Darkness and Daylight Part 12

"He has gone to Florida," she answered, "and will not return for some weeks."

"Gone to Florida, and I not know it! That's very queer," and the stranger bit his lip with vexation.

"Did you wish particularly to see him?" asked Edith, and he replied,

"Yes, a friend lies very sick in the--" he paused a moment, looked searchingly at Edith, and added, "in Worcester. We can do nothing with her, and I have come for him."

Edith thought of NINA, thought of the Den, thought of everything, except that the man seemed waiting for her to speak.

"Won't be home for some weeks," he said at last, as she continued silent, "And you don't know where a letter would reach him?"

"No, sir, but I will deliver any message from you as soon as he returns."

The stranger scrutinized her closely a second time ere he replied,

"Tell him Griswold has been here and wishes him to come to Worcester at once."

Edith was mortal, nay more, was a genuine descendant of mother Eve, and with a feeling akin to what that fair matron must have felt when she wondered how those apples did taste, she said to the man, "Who shall I say is sick?"

"A friend," was the laconic reply, as he walked rapidly away, muttering to himself, "A pretty sc.r.a.pe St. Claire is getting himself into. Poor Arthur, poor Arthur."

It would seen that Edith, too, was imbued with something of the spirit which prompted him to say, "Poor Arthur," for she involuntarily sighed, and casting another glance at the windows of the den, gave loose rein to Bedouin and galloped swiftly down the road.

The next morning was clear and bright, and as Richard felt the bracing air, he said to her, "We will visit Gra.s.sy Spring to-day.

It's time you gave it a little air."

The carriage was accordingly brought out, and in half an hour's time Richard and Edith were treading the deserted rooms, into which they let the warm sunlight by opening wide the windows, all save those of one chamber. Edith did not go near the Den, and she marvelled that Arthur should have given her its key, indicating which it was. She did not know that the rather peculiar young man had lain for her a snare, by which means he would surely know how far her curiosity had led her. He might have spared himself the trouble, for Edith was the soul of honor, and nothing could have induced her to cross the proscribed threshold.

"It's very pleasant here, isn't it?" Richard asked, as they went from one room to another, and he felt the soft carpets yield to his tread.

"Yes," she answered; "but not as pleasant as Collingwood. I like my own home best," and she looked into his face in time to catch the expression she loved so well--an expression of trusting, childlike happiness, touching to behold in a strong man.

He liked to know that Edith was contented with Collingwood; contented with him; and he hoped it would be so always. He could not bear the thought that he had suffered every fibre of his heart to twine and intertwine themselves around her, only to be one day broken and cast bleeding at his feet. But somehow, here at Gra.s.sy Spring, in the home of Arthur St. Claire, he felt oppressed with a dread lest this thing should be; and to Edith, when she asked what made him so pale, he said,

"It's close in here, I think. Let's hurry out into the open air."

She led him to an iron chair beneath a forest maple, and leaving him there alone went back to close the windows she had opened. One of those in the drawing-room resisted all her efforts for a time, but came down at last with a bang, causing her to start, and hit her foot against a frame which she had not before observed, but which she now saw was a portrait standing in the dark corner with its face against the wall.

"Truly there can be no harm in looking at this," she thought, and turning it to the light she stepped back to examine it.

'Twas the picture of a black-eyed, black-haired child--a little girl, scarcely three years old, judging from the baby face, and the fat, dimpled hands turning so earnestly the leaves of a picture book. One tiny foot was bare, and one encased in a red morocco shoe.

"Dear, darling baby," she said aloud, feeling an irresistible desire to hug the little creature to her bosom. "Who are you, baby? Where are you now? and how came you with Mr. St. Claire?"

She asked these questions aloud, and was answered by Richard calling from his seat beneath the maple to know why she tarried so long. With one more lingering glance at the infant, she locked the doors and hastened out to her blind charge. On three or four other occasions she came alone to Gra.s.sy Spring, opening the doors and windows, and feasting her eyes upon the beautiful little child.

Edith was wonderfully in love with that picture, and many a theory she built as to the original. Grace had told her that Arthur had no sister, and this, while it tended to deepen the mystery, increased her interest.

"I'll ask him about her when he gets home," she thought; and she waited anxiously for his return, which occurred much sooner than she antic.i.p.ated.

It was a cold, raw November day, and the rain was beating against the windows of the little room she called her boudoir, and where she now sat sewing, when Victor, who had been sent to Gra.s.sy Spring to see that the storm did not penetrate the western blinds, appeared before her, ejaculating, "Mon Dieu, Miss Hastings. What do you think there is over yonder at Gra.s.sy Spring? A whole swarm of n.i.g.g.e.rs, and Guinea n.i.g.g.e.rs at that, I do believe. Such outlandish specimens! There they sit bent up double with the cold and hovering round the kitchen fire, some on the floor, some on chairs, and one has actually taken the tin dish pan and turned it bottom side up for a stool. They come from Florida, they say, and they sorter 'long to Marsa St. Claire. They called me MARSA, too, and when Mr. St. Claire asked me how my MASTER and young lady were, the old she one who sat smoking in the corner, with a turban on her head as high as a church steeple, took the pipe from her month and actually SWORE.

"Swore, Victor!" exclaimed Edith, who had listened in amazement to his story.

"I don't know what you call it but swearing; says she, 'A white n.i.g.g.e.r, Lor'-a-mighty,' and the whole bevy of them opened their ranks for time to sit down in their circle--kind of a fellow feeling, you know," and Victor endeavored to hide the shock his pride had received by laughing loudly at the negroes' mistake.

"How did you get in?" asked Edith. "He must have been there before you."

"He had a key to the back door," returned Victor, "and I gave him up mine. He wants you to send the others. Shall I take them over?"

"Yes--no--I will go myself," said Edith, remembering Mr. Griswold, from Worcester, and the message she was to deliver.

"YOU go in this rain! Mr. Harrington won't let you," said Victor, and Edith rejoined, "I shan't ask him. I've been out in worse storms than this. Bring up Bedouin."

Victor was never happier than when obeying Edith, and in an inconceivably short s.p.a.ce of time Bedouin stood at the back piazza, where his mistress mounted him and rode away. It was not until she had left the Collingwood grounds and was out upon the main road, that she began to feel any doubts as to the propriety of what she was doing. She had not seen Arthur St. Claire for eight years. She must, of course, introduce herself and would he not marvel to see her there in that rain, when a servant could have brought the keys its well. And the message, too--Victor might have delivered that had she been willing to trust him with it, but she was not. Arthur St. Claire had a secret of some kind; Mr.

Griswold was concerned in it, and it was to guard this secret from all curious ears that she was doing what she was. Having thus settled the matter to her mind, Edith rode on, unmindful of the rain, which had partially subsided, but still dripped from her black plumes and glanced off from her velvet habit. A slight nervous trepidation seized her, however, as she drew near to Gra.s.sy Spring, and noticed the look of surprise with which a stalwart African, standing by the gate, regarded her. Riding up to him she said, good-naturedly, "How d'ye, uncle?" having learned so much of negro dialect from Rachel, who was a native of Georgia.

Immediately the ivories of the darkie became visible, and with a not ungraceful bow, he answered, "Jest tolable, thankee;" while his eyes wandered up the road, as if in quest of something they evidently did not find, for bending forward helooked curiously behind Edith, saying by way of apology, "I'se huntin' for yer little black boy; whar is he?"

"Where's who?" and in her fright, lest some one of the little "Guinea n.i.g.g.e.rs" about whom Victor had told her, might be seated behind her, Edith leaped with on bound form the saddle, nearly upsetting the young man hastening out to meet her.

Southern bred as the negro was he could not conceive of a white lady's riding without an escort, and failing to see said escort, he fancied it must be some diminutive child perched upon the horse, and was looking to find him, feeling naturally curious to know how the negroes of Yankee land differed from those of Florida. All this Edith understood afterward, but she was too much excited now to thing of any thing except that she had probably made herself ridiculous in the eyes of Arthur St. Claire, who adroitly rescued her from a fall in the mud, by catching her about the waist and clasping one of her hands.

"Miss Hastings, I believe," he said, when he saw that she had regained her equilibrium, "This is a pleasure I hardly expected in this storm,--but come in. You are drenched with rain;" and still holding her hand, he led her into the library, where a cheerful fire was blazing.

Drawing a chair before it he made her sit down, while he untied and removed her hat, brushing the drops of rain from her hair, and doing it in so quiet, familiar, and withal so womanly a manner that Edith began to feel quite at home with him, and to think she had not done so foolish a thing, after all, in coming there. When sure she was comfortable, he drew a chair opposite to her, and for the first time since they met, she had a chance to see what changes eight years had wrought in one she thought so handsome, as a youth. He was larger, more fully developed than when she parted from him in Albany, and it seemed to her as if he were taller, too. He was certainly manlier in his appearance, and the incipient mustache at which her nose was once contemptuously elevated, was now rich, brown beard, adding, as some would think, to the beauty of his face, the pride of his barber, and the envy of his less fortunate comrades. He was a remarkably fine looking man, handsomer even than Richard Harrington, inasmuch as he had not about him the air of helplessness which characterized the blind man. The same old mischievous twinkle lurked in the soft brown eyes, and the corners of the mouth curved just as they used to do.

But his smile was not as frequent or as joyous as of old, while on his brow there was a shadow resting--an expression of sad disquiet, as if thus early he had drank deeply from the cup of sorrow. Amid his wavy hair a line of silver was now and then discernible, and Edith thought how much faster he had grown old than Richard Harrington. And well be might, for Richard, in his blindness was happier far than Arthur St. Claire, blessed with health, and riches, and eyesight, and youth. He had no secret eating to his very heart's core, and with every succeeding year magnifying itself into a greater evil than it really was, as an error concealed is sure to do. Besides that, Richard had Edith, while Arthur, alas, poor Arthur, he had worse than nothing; and as he looked across the hearth to where Edith sat, he ceased to wonder that one who for eight years had basked in the sunshine of her presence, should be as young, as vigorous and happy as Richard had appeared to him. But he must not think of this. He professed to be a woman-hater, he who, in his early boyhood, had counted his conquests by scores; and even if he were not, beautiful Edith Hastings could never be aught to him; and he must not suffer himself for a single moment to think HOW beautiful she was, still he could not help looking at her, and not a movement of her hand or a bund of her head escaped him. But so skillfully did he manage that the deluded girl fancied he never once glanced at her, while he expressed to her his grat.i.tude for having taken so good care of his house.

"There is one room, however, you did not open," and the eyes of brown met now the eyes of black, but were quickly withdrawn, as he continued, "I mean the one at the head of the stairs, leading from my private sitting-room."

"How do you know?" asked Edith, a suspicion of the truth flashing upon her. "Did Blue Beard lay a snare in which to catch Fatima?"

"He did," Arthur answered, "but was nearly as certain then as now that she would not fall into it. Miss Hastings, it gives me more pleasure than I can well express to find one female who is worthy to be trusted--who has no curiosity."

"But I have a heap of curiosity," returned Edith, laughingly. "I'm half crazy to know what that room is for and why you are so particular about it."

"Then you deserve more credit than I have given you," he replied, a dark shadow stealing over his handsome face.

Edith was about to ask him of the portrait in the drawing room, when he prevented her by making some playful allusion to the circ.u.mstances of their first acquaintance.

"I began to think you had forgotten me," said Edith, "though I knew you could not well forget the theft unjustly charged to me."

She hoped he would now speak of Nina, but he did not, and as she for the first time remembered Mr. Griswold, she said, after a moment's pause,

"I came near forgetting my princ.i.p.al errand here. I could have sent your keys, but I would rather deliver Mr. Griswold's message myself."

She expected Arthur to start, but she was not prepared for him to spring from his chair as suddenly as he did.

"Mr. Griswold!" he repeated. "Where did you see him? Has HE been here? What did he say? Tell me, Edith--Miss Hastings--I beg your pardon--tell me his errand."