Darkness and Daylight - Mary J. Holmes (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

me. I’se too old any way to leave my cabin thar in Floridy, and I’d a heap sight rather of stayed and died on de old plantation. We has good times thar, me and Uncle Abe— that’s an old colored gentleman that lives jinin’, and does nothin’, just as I do. He lost his wife nex Christmas’ll be a year; and, bein’ lonesome like, he used to come over o’ nights to talk about her, and tell how mizzable it was to be alone.”

“You are a widow, I presume,” said Edith, her black eyes brimming with fun.

“Yes, chile, I’se been a widdy thirty year, an’ Uncle Abe was such a well-to-do nigger, a trifle shaky in the legs, I know; but it don’t matter. Marster St. Claire wouldn’t part the family, he said, and nothin’ to do but I must come. Uncle Abe’s cabin was comfable enough, and thar was a hull chest of Rhody’s things, a doin’ nobody no good.”

Aunt Judy paused, and looked into the fire as if seeing there images of the absent Abel, while Edith regarded her intently, pressing her hands twice upon her forehead, as if trying to retain a confused, blurred idea which flitted across her mind.

“Judy,” she said, at last, “it seems to me I must have seen YOU somewhere before, though where, I don’t know.”

“Like enough, honey,” returned Judy. “Your voice sounds mighty nateral, and them black eyes shine an’ glisten like some oder eyes I seen somewhar. Has you been in Floridy, chile?”

“No,” returned Edith; “I was born in New York City, I believe.”

“Then ‘taint likely we’s met afore,” said Judy, “though you do grow on me ‘mazin’ly. You’re the very spawn o’ somebody. Phillis, who does the young lady look like?”

Phillis, who had been rummaging the closets and cupboards, now came forward, and scrutinizing Edith’s features, said, “She favors Master Bernard’s last wife, only she’s taller and plumper.”

But with the querulousness of old age Judy scouted the idea.

“Reckoned she knowed how Marster Bernard’s last wife looked. ‘Twan’t no more like the young lady than ‘twas like Uncle Abe,” and with her mind thus brought back to Abel, she commenced an eulogy upon him, to which Edith did not care to listen, and she gladly followed Phillis into the pantry, explaining to her the use of such conveniences as she did not fully understand.

“Two o’clock!” she exclaimed, as she heard the silver bell from the library clock. “Richard’ll think I’m lost,” and bidding her new acquaintances good bye, she hurried to the gate, having first given orders for Bedouin to be brought from the stable.

“Shan’t I go home wid you, Miss?” asked the negro, who held the pony; “it’s hardly fittin’ for you to go alone.”

But Edith assured him she was not afraid, and galloped swiftly down the road, while the negro John looked admiringly after, declaring to his father, who joined him, that “she rode mighty well for a Yankee girl.”

 

CHAPTER XII.

LESSONS.

 

Arthur St. Claire had returned from Worcester, but it was several days ere he presented himself at Collingwood; and Edith was beginning to think he had forgotten her and the promised drawing lessons, when he one evening was ushered by Victor into the parlor, where she was singing to Richard his favorite songs. He was paler than when she saw him before, and she fancied that he seemed weary and worn, as if sleep and himself had been for a long time strangers.

“Did you leave your friend better?” she asked.

“Yes, better,” he answered hurriedly, changing the conversation to topics evidently more agreeable.

One could not be very unhappy in Edith’s presence. She possessed so much life, vivacity and vigor, that her companions were sure to become more or less imbued with her cheerful spirit; and as the evening advanced, Arthur became much like the Arthur of Brier Hill memory, and even laughed aloud on several occasions.

“I wish I was sure of finding at Grassy Spring somebody just like you,” he said to Edith when at last he arose to go. “Yon have driven away a whole army of blues. I almost believe I’d be willing to be blind, if, by that means, I could be cared for as Mr. Harrington is.”

“And crazy, too?” slily interrupted Edith, who was standing near him as he leaned against the marble mantel.

“No, no—oh, heavens, no! anything but that,” and the hand he placed in Edith’s shook nervously, but soon grew still between her soft, warm palms.

There was something life-giving in Edith’s touch, as well as soul-giving in her presence, and standing there with his cold, nervous hand in hers, the young man felt himself grow strong again, and full of courage to hope for a happier future than the past had been. He knew SHE could not share the future with him—but he would have as much of her as possible, and just as she was wondering if he would remember the lessons, he spoke of them and asked when she could come.

“Just when Mr. Harrington thinks best,” she replied, and thus appealed to, Richard, guided by Edith’s voice, came forward and joined them.

“Any time,” he said. “To-morrow, if you like,” adding that he believed he, too, was to be always present.

Edith’s eyes sought those of Arthur, reading there a reflection of her own secret thoughts, to wit, that THREE would he one too many, but they could not tell him so and Arthur responded at once, “Certainly, I shall expect you both, say to-morrow at ten o’clock; I am most at leisure then.”

The next morning, at the appointed time, Richard and Edith appeared at Grassy Spring, where they found Arthur waiting for them, his portfolio upon the table, and his pencils lying near, ready to be used.

“I am afraid you’ll find it tiresome, Mr. Harrington,” he said, as he assigned his visitor a chair, and then went back to Edith.

“I shall do very well,” answered Richard, and so he did for that lesson, and the next, and the next, but at last, in spite of his assertion to the contrary, he found it dull business going to Grassy Spring twice each week, and sitting alone with nothing to occupy his mind, except, indeed, to wonder how NEAR Arthur was to Edith, and if he bent over her as he remembered seeing drawing teachers do at school.

Richard was getting very tired of it—very weary of listening to Arthur’s directions, and to Edith’s merry laughs at her awkward blunders, and he was not sorry when one lesson-day, the fifth since they began, Grace Atherton’s voice was heard in the hall without asking for admission. He had long since forgiven Grace for jilting him, and they were the best of friends; so when she suggested their going into the adjoining room, where it was pleasanter and she could play to him if he liked, he readily assented, and while listening to her lively conversation and fine playing, he forgot the lapse of time, and was surprised when Edith came to him with the news that it was 12 o’clock.

“Pray, don’t go yet,” said Arthur, who was loth to part with his pupil. “You surely do not dine till three, and I have already ordered lunch. Here it comes,” and he pointed to the door where Phillis stood, bearing a huge silver salver, on which were wine and cake and fruit of various kinds.

“Grapes,” screamed Edith, as she saw the rich purple clusters, which had been put up for winter use by poor, discarded Mrs. Johnson. “I really cannot go till I have some of them,” and as there was no alternative Richard sat down to wait the little lady’s pleasure.

He did not care for lunch, but joined in the conversation, which turned upon matrimony.

“It must be a very delightful state,” said Edith, “provided one were well matched and loved her husband, as I am sure I should do.”

“Supposing you didn’t love him,” asked Grace, “but had married him from force of circumstances, what then?”

“I’d kill him and the circumstances too,” answered Edith. “Wouldn’t you, Mr. St. Claire?”

“I can hardly tell,” he replied, “not having matrimony in my mind. I shall never marry.”

“Never marry!” and the pang at Edith’s heart was discernible in her soft, black eyes, turned so quickly toward this candidate for celibacy.

“How long since you came to that decision?” asked Grace; and in tones which indicated truth, Arthur replied,

“Several years at least, and I have never for a moment changed my mind.”

“Because the right one has not come, perhaps,” put in Richard, growing very much interested in the conversation.

“The right one will never come,” and Arthur spoke earnestly. “The girl does not live, who can ever be to me a wife, were she graceful as a fawn and beautiful as–” he glanced at Edith as if he would call her name, but added instead—“as a Hebe, it could make no difference. That matter is fixed, and is as changeless as the laws of the Medes and Persians.”

“I am sorry for you, young man,” said Richard, whose face, notwithstanding this assertion, indicated anything but sorrow.

He could now trust Edith alone at Grassy Spring—he need not always be bored with coming there, and he was glad Arthur had so freely expressed his sentiments, as it relieved him of a great burden; so, at parting, when Arthur said to him us usual, “I’ll see you again on Friday,” he replied,

“I don’t know, I’m getting so worried with these abominably tedious lessons, that for once I’ll let her come alone.”

Alas, poor, deluded Richard! He did not know that to attain this very object, Arthur had said what he did. It is true, he meant every word he uttered. Matrimony and Edith Hastings must not be thought of together. That were worse than madness, and his better judgment warned him not to see too much of her—told him it was better far to have that sightless man beside them when they met together in a relation so intimate as the teacher bears to his pupil. But Arthur would not listen; Edith was the first who for years had really touched a human chord in his palsied heart, and the vibration would not cease without a fiercer struggle than he cared to make. It could do no harm, he said. He had been so unhappy—was so unhappy now. Edith would, of course, be Richard’s wife; he had foreseen that from the very first—had predicted it long ago, but ere the sacrifice was made, he was surely pardonable if, for a little while, he gave himself to the bewildering intoxication of basking in the sunshine of her eyes, of bending so near to her that he could feel her fragrant breath, feel the warm glow of her cheek, of holding those little hands a moment in his own after he had ceased to teach her fingers how to guide the pencil.

All this passed in rapid review before his mind while his lips uttered the words which had so delighted Richard, and when he saw the shadow on Edith’s face, his poor, aching heart throbbed with a joy as wild and intense as it was hopeless and insane. This was Arthur St. Claire with Edith present, but with Edith gone, he was quite another man. Eagerly he watched her till she disappeared from view, then returning to the library he sat down where she had sat—laid his head upon the table where her hands had lain, and cursed himself for daring to dream of love in connection with Edith Hastings. It would be happiness for a time, he knew, to hang upon her smile, to watch the lights and shadows of her speaking face, to look into her eyes—those clear, truthful eyes