RICHARD AND EDITH.
On Richard's darkened pathway, there WAS now a glimmer of
daylight, shed by Edith Hastings' visit, and with a vague hope
that she might come again, he on the morrow groped his way to the
summer house, and taking the seat where he sat the previous day,
he waited and listened for the footstep on the grass which should
tell him she was near. Nor did he wait long ere Edith came
tripping down the walk, bringing the bouquet which Grace had
prepared with so much care.
"Hist!" dropped involuntarily from her lips, when she descried
him, sitting just where she had, without knowing why, expected she
should find him, and her footfall 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 more than
his present attitude, for with his large bright eyes shut she
dared to look at him as much and as long she chose. He was to her
now a kind of divinity, which she worshipped for the sake of the
Swedish baby rescued from a watery grave, and she longed to wind
her arms around his neck and tell him how she loved him for that
act; but she dared not, and she contented herself with whispering
softly, "If I wasn't so spunky and 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 from his slumbers.
Softly she put back from the white forehead his glossy hair,
taking her own round comb to subdue an obdurate look, 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.
"There, Mr. 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 to-morrow," 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 had 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
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."
"Hold 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 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 would 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 down 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. What 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 Harrington possessed a peculiar temperament, Grace
Atherton had wounded his pride, spurned his love, and he THOUGHT
he hated her, deeming it a most unwomanly 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 had 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.
He 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, remembering the
fresh, girlish beauty of Grace Elmendorff, and wishing to know if
it had faded.
"Oh, jolly," said Edith, "I guess she is. Such splendid blue hair
and auburn eyes."
"She must be magnificent," returned Richard, scarcely repressing a
smile. "Give her my compliments and ask her if she's willing NOW
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--something--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.
"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.