University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
RICHARD AND ARTHUR.

It was not a common occurrence for a visitor to present
himself at Collingwood at so early an hour as that in
which Arthur St. Claire rang for admittance, and Victor,
who heard the bell, hastened in some surprise to answer it.

“Tell Mr. Harrington a stranger wishes to see him,”
said Arthur, following the polite valet into the library,
where a fire was slowly struggling into life.

“Yes, sir. What name?” and Victor waited for a
moment, while Arthur hesitated, and finally stammered
out:

“Mr. St. Claire, from Virginia.”

Immediately Victor withdrew, and seeking his master,
delivered the message, adding that the gentleman seemed
embarrassed, and he wouldn't wonder if he'd come to
borrow money.

“St. Claire — St. Claire,” Richard repeated to himself.
“Where have I heard that name before? Somewhere,
sure.”

“He called himself a stranger,” returned Victor, adding
that a youth by that name was visiting at Brier Hill, and
it was probably of him that Mr. Harrington was thinking.

“It may be, though I've no remembrance of having

heard that fact,” returned Richard; “but, lead on,” and
he took the arm of Victor, who lead him to the library
door and then, as was his custom, turned away.

More than once during the rapid journey, Arthur had
half resolved to turn back and not run the fearful risk of
being recognized by Richard Harrington, but the remembrance
of Edith's mute distress should he return alone,
emboldened him to go on and trust to Providence, or, if
Providence failed, trust to Richard's generosity not to betray
his secret. He heard the uncertain footsteps in the
hall, and forgetting that the eyes he so much dreaded
could not see, he pulled his coat collar up around his face
so as to conceal as much of it as possible.

“Mr. St. Claire? Is there such a person here?” and
Richard Harrington had crossed the threshold of the door,
and with his sightless eyes rolling around the room, stood
waiting for an answer.

How well Arthur remembered that rich, full, musical
voice. It seemed to him but yesterday since he heard it
before, and he shrank more and more from the reply which
must be made to that question, and quickly, too, for the
countenance of the blind man was beginning to wear a
look of perplexity at the continued silence.

Summoning all his courage he stepped forward and
taking the hand groping in the air, said rapidly, “Excuse
me, Mr. Harrington, I hardly know what to say, I've
come upon so queer an errand. You know Edith Hastings,
the little girl who lived with Mrs. Atherton?”

He thought by introducing Edith at once to divert the
blind man from himself, but Richard's quick ear had
caught a tone not wholly unfamiliar as he replied,

“Yes, I know Edith Hastings, and it seems to me I
ought to know you, too. I've heard your name and
voice before. Wasn't it in Geneva?” and the eagle eyes
fastened themselves upon the wall just back of where
Arthur stood.

Arthur fairly gasped for breath, and for an instant he
was as blind as Richard himself; then, catching at the
word Geneva, he answered, “Did you ever live in Geneva,
sir?”

“Not in the village, but near there on the lake shore,”
answered Richard, and Arthur continued,

“You probably attended the examinations then at the
Academy, and heard me speak. I was a pupil there
nearly two years before entering the college.”

Arthur fancied himself remarkably clever for having
suggested an idea which seemed to perfectly to satisfy
his companion and which was not a falsehood either.
He had been a student in the Academy for nearly two
years, had spoken at all the exhibitions, receiving the
prize at one; he had seen Richard Harrington among the
spectators, and had no doubt that Richard might have observed
him, though not very closely, else he had never
put himself in his power by the one single act which was
embittering his young life.

“It is likely you are right,” said Richard, “I was often
at the examinations, and since my misfortune I find myself
recognizing voices as I never could have done when
I had sight as well as hearing upon which to depend.
But you spoke of Edith Hastings. I trust no harm has
befallen the child. I am much interested in her and wonder
she has not been here long ere this. What would you
tell me of her?”

Briefly Arthur related the particulars of his visit at
Brier Hill, a visit which had ended so disastrously to
Edith, and even before he reached the important point,
Richard answered promptly, “She shall come here, I need
her. I want her — want her for my sister, my child. I
shall never have another;” then pressing his hands suddenly
upon his forehead, whose blue veins seemed to swell
with the intensity of his emotions, he continued. “But,
no, Mr. St. Claire. It cannot be, she is too young, too

merry-hearted, too full of life and love to be brought into
the shadow of our household. She would die upon my
hands. Her voice would grow sadder and more mournful
with the coming of every season, until at last when I had
learned to love her as my life, I should some morning listen
for what would never greet my ear again. It's a great
temptation, but it must not be. A crazy old man and
his blind son are not fit guardians for a child like Edith
Hastings. She must not walk in our darkness.”

“But might not her presence bring daylight to that
darkness?” asked Arthur, gazing with mingled feelings
of wonder and admiration upon the singularly handsome,
noble-looking man, who was indeed walking in thick darkness.

“She might,” said Richard. “Yes, she might bring the
full rich daylight to us, but on her the shadow would fall
with a fearful blackness if she linked her destiny with
mine. Young man, do you like Edith Hastings, if so, take
her yourself, and if money —”

Arthur here interrupted him with, “I have money of
my own, sir; but I have no home at present. I am a
student in college. I can do nothing with her there, but
—” and his voice sunk almost to a whisper. “Years hence,
I hope to have a home, and then, if you are tired of Edith
I will take her. Meantime keep her at Collingwood for
me. Is it a bargain?”

“You are young, I think,” said Richard, smiling at
Arthur's proposition, and smiling again, when in tones
apologetical, as if to be only so old were something of
which he ought to be ashamed, Arthur returned,

“I am nineteen this month.”

“And I was thirty, last spring,” said Richard. “An
old man, you think, no doubt. But to return to Edith
Hastings. My heart wants her so much, while my better
judgment rebels against it. Will she be greatly disappointed
if I refuse?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Arthur, grasping the hand laying
on Richard's knee. I can't go back to her without you.
But, Mr. Harrington, before I urge it farther, let me ask
as her friend, will she come here as a servant, or an equal.”

There was an upward flashing of the keen black eyes,
a flush upon the high, white forehead, and Richard impatiently
stamped upon the floor as he answered proudly,

“She comes as an equal, or not at all. She shall be as
highly educated and as thoroughly accomplished as if the
blood of the Harringtons flowed in her veins.”

“Then take her,” and Arthur seemed more anxious
than before. “She will do justice to your training. She
will be wondrously beautiful. She will grace the halls of
Collingwood with the air of England's queen. You will
not be ashamed of her, and who knows but some day —”

Arthur began to stammer, and at last managed to finish
with, “There is not such a vast difference in your ages.
Twenty-one years is nothing when weighed against the
debt of gratitude she will owe you —”

“There, I've made a fool of myself,” he thought, as he
saw the forehead tie itself up in knots, and the corners of
the mouth twitch with merriment.

“By that last speech you've proved how young and romantic
you are,” answered Richard. “Winter and spring
go not well together. Edith Hastings will never be my
wife. But she shall come to Collingwood. I will return
with you and bring her back myself.”

Ringing the bell for Victor, he bade him see that breakfast
was served at once, saying that he was going with
his friend to Albany.

“Without me?” asked Victor in much surprise, and
Richard replied,

“Yes, without you,” adding in an aside to Arthur,
“Victor is so much accustomed to waiting upon me that
he thinks himself necessary to every movement, but I'd
rather travel alone with Edith, she'll do as well as Victor,

and I have a fancy to keep my movements a secret, at
least until the child is fairly in the house. It will be a
surprise to Mrs. Atherton; I'll have John drive us to
the next station, and meet me there to-morrow.”

So saying, he excused himself for a few moments and
groped his way up stairs to make some necessary changes
in his dress. For several minutes Arthur was alone, and
free to congratulate himself upon his escape from detection.

“In my dread of recognition I undoubtedly aggravated
its chances,” he thought. “Of course this Mr. Harrington
did not observe me closely. It was night, and he was
almost blind, even then. My voice and manner are all
that can betray me, and as he is apparently satisfied on
that point, I have nothing further to apprehend from him.”

Arthur liked to feel well — disagreeable reflections did
not suit his temperament, and having thus dismissed from
his mind the only thing annoying him at the present, he
began to examine the books arrayed so carefully upon the
shelves, whistling to himself as he did so, and pronouncing
Arthur St. Claire a pretty good fellow after all, if he had
a secret of which most people would not approve. He
had just reached this conclusion when Richard reappeared,
and breakfast was soon after announced by the valet,
Victor. That being over, there was not a moment to be
lost if they would reach the cars in time for the next
train, and bidding his father a kind adieu, Richard went
with Arthur to the carriage, and was driven to the depot
of the adjoining town. More than one passenger turned
their heads to look at the strangers as they came in, the
elder led by the younger, who yet managed so skillfully
that but few guessed how great a calamity had befallen
the man with the dark hair, and black, glittering eyes.
Arthur took a great pride in ministering to the wants of
his companion, and in all he did there was a delicacy and
tenderness which touched a chord almost fraternal in the
heart of the blind man, who, as the day wore on, found

himself drawn more and more toward his new acquaintance.

“I believe even I might be happy if both you and Edith
could live with me,” he said, at last, when Albany was
reached, and they were ascending the steps to the Delevan.

“Poor little Edith,” rejoined Arthur, “I wonder if she
has been very lonely? Shall we go to her at once?”

“Yes,” answered Richard, and leaning on Arthur's arm,
he proceeded to the door of Edith's room.