by, the terror of the superstitious ones, who had
peopled its halls with ghosts and goblins, saying even that the
snowy-haired old man, its owner, had more than once been seen
there, moving restlessly from room to room and muttering of the
darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair young wife and
her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man was not dead, but for
years he had been a stranger to his former home.
In foreign lands he had wandered--up and down, up and down--from
the snow-clad hills of Russia to where the blue skies of Italy
bent softly over him and the sunny plains of France smiled on him
a welcome. But the darkness he bewailed was there as elsewhere,
and to his son he said, at last, "We will go to America, but not
to Collingwood--not where Lucy used to live, and where the boy was
born."
So they came back again and made for themselves a home on the
shore of the silvery lake so famed in song, where they hoped to
rest from their weary journeyings. But it was not so decreed.
Slowly as poison works within the blood, a fearful blight was
stealing upon the noble, uncomplaining Richard, who had sacrificed
his early manhood to his father's fancies, and when at last the
blow had fallen and crushed him in its might, he became as
helpless as a little child, looking to others for the aid he had
heretofore been accustomed to render. Then it was that the weak
old man emerged for a time from beneath the cloud which had
enveloped him so long, and winding his arms around his stricken
boy, said, submissively, "What will poor Dick have me do?"
"Go to Collingwood, where I know every walk and winding path, and
where the world will not seem so dreary, for I shall be at home."
The father had not expected this, and his palsied hands shook
nervously; but the terrible misfortune of his son had touched a
chord of pity, and brought to his darkened mind a vague
remembrance of the years in which the unselfish Richard had
thought only of his comfort, and so he answered sadly, "We will go
to Collingwood."
One week more, and it was known in Shannondale, that crazy Captain
Harrington and his son, the handsome Squire Richard, were coming
again to the old homestead, which was first to be fitted up in a
most princely style. All through the summer months the extensive
improvements and repairs went on, awakening the liveliest interest
in the villagers, who busied themselves with watching and
reporting the progress of events at Collingwood. Fires were
kindled on the marble hearths, and the flames went roaring up the
broad-mouthed chimneys, frightening from their nests of many years
the croaking swallows, and scaring away the bats, which had so
long held holiday in the deserted rooms. Partitions were removed,
folding doors were made, windows were cut down, and large panes of
glass were substituted for those of more ancient date. The grounds
and garden too were reclaimed from the waste of briers and weeds
which had so wantonly rioted there; and the waters of the fish-
pond, relieved of their dark green slime and decaying leaves,
gleamed once more in the summer sunshine like a sheet of burnished
silver, while a fairy boat lay moored upon its bosom as in the
olden time. Softly the hillside brooklet fell, like a miniature
cascade, into the little pond, and the low music it made blended
harmoniously with the fall of the fountain not far away.
It was indeed a beautiful place; and when the furnishing process
began, crowds of eager people daily thronged the spacious rooms,
commenting upon the carpets, the curtains, the chandeliers, the
furniture of rosewood and marble, and marvelling much why Richard
Harrington should care for surroundings so costly and elegant.
Could it be that he intended surprising them with a bride? It was
possible--nay, more, it was highly probable that weary of his
foolish sire's continual mutterings of "Lucy and the darkness," he
bad found some fair young girl to share the care with him, and
this was her gilded cage.
Shannondale was like all country towns, and the idea once
suggested, the story rapidly gained ground, until at last it
reached the ear of Grace Atherton, the pretty young widow, whose
windows looked directly across the stretches of meadow and
woodland to where Collingwood lifted its single tower and its
walls of dark grey stone. As became the owner of Brier Hill and
the widow of a judge, Grace held herself somewhat above the rest
of the villagers, associating with but few, and finding her
society mostly in the city not many miles away,
When her cross, gouty, phthisicy, fidgety old husband lay sick for
three whole months, she nursed him so patiently that people
wondered if it could be she loved the SURLY DOG, and one woman,
bolder than the others, asked her if she did.
"Love him? No," she answered, "but I shall do my duty."
So when he died she made him a grand funeral, but did not pretend
that she was sorry. She was not, and the night on which she
crossed the threshold of Brier Hill a widow of twenty-one saw her
a happier woman than when she first crossed it as a bride. Such
was Grace Atherton, a proud, independent, but well principled
woman, attending strictly to her own affairs, and expecting others
to do the same. In the gossip concerning Collingwood, she had
taken no verbal part, but there was no one more deeply interested
than herself, spite of her studied indifference.
"You never knew the family," a lady caller said to her one
morning, when at a rather late hour she sat languidly sipping her
rich chocolate, and daintily picking at the snowy rolls and nicely
buttered toast, "you never knew them or you would cease to wonder
why the village people take so much interest in their movements,
and are so glad to have them back."
"I have heard their story," returned Mrs. Atherton, "and I have no
doubt the son is a very fine specimen of an old bachelor; thirty-
five, isn't he, or thereabouts?"
"Thirty-five!" and Kitty Maynard raised her hands in dismay. "My
dear Mrs. Atherton, he's hardly thirty yet, and those who have
seen him since his return from Europe, pronounce him a splendid
looking man, with an air of remarkably high breeding. I wonder if
there IS any truth in the report that he is to bring with him a
bride."
"A bride, Kitty!" and the massive silver fork dropped from Grace
Atherton's hand.
SHE was interested now, and nervously pulling the gathers of her
white morning gown, she listened while the loquacious Kitty told
her what she knew of the imaginary wife of Richard Harrington. The
hands ceased their working at the gathers, and assuming an air of
indifference, Grace rang her silver bell, which was immediately
answered by a singular looking girl, whom she addressed as Edith,
bidding her bring some orange marmalade from an adjoining closet.
Her orders were obeyed, and then the child lingered by the door,
listening eagerly to the conversation which Grace had resumed
concerning Collingwood and its future mistress.
Edith Hastings was a strange child, with a strange habit of
expressing her thoughts aloud, and as she heard the beauties of
Collingwood described in Kitty Maynard's most glowing terms, she
suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, JOLLY don't I wish I could live there,
only I'd be afraid of that boy who haunts the upper rooms."
"Edith!" said Mrs. Atherton, sternly, "why are you waiting here?
Go at once to Rachel and bid her give you something to do."
Thus rebuked the black-eyed, black-haired, black-faced little girl
waited away, not cringingly, for Edith Hastings possessed a spirit
as proud as that of her high born mistress, and she went slowly to
the kitchen, where, under Rachel's directions, she was soon in the
mysteries of dish-washing, while the ladies in the parlor
continued their conversation.
"I don't know what I shall do with that child," said Grace, as
Edith's footsteps died away. I sometimes wish I had left her where
I found her."
"Why, I thought her a very bright little creature," said Kitty,
and her companion replied,
"She's too bright, and that's the trouble. She imitates me in
everything, walks like me, talks like me, and yesterday I found
her in the drawing-room going through with a pantomime of
receiving calls the way I do. I wish you could have seen her
stately bow when presented to an imaginary stranger."
"Did she do credit to you?" Kitty asked, and Grace replied,
"I can't say that she did not, but I don't like this disposition
of hers--to put on the airs of people above her. Now if she were
not a poor--"
"Look, look!" interrupted Kitty, "that must be the five hundred
dollar piano sent up from Boston," and she directed her
companion's attention to the long wagon which was passing the
house on the way to Collingwood.
This brought the conversation back from the aspiring Edith to
Richard Harrington, and as old Rachel soon came in to remove her
mistress' breakfast, Kitty took her leave, saying as she bade her
friend good morning,
"I trust it will not be long before you know him."
"Know him!" repeated Grace, when at last she was alone. "Just as
if I had not known him to my sorrow. Oh, Richard, Richard! maybe
you'd forgive me if you knew what I have suffered," and the proud,
beautiful eyes filled with tears as Grace Atherton plucked the
broad green leaves from the grape vine over her head, and tearing
them in pieces scattered the fragments upon the floor of the
piazza. "Was there to be a bride at Collingwood?" This was the
question which racked her brain, keeping her in a constant state
of feverish excitement until the very morning came when the family
were expected.
Mrs. Matson, the former housekeeper, had resumed her old position,
and though she came often to Brier Hill to consult the taste of
Mrs. Atherton as to the arrangement of curtains and furniture,
Grace was too haughtily polite to question her, and every car
whistle found her at the window watching for the carriage and a
sight of its inmates. One after another the western trains
arrived, and the soft September twilight deepened into darker
night, showing to the expectant Grace the numerous lights shining
from the windows of Collingwood. Edith Hastings, too, imbued with
something of her mistress' spirit, was on the alert, and when the
last train in which they could possibly come, thundered through
the town, her quick ear was the first to catch the sound of wheels
grinding slowly up the hill.
"They are coming, Mrs. Atherton!" she cried; and nimble as a
squirrel she climbed the great gate post, where with her elf locks
floating about her sparkling face, she sat, while the carriage
passed slowly by, then saying to herself, "Pshaw, it wasn't worth
the trouble--I never saw a thing," she slid down from her high
position, and stealing in the back way so as to avoid the scolding
Mrs. Atherton was sure to give her, she crept up to her own
chamber, where she stood long by the open window, watching the
lights at Collingwood, and wondering if it WOULD make a person
perfectly happy to be its mistress and the bride of Richard
Harrington.