RICHARD AND EDITH.
"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.
"Edith, said Richard, winding his arm around her, "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
Collingwood?--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 was 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 friend. 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 lay 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."
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 putting on airs and
not speaking to her former mistress, 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 Mrs. 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 self-assured 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
clement, 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 warble a wild, impassioned air
which made Richard pause 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 from 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 Francais?"
and he turned to Edith, who, while recognizing something familiar
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 in its place,
made some remark concerning its quaint appearance, and bowed
himself from the room, saying to her as he shut the door,
"Bon soir, Mademoiselle."
"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.
Matson 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 seized 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
wonderful 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 he 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, 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 are 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 mantua-makers.
"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, where he
found no one but Rachel, sitting before this 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,
"Has 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 names of every one save Victor, and
then tried very hard to think "who that 'tother one was. She
knowed there WAS somebody else, but for the life of her she
couldn't"--Rachel did not quite dare to tell so gross a falsehood,
and so at this point she concluded to THINK, and added suddenly,
"Oh, yes, I remember now. 'Twas that tall, long-haired, 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 Mr. 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 Athertoa knew that Edith had
spoken truly.
"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 the 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 bar 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 from
Collingwood, Victor, with a quizzical expression 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 from her now. She should have 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.