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Title: Darkness and Daylight

Author: Mary J. Holmes

Release Date: December, 2003 [Etext #4721] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on March 7, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

A Novel

BY

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF “LENA RIVERS,” “MARIAN GREY,” “MEADOW BROOK,” “HOMESTEAD,” “DORA DEANE,” “COUSIN MAUDE,” “TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” “ENGLISH ORPHANS,” ETC.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. COLLINGWOOD II. EDITH HASTINGS GOES TO COLLINGWOOD III. GRACE ATHERTON IV. RICHARD AND EDITH V. VISITORS AT COLLINGWOOD AND VISITORS AT BRIER HILL VI. ARTHUR AND EDITH VII. RICHARD AND ARTHUR VIII. RICHARD AND EDITH IX. WOMANHOOD X. EDITH AT HOME XI. MATTERS AT GRASSY SPRING XII. LESSONS XIII. FRIDAY XIV. THE MYSTERY AT GRASSY SPRING XV. NINA XVI. ARTHUR’S STORY XVII. NINA AND MIGGIE XVIII. DR. GRISWOLD XIX. EX OFFICIO XX. THE DECISION XXI. THE DEERING WOODS XXII. THE DARKNESS DEEPENS XXIII. PARTING XXIV. THE NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY XXV. DESTINY XXVI. EDITH AND THE WORLD XXVII. THE LAND OF FLOWERS XXVIII. SUNNYBANK XXIX. THE SISTERS XXX. ARTHUR AND NINA XXXI. LAST DAYS XXXII. PARTING WITH THE DEAD AND PARTING WITH THE LIVING XXXIII. HOME XXXIV. NINA’S LETTER XXXV. THE FIERY TEST XXXVI. THE SACRIFICE XXXVII. THE BRIDAL XXXVIII. SIX YEARS LATER

DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

COLLINGWOOD.

Collingwood was to have a tenant at last. For twelve long years its massive walls of dark grey stone had frowned in gloomy silence upon the passers-by, the terror of the superstitious ones, who had peopled its halls with ghosts and goblins, saying even that the snowy-haired old man, its owner, had more than once been seen there, moving restlessly from room to room and muttering of the darkness which came upon him when he lost his fair young wife and her beautiful baby Charlie. The old man was not dead, but for years he had been a stranger to his former home.

In foreign lands he had wandered—up and down, up and down—from the snow-clad hills of Russia to where the blue skies of Italy bent softly over him and the sunny plains of France smiled on him a welcome. But the darkness he bewailed was there as elsewhere, and to his son he said, at last, “We will go to America, but not to Collingwood—not where Lucy used to live, and where the boy was born.”

So they came back again and made for themselves a home on the shore of the silvery lake so famed in song, where they hoped to rest from their weary journeyings. But it was not so decreed. Slowly as poison works within the blood, a fearful blight was stealing upon the noble, uncomplaining Richard, who had sacrificed his early manhood to his father’s fancies, and when at last the blow had fallen and crushed him in its might, he became as helpless as a little child, looking to others for the aid he had heretofore been accustomed to render. Then it was that the weak old man emerged for a time from beneath the cloud which had enveloped him so long, and winding his arms around his stricken boy, said, submissively, “What will poor Dick have me do?”

“Go to Collingwood, where I know every walk and winding path, and where the world will not seem so dreary, for I shall be at home.”

The father had not expected this, and his palsied hands shook nervously; but the terrible misfortune of his son had touched a chord of pity, and brought to his darkened mind a vague remembrance of the years in which the unselfish Richard had thought only of his comfort, and so he answered sadly, “We will go to Collingwood.”

One week more, and it was known in Shannondale, that crazy Captain Harrington and his son, the handsome Squire Richard, were coming again to the old homestead, which was first to be fitted up in a most princely style. All through the summer months the extensive improvements and repairs went on, awakening the liveliest interest in the villagers, who busied themselves with watching and reporting the progress of events at Collingwood. Fires were kindled on the marble hearths, and the flames went roaring up the broad-mouthed chimneys, frightening from their nests of many years the croaking swallows, and scaring away the bats, which had so long held holiday in the deserted rooms. Partitions were removed, folding doors were made, windows were cut down, and large panes of glass were substituted for those of more ancient date. The grounds and garden too were reclaimed from the waste of briers and weeds which had so wantonly rioted there; and the waters of the fish-pond, relieved of their dark green slime and decaying leaves, gleamed once more in the summer sunshine like a sheet of burnished silver, while a fairy boat lay moored upon its bosom as in the olden time. Softly the hillside brooklet fell, like a miniature cascade, into the little pond, and the low music it made blended harmoniously with the fall of the fountain not far away.

It was indeed a beautiful place; and when the furnishing process began, crowds of eager people daily thronged the spacious rooms, commenting upon the carpets, the curtains, the chandeliers, the furniture of rosewood and marble, and marvelling much why Richard Harrington should care for surroundings so costly and elegant. Could it be that he intended surprising them with a bride? It was possible—nay, more, it was highly probable that weary of his foolish sire’s continual mutterings of “Lucy and the darkness,” he bad found some fair young girl to share the care with him, and this was her gilded cage.

Shannondale was like all country towns, and the idea once suggested, the story rapidly gained ground, until at last it reached the ear of Grace Atherton, the pretty young widow, whose windows looked directly across the stretches of meadow and woodland to where Collingwood lifted its single tower and its walls of dark grey stone. As became the owner of Brier Hill and the widow of a judge, Grace held herself somewhat above the rest of the villagers, associating with but few, and finding her society mostly in the city not many miles away,

When her cross, gouty, phthisicy, fidgety old husband lay sick for three whole months, she nursed him so patiently that people wondered if it could be she loved the SURLY DOG, and one woman, bolder than the others, asked her if she did.

“Love him? No,” she answered, “but I shall do my duty.”

So when he died she made him a grand funeral, but did not pretend that she was sorry. She was not, and the night on which she crossed the threshold of Brier Hill a widow of twenty-one saw her a happier woman than when she first crossed it as a bride. Such was Grace Atherton, a proud, independent, but well principled woman, attending strictly to her own affairs, and expecting others to do the same. In the gossip concerning Collingwood, she had taken no verbal part, but there was no one more deeply interested than herself, spite of her studied indifference.

“You never knew the family,” a lady caller said to her one morning, when at a rather late hour she sat languidly sipping her rich chocolate, and daintily picking at the snowy rolls and nicely buttered toast, “you never knew them or you would cease to wonder why the village people take so much interest in their movements, and are so glad to have them back.”

“I have heard their story,” returned Mrs. Atherton, “and I have no doubt the son is a very fine specimen of an old bachelor; thirty-five, isn’t he, or thereabouts?”

“Thirty-five!” and Kitty Maynard raised her hands in dismay. “My dear Mrs. Atherton, he’s hardly thirty yet, and those who have seen him since his return from Europe, pronounce him a splendid looking man, with an air of remarkably high breeding. I wonder if there IS any truth in the report that he is to bring with him a bride.”

“A bride, Kitty!” and the massive silver fork dropped from Grace Atherton’s hand.

SHE was interested now, and nervously pulling the gathers of her white morning gown, she listened while the loquacious Kitty told her what she knew of the imaginary wife of Richard Harrington. The hands ceased their working at the gathers, and assuming an air of indifference, Grace rang her silver bell, which was immediately answered by a singular looking girl, whom she addressed as Edith, bidding her bring some orange marmalade from an adjoining closet. Her orders were obeyed, and then the child lingered by the door, listening eagerly to the conversation which Grace had resumed concerning Collingwood and its future mistress.

Edith Hastings was a strange child, with a strange habit of expressing her thoughts aloud, and as she heard the beauties of Collingwood described in Kitty Maynard’s most glowing terms, she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, JOLLY don’t I wish I could live there, only I’d be afraid of that boy who haunts the upper rooms.”

“Edith!” said Mrs. Atherton, sternly, “why are you waiting here? Go at once to Rachel and bid her give you something to do.”

Thus rebuked the black-eyed, black-haired, black-faced little girl waited away, not cringingly, for Edith Hastings