University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
RICHARD AND EDITH.

On Richard's darkened pathway, there was now a
glimmer of daylight, shed by Edith Hastings' visit, and
with a vague hope that she might come again, he on the
morrow groped his way to the summer house, and taking
the seat where he sat the previous day, he waited and
listened for the footstep on the grass which should tell
him she was near. Nor did he wait long ere Edith came
tripping down the walk, bringing the bouquet which
Grace had prepared with so much care.

“Hist!” dropped involuntarily from her lips, when she
descried him, sitting just where she had, without knowing
why, expected she should find him, and her footfall

became so light that none save the blind could have detected
it.

To Richard there was something half amusing, half
ridiculous in the conduct of the capricious child, and for
the sake of knowing what she would do, he professed to
be ignorant of her presence, and leaning back against the
lattice, pretended to be asleep, while Edith came so near
that he could hear her low breathing as she stood still to
watch him. Nothing could please her more than his
present attitude, for with his large bright eyes shut she
dared to look at him as much and as long as she chose.
He was to her now a kind of divinity, which she worshipped
for the sake of the Swedish baby rescued from a
watery grave, and she longed to wind her arms around
his neck and tell him how she loved him for that act; but
she dared not, and she contented herself with whispering
softly, “If I wasn't so spunky and ugly, I'd pray every
night that God would make you see again. Poor blind
man.”

It would be impossible to describe the deep pathos of
Edith's voice as she uttered the last three words. Love,
admiration, compassion and pity, all were blended in the
tone, and it is not strange that it touched an answering
chord in the heart of the “poor blind man.” Slowly the
broad chest heaved, and tears, the first he had shed since
the fearful morning when they led him into the sunlight
he felt but could not see, moistened his lashes, and dropped
upon his face.

“He's dreaming a bad dream,” Edith said, and with
her little chubby hand she brushed his tears away, cautiously,
lest she should rouse him from his slumbers.

Softly she put back from the white forehead his glossy
hair, taking her own round comb to subdue an obdurate
lock, while he was sure that the fingers made more than
one pilgrimage to the lips as the little barber found moisture
necessary to her task.

“There, Mr. Blindman, you look real nice,” she said,
with an immense amount of satisfaction, as she stepped
back, the better to inspect the whole effect. “I'll bet
you'll wonder who's been here when you wake up, but I
shan't tell you now. Maybe, though, I'll come again to-morrow,”
and placing the bouquet in his hands, she ran
away.

Pausing for a moment, and looking back, she saw
Richard again raise to his lips her bouquet, and with a
palpitating heart, as she thought, “what if he wern't
asleep after all!” she ran on until Brier Hill was reached.

“Not any message this time either?” said Grace, when
told that he had kissed her flowers, and that was all.

Still this was proof that he was pleased, and the infatuated
woman persisted in preparing bouquets, which
Edith daily carried to Collingwood, going always at
the same time, and finding him always in the same spot
waiting for her. As yet no word had passed between
them, for Edith, who liked the novelty of the affair, was
so light-footed that she generally managed to slip the
bouquet into his hand, and run away ere he had time to
detain her. One morning, however, near the middle of
October, when, owing to a bruised heel, she had not been
to see him for more than a week, he sat in his accustomed
place, half-expecting her, and still thinking how improbable
it was that she would come. He had become strangely
attached to the little unknown, as he termed her; he
thought of her all the day long, and when, in the chilly
evening, he sat before the glowing grate, listening to the
monotonous whisperings of his father, he wished so much
that she was there beside him. His life would not be so
dreary then, for in the society of that active, playful
child, he should forget, in part, how miserable he was.
She was blue-eyed, and golden-haired, he thought, with
soft, abundant curls veiling her sweet young face; and
he pictured to himself just how she would look, flitting

through the halls, and dancing upon the green sward near
the door.

“But it cannot be,” he murmured on that October
morning, when he sat alone in his wretchedness. “Nothing
I've wished for most has ever come to pass. Sorrow
has been my birthright from a boy. A curse is resting
upon our household, and all are doomed who come within
its shadow. First my own mother died just when I
needed her the most, then that girlish woman whom I
also called my mother; then, our darling Charlie. My
father's reason followed next, while I am hopelessly blind.
Oh, sometimes I wish that I could die.”

“Hold your breath with all your might, and see if you
can't,” said the voice of Edith Hastings, who had approached
him cautiously, and heard his sad soliloquy.

Richard started, and stretching out his long arm, caught
the sleeve of the little girl, who, finding herself a captive,
ceased to struggle, and seated herself beside him as he
requested her to do.

“Be you holding your breath?” she asked, as for a
moment he did not speak, adding as he made no answer,
“Tell me when you're dead, won't you?”

Richard laughed aloud, a hearty, merry laugh, which
startled himself, it was so like an echo of the past, ere his
hopes were crushed by cruel misfortune.

“I do not care to die now that I have you,” he said;
“and if you'd stay with me always, I should never be
unhappy.”

“Oh, wouldn't that be jolly,” cried Edith, using her
favorite expression, “I'd read to you, and sing to you,
only Rachel says my songs are weird-like, and queer, and
maybe you might not like them; but I'd fix your hair,
and lead you in the smooth places where you wouldn't
jam your heels;” and she glanced ruefully at one of hers,
bound up in a cotton rag. “I wish I could come, but
Mrs. Atherton won't let me, I know. She threatens most

every day to send me back to the Asylum, 'cause I act so.
I'm her little waiting-maid, Edith Hastings.”

“Waiting maid!” and the tone of Richard's voice was
indicative of keen disappointment.

The Harringtons were very proud, and Richard would
once have scoffed at the idea of being particularly interested
in one so far below him as a waiting-maid. He had
never thought of this as a possibility, and the child beside
him was not of quite so much consequence as she had
been before. Still he would know something of her history,
and he asked her where she lived, and why she had
brought him so many flowers.

“I live with Mrs. Atherton,” she replied. “She sent
the flowers, and if you'll never tell as long as you live
and breathe, I'll tell you what Rachel says. Rachel's an
old colored woman, who used to be a nigger down South,
but she's free now, and says Mrs. Atherton loves you. I
guess she does, for she fainted most away that day I went
home and told her you were blind.”

“Mrs. Atherton!” and Richard's face grew suddenly
dark. “Who is Mrs. Atherton, child?”

“Oh-h-h!” laughed Edith deprecatingly; “don't you
know her? She 's Grace Atherton — the biggest lady in
town; sleeps in linen sheets and pillow cases every night,
and washes in a bath-tub every morning.”

“Grace Atherton!” and Edith quailed beneath the
fiery glance bent upon her by those black sightless eyes.
“Did Grace Atherton send these flowers to me?” and
the bright-hued blossoms dropped instantly from his
hand.

“Yes, sir, she did. What makes you tear so? Are
you in a tantrum?” said Edith, as he sprang to his feet
and began unsteadily to pace the summer-house.

Richard Harrington possessed a peculiar temperament.
Grace Atherton had wounded his pride, spurned his love,
and he thought he hated her, deeming it a most unwomanly

act in her to make these overtures for a reconciliation.
This was why he tore so, as Edith had expressed it,
but soon growing more calm, he determined to conceal
from the quick-witted child the cause of his agitation, and
resuming his seat beside her, he asked her many questions
concerning Grace Atherton and herself, and as he talked
he felt his olden interests in his companion gradually
coming back. What if she were now a waiting-maid, her
family might have been good, and he asked her many
things of her early life. But Edith could tell him nothing.
The Orphan Asylum was the first home of which she had
any vivid remembrance, though it did seem to her she
once had lived where the purple grapes were growing
rich and ripe upon the broad vine stalk, and where all the
day long there was music such as she'd never heard since,
but which came back to her sometimes in dreams, staying
long enough for her to catch the air. Her mother, the matron
told her, had died in New York, and she was brought
to the Asylum by a woman who would keep her from
starvation. This was Edith's story, told without reserve
or the slightest suspicion that the proud man beside her
would think the less of her because she had been poor
and hungry. Neither did he, after the first shock had
worn away; and he soon found himself wishing again that
she would come up there and live with him. She was a
strange, odd child, he knew, and he wondered how she
looked. He did not believe she was golden-haired and
blue-eyed now. Still he would not ask her lest he should
receive a second disappointment, for he was a passionate
admirer of female beauty, and he could not repress a feeling
of aversion for an ugly face.

“Is Mrs. Atherton handsome?” he suddenly asked, remembering
the fresh, girlish beauty of Grace Elmendorff,
and wishing to know if it had faded.

“Oh, jolly,” said Edith, “I guess she is. Such splendid
blue hair and auburn eyes.”

“She must be magnificent,” returned Richard, scarcely
repressing a smile. “Give her my compliments and ask
her if she's willing now to share my self-imposed labor.
Mind, don't you forget a word, and go now. I'll expect
you again to-morrow with her answer.”

He made a gesture for Edith to leave, and though she
wanted so much to tell him how she loved him for saving
that Swedish baby, she forbore until another time, and
ran hastily away, repeating his message as she ran lest
she should forget it.

“Sent his compliments, and says ask you if you're willing
to share his — his — his — share his — now — something
— anyway, he wants you to come up there and live,
and I do so hope you'll go. Won't it be jolly?” she exclaimed,
as half out of breath she burst into the room
where Grace sat reading a letter received by the morning's
mail.

“Wants me to what?” Grace asked, fancying she had
not heard aright, and as Edith repeated the message,
there stole into her heart a warm, happy feeling, such as
she had not experienced since the orange wreath crowned
her maiden brow.

Edith had not told her exactly what he said, she knew,
but it was sufficient that he cared to see her, and she resolved
to gratify him, but with something of her olden
coquetry she would wait awhile and make him think she
was not coming. So she said no more to Edith upon the
subject, but told her that she was expecting her cousin
Arthur St. Claire, a student from Geneva College, that he
would be there in a day or two, and while he remained at
Brier Hill she wished Edith to try and behave herself.

“This Mr. St. Claire,” said she, “belongs to one of the
most aristocratic Southern families. He is not accustomed
to anything low, either in speech or manner.”

“Can't I even say jolly?” asked Edith, with such a
seriously comical manner that Grace had great difficulty
to keep from smiling.

“Jolly” was Edith's pet word, the one she used indiscriminately
and on all occasions, sometimes as an interjection,
but oftener as an adjective. If a thing suited her
it was sure to be jolly — she always insisting that 'twas a
good proper word, for Marie used it and she knew. Who
Marie was she could not tell, save that 'twas somebody
who once took care of her and called her jolly. It was in
vain that Grace expostulated, telling her it was a slang
phrase used only by the vulgar. Edith was inexorable,
and would not even promise to abstain from it during the
visit of Arthur St. Claire.