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!"
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 Kina," 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 sank into the seat, dizzy and faint with the mighty
shock, for he knew now that Edith's children were standing them
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 him 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 'Ichard 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."
"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 Harrington 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 bird-like voices told how much they
had been taught to love the 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 those 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, und was about to speak again, when Dick
forestalled him by asking--not if he had 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 besmeared
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 us to what the mother
might say.
"There's mam-ma," Nina cried, trying to shake back her curls,
which nevertheless stuck lightly 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 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,
"My 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 sat 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 fell fast,
dropping upon the broad hand she still held, 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, releasing
Edith'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 find 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 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 any thing 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 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 ground, 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 outside longer. Kneeling by
Richard, he, too, thanked the Good Father, not so much for his
friend'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 involuntarily 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'eae, Uncle 'Ick, let Nina tome. She's all dressed 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 bosom 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.
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, "How 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 woman 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 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 surprised, 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 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 do 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? Was the face he
had 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?
How Arthur wished he knew. But Richard kept his own counsel, for a
time at least. He did not say what he thought of her. He 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,
"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? Dear, dear Richard. I love you so much."
"What he make mam-ma cry for?" asked a childish voice from the
comer where little Dick stood, half frightened at what he saw, his
tiny fist doubled ready to do battle for 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 marvellously 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
Elmendorff.
This little act recalled so vivedly the scenes of other days that
Grace burst into a flood of tears, and hurried from 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 life-sized 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 golden-haired
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 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
for the buzzing sound which filled his ear, and the low voice
whispering to him, "I did it--brought the daylight straight from
heaven. God said I might--and I did. Nina takes care of you."
They told him that he had fainted from 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 from 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 should have known I
could not tame you. I should only have spoiled you by indulgence."
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 sought 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 sights 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 him; he would not
like to confess how superstitious he had become, fully believing
that 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 carefully, 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 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. He 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 of Edith did not pain him, as
he feared it would. He 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 every body'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 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 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 fearful 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 throw 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
mistress who, when the winter snows 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 feeling of two hearts at least,
Arthur's and Edith's--speaking to them of the little golden-haired
girl 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 HARRINGTON.
THE END.