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 Harrington," 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 color which had
stained Grace's cheeks when she knew that Richard had kissed her
flowers, faded out, leaving them of a pallid hue. Sinking into the
nearest chair, she kept repeating "blind--blind--poor, poor
Richard. It cannot be. Bring me some water, Rachel, and help me to
my room. This intensely hot morning makes me faint."
Rachel could not be thus easily deceived. She remembered an old
house in England, looking out upon the sea, and the flirtation
carried on all summer there between her mistress, then a beautiful
young girl of seventeen, and the tall, handsome man, whom they
called Richard Harrington. She remembered, too, the white-haired,
gouty man, who, later in the autumn, came to that old house, and
whose half million Grace had married, saying, by way of apology,
that if Richard chose to waste his life in humoring the whims of
his foolish father, she surely would NOT waste hers with him. SHE
would see the world!
Alas, poor Grace. She had seen the world and paid dearly for the
sight, for, go where she might, she saw always one face, one form;
heard always one voice murmuring in her ear, "Could you endure to
share my burden?"
No, she could not, she said, and so she had taken upon herself a
burden ten-fold heavier to bear--a burden which crushed her
spirits, robbed her cheek of its youthful bloom, 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 actin' like I was love-sick for a man I 'scarded
oncet."
Grace was far too proud to suffer even her faithful Rachel thus to
address her, and turning her flashing eyes upon the old woman, she
said haughtily,
"How dare you talk to me in this way--don't you know I won't allow
it? Besides, what reason have you for asserting what you have?"
"What reason has I? Plenty reason--dis chile ain't a 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
particular '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,
yon 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 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, white-faced woman, who, in the solitude of her chamber was
weeping bitterer tears than she had shed before in years.
Could it he 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, "She'll 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. HAVE you heard the news?"
she began. "It's so wonderful, and so sad, too. Squire Harrington
is not married; he's worse off than that--he'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 who was fond of children. At last, one
day in autumn, the little Eloise, who had just learned to run
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 Mrs. 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 man he
must be," she said, "to save that baby's life, and how she would
pity him if she knew it made him blind. I wonder where she is. She
must be most as big as I am now;" and if it were possible Edith's
eyes grew brighter than their wont as she thought how had SHE been
that Swedish child, she would go straight up to Collingwood and be
the blind man's slave. She would read to him. She would see for
him, and when he walked, she would lead him so carefully, removing
all the ugly pegs from his boots, and watching to see that he did
not stub his toes, as she was always doing in her headlong haste.
"What a great good man he is," she kept repeating, while at the
same time she felt an undefinable interest in the Swedish child,
whom at that very moment, Grace Atherton was cursing in her heart
as the cause of Richard's misfortune.
Kitty was gone at last, and glad to be alone she wept passionately
over this desolation of her hopes, wishing often that the baby had
perished in the river ere it had wrought a work so sad. How she
hated that Swedish mother and her child--how she hated all
children then, even the black haired Edith, out in the autumn
sunshine, singing to herself a long-forgotten strain, which had
come back to her that morning, laden with perfume from the vine-
clad hills of 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 clung 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 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.