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

Victor answered with a clasp of his hand and hurried on, reaching Collingwood before the bridal guests, who ere long came swarming in like so many buzzing bees, congratulating the newly-wedded pair, and looking curiously round for Richard. But Richard was not there. He had borne all he could, and on his bed in his bolted room he lay, scarcely giving a token of life save when the sounds from the parlors reached his ear, when he would whisper,

“‘Tis done. It is done.”

One by one the hours went by, and then up the gravelled walk the carriages rolled a second time to take the guests away. Hands were shaken and good nights said. There was cloaking in the ladies’ room and impatient waiting in the gentlemen’s; there was hurrying down the stairs, through the hall, and out upon the piazza. There was banging to of carriage doors, cracking of drivers’ whips, and racing down the road. There was a hasty gathering up of silver, a closing of the shutters, a putting out of lamps, until at last silence reigned over Collingwood, from whose windows only two lights were gleaming. Arthur was alone with his bride, and Richard alone with his God.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

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 handwriting 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