University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
GRACE ATHERTON.

“Edith,” said Mrs. Atherton, who had seen her coming,
and hastened out to meet her, “you were gone a long
time, I think.”

“Yes'm,” answered Edith, spitting out the bonnet
strings she had been chewing, and tossing back the thick
black locks which nearly concealed her eyes from view.
“Yes'm; it took me a good while to talk to old Darkness.”

“Talk to whom?” asked Grace; and Edith returned,

“I don't know what you call him if 'taint old Darkness;
he kept muttering about the dark, and asked where
Charlie was.”

“Ole Cap'n Herrin'ton,” said Rachel. “They say
how't he's allus goin' on 'bout Charlie an' the dark.”

This explanation was satisfactory to Grace, who proceeded
next to question Edith concerning Mrs. Richard
Harrington, asking if she saw her, etc.

“There ain't any such,” returned Edith, “but I saw Mr.
Richard. Jolly, isn't he grand? He's as tall as the
ridge-pole, and —”

“But what did he say to the flowers?” interrupted
Grace, far more intent upon knowing how her gift had
been received, than hearing described the personal appearance
of one she had seen so often.

Edith felt intuitively that a narrative of the particulars
attending the delivery of the bouquet would insure
her a scolding, so she merely answered, “He didn't say a
word, only kissed them hard, but he can't see them, Mrs.
Atherton. He can't see me, nor you, nor anybody. He's
blind as a bat —”

“Blind! Richard blind! Oh, Edith;” and the bright

color which had stained Grace's cheeks when she knew
that Richard had kissed her flowers, faded out, leaving
them of a pallid hue. Sinking into the nearest chair, she
kept repeating “Blind — blind — poor, poor Richard. It
cannot be. Bring me some water, Rachel, and help me to
my room. This intensely hot morning makes me faint.”

Rachel could not be thus easily deceived. She remembered
an old house in England, looking out upon the sea,
and the flirtation carried on all summer there between her
mistress, then a beautiful young girl of seventeen, and the
tall, handsome man, whom they called Richard Harrington.
She remembered, too, the white-haired, gouty man,
who, later in the autumn, came to that old house, and
whose half million Grace had married, saying, by way of
apology, that if Richard chose to waste his life in humoring
the whims of his foolish father, she surely would not
waste hers with him. She would see the world!

Alas, poor Grace. She had seen the world and paid
dearly for the sight, for, go where she might, she saw
always one face, one form; heard always one voice murmuring
in her ear, “Could you endure to share my
burden?”

No, she could not, she said, and so she had taken upon
herself a burden ten-fold heavier to bear — a burden
which crushed her spirits, robbed her cheek of its youthful
bloom, and after which she sent no regret when at last
it disappeared, leaving her free to think again of Richard
Harrington. It was a terrible blow to her that he was
blind, and talk as she might about the faintness of the
morning, old Rachel knew the real cause of her distress,
and when alone with her, said, by way of comfort,

“Law, now, Miss Grace, 'taint worth a while to take on
so. Like 'nough he'll be cured — mebby it's nothin' but
them fetch-ed water-falls — cat-a-rats, that's it — and he
can have 'em cut out. I wouldn't go to actin' like I was
love-sick for a man I 'scarded oncet.”

Grace was far too proud to suffer even her faithful
Rachel thus to address her, and turning her flashing eyes
upon the old woman, she said haughtily,

“How dare you talk to me in this way — don't you
know I won't allow it? Besides, what reason have you
for asserting what you have?”

“What reason has I? Plenty reason — dis chile ain't
a fool if she is a nigger, raised in Georgy, and a born
slave till she was turned of thirty. Your poor marm
who done sot me free, would never spoke to me that way.
What reason has I? I'se got good mem'ry — I 'members
them letters I used to tote forrid and back, over thar in
England; and how you used to watch by the winder till
you seen him comin,' and then, gal-like, ran off to make
him think you wasn't partic'lar 'bout seein' him. But, it
passes me, what made you have ole money bags. I never
could see inter that, when I knowd how you hated
his shiny bald head, and slunk away if he offered to
tache you with his old, soft, flappy hands. You are glad
he's in Heaven, you know you be; and though I never
said nothin', I knowd you was glad that Squire Herrin'ton
was come back to Collingwood, just as I knowd what
made you choke like a chicken with the pip when Edith
tole you he was blind. Can't cheat dis chile,” and adjusting
her white turban with an air of injured dignity,
Rachel left her mistress, and returned to the kitchen.

“What ails Mrs. Atherton?” asked Edith, fancying it
must be something serious which could keep the old negress
so long from her bread.

On ordinary occasions the tolerably discreet African
would have made some evasive reply, but with her feathers
all ruffled, she belched out, “The upshot of the matter
is, she's in love?”

“In love? Who does Mrs. Atherton love?”

“Him — the blind man,” returned Rachel, adding fiercely,
“but if you ever let her know I told you, I'll skin

you alive — do you hear? Like enough she'll be for
sendin' you up thar with more posies, an' if she does, do
you hold your tongue and take 'em along.”

Edith had no desire to betray Rachel's confidence, and
slipping one shoulder out of her low dress she darted off
after a butterfly, wondering to herself if it made everybody
faint and sick at their stomach to be in love! It
seemed very natural that one as rich and beautiful as
Grace should love Richard Harrington, and the fact that
she did, insensibly raised in her estimation the poor, white-faced
woman, who, in the solitude of her chamber was
weeping bitterer tears than she had shed before in years.

Could it be so? She hoped there was some mistake —
and when an hour later she heard Kitty Maynard's cheerful
voice in the lower hall her heart gave a bound as she
thought, “She'll know — she's heard of it by this time.”

“Please may I come in?” said Kitty, at her door.
“Rachel told me you had a headache, but I know you
won't mind me,” and ere the words were half out of her
mouth, Kitty's bonnet was off and she was perched upon
the foot of the bed. Have you heard the news?” she
began. “It's so wonderful, and so sad, too. Squire Harrington
is not married; he's worse off than that — he's
hopelessly blind.”

“Indeed!” and Grace Atherton's manner was very
indifferent.

“Yes,” Kitty continued. “His French valet, Victor,
who travelled with him in Europe, told brother Will all
about it. Seven or eight years ago they were spending
the summer upon the banks of the Rhine, and in a cottage
near them was an American with a Swedish wife and
baby. The man, it seems, was a dissipated fellow, much
older than his wife, whom he neglected shamefully, leaving
her alone for weeks at a time. The baby's name was
Eloise, and she was a great pet with Richard, who was
fond of children. At last, one day in autumn, the little

Eloise, who had just learned to run alone, wandered off
by herself to a bluff, or rock, or something, from which
she fell into the river. The mother, Petrea, was close by,
and her terrific shrieks brought Richard to the spot in
time to save the child. He had not been well for several
days, and the frightful cold he took induced a fever, which
seemed to settle in his eyes, for ever since his sight has
been failing until now it has left him entirely. But hark!
isn't some one in the next room?” and she stepped into
the adjoining apartment just as the nimble Edith disappeared
from view.

She had been sent up by Rachel with a message to
Mrs. Atherton, and was just in time to hear the commencement
of Kitty's story. Any thing relating to the
blind man was interesting to her, and so she listened, her
large black eyes growing larger and blacker as the tale
proceeded. It did not seem wholly new to her, that story
of the drowning child — that cottage on the Rhine, and
for a moment she heard a strain of low, rich music sung
as a lullaby to some restless, wakeful child. Then the
music, the cottage and the blue Rhine faded away. She
could not recall them, but bound as by a spell she listened
still, until the word Petrea dropped from Kitty's lips.
Then she started suddenly. Surely, she'd heard that
name before. Whose was it? When was it? Where
was it? She could not tell, and she repeated it in a whisper
so loud that it attracted Kitty's attention.

“I shall catch it if she finds me listening,” thought
Edith, as she heard Kitty's remark, and in her haste to
escape she forgot all about Petrea — all about the lullaby,
and remembered nothing save the noble deed of the heroic
Richard. “What a noble man he must be,” she said,
“to save that baby's life, and how she would pity him if
she knew it made him blind. I wonder where she is.
She must be most as big as I am now;” and if it were
possible Edith's eyes grew brighter than their wont as

she thought how had she been that Swedish child, she
would go straight up to Collingwood and be the blind
man's slave. She would read to him. She would see
for him, and when he walked, she would lead him so
carefully, removing all the ugly pegs from his boots, and
watching to see that he did not stub his toes, as she was
always doing in her headlong haste. “What a great good
man he is,” she kept repeating, while at the same time
she felt an undefinable interest in the Swedish child, whom
at that very moment, Grace Atherton was cursing in her
heart as the cause of Richard's misfortune.

Kitty was gone at last, and glad to be alone she wept
passionately over this desolation of her hopes, wishing
often that the baby had perished in the river ere it had
wrought a work so sad. How she hated that Swedish
mother and her child — how she hated all children then,
even the black haired Edith, out in the autumn sunshine,
singing to herself a long-forgotten strain, which had come
back to her that morning, laden with perfume from the
vine-clad hills of Bingen, and with music from the Rhine.
Softly the full, rich melody came stealing through the
open window, and Grace Atherton as she listened to the
mournful cadence felt her heart growing less hard and
bitter toward fate, toward the world, and toward the innocent
Swedish babe. Then as she remembered that
Richard kissed the flowers, a flush mounted to her brow.
He did love her yet; through all the dreary years of their
separation he had cluug to her, and would it not atone
for her former selfishness, if now that the world was dark
to him, she should give herself to the task of cheering
the deep darkness? It would be happiness, she thought,
to be pointed out as the devoted wife of the blind man,
far greater happiness to bask in the sunlight of the blind
man's love, for Grace Atherton did love him, and in the
might of her love she resolved upon doing that from
which she would have shrunk had he not been as helpless

and afflicted as he was. Edith should be the medium
between them. Edith should take him flowers every day,
until he signified a wish for her to come herself, when she
would go, and sitting by his side, would tell him, perhaps,
how sad her life had been since that choice of hers made
on the shore of the deep sea. Then, if he asked her
again to share his lonely lot, she would gladly lay her
head upon his bosom, and whisper back the word she
should have said to him seven years ago.

It was a pleasant picture of the future which Grace
Atherton drew as she lay watching the white clouds come
and go over the distant tree tops of Collingwood, and
listening to the song of Edith, still playing in the sunshine,
and when at dinner time she failed to appear at
the ringing of the bell, and Edith was sent in quest of
her, she found her sleeping quietly, dreaming of the Swedish
babe and Richard Harrington.