Darkness and Daylight, Mary J. Holmes [classic book list .txt] 📗

then went out—the hands of the clock moved onward, pointing to long after midnight, and still Richard, loth to let his treasure go, kept her with him, talking to her of his great happiness, and asking if early June would be too soon for her to be his bride.

“Yes, yes, much too soon,” cried Edith. “Give me the whole summer in which to be free. I’ve never been any where you know. I want to see the world. Let’s go to Saratoga, and to all those places I’ve heard so much about. Then, in the autumn, we’ll have a famous wedding at Collingwood, and I will settle down into the most demure, obedient of wives.”

Were it not that the same roof sheltered them both, Richard would have acceded to this delay, but when he reflected that he should not be parted from Edith any more than if they were really married, he consented, stipulating that the wedding should take place on the anniversary of the day when she first came to him with flowers, and called him “poor blind man.”

“You did not think you’d ever be the poor blind man’s wife,” he said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry even now.

“No,” she answered. Nor was she. In fact, she scarcely felt at all. Her heart was palsied, and lay in her bosom like a block of stone—heavy, numb, and sluggish in its beat.

Of one thing, only, was she conscious, and that a sense of weariness—a strong desire to be alone, up stairs, where she was not obliged to answer questions, or listen to loving words, of which she was so unworthy. She was deceiving Richard, who, when his quick ear caught her smothered yawn, as the little clock struck one, bade her leave him, chiding himself for keeping her so long from the rest he knew she needed.

“For me, I shall never know fatigue or pain again,” he said, as he led her to the door, “but my singing-bird is different—she must sleep. God bless you, darling. You have made the blind man very happy.”

He kissed her forehead, her lips, her hands, and then released her, standing in the door and listening to her footsteps as they went up the winding stairs and out into the hall beyond—the dark, gloomy hall, where no light was, save a single ray, shining through the keyhole of Victor’s door.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.

EDITH AND THE WORLD.

 

“Victor is faithful,” Edith said, as she saw the light, and fancied that the Frenchman was still up, waiting to assist his master.

But not for Richard did Victor keep the watch that night. He would know how long that interview lasted below, and when it was ended he would know its result. What Victor designed he was pretty sure to accomplish, and when, by the voices in the lower hall, he knew that Edith was coming, he stole on tip-toe to the balustrade, and, leaning over, saw the parting at the parlor door, feeling intuitively that Edith’s relations to Richard had changed since he last looked upon her. Never was servant more attached to his master than was Victor Dupres to his, and yet he was strongly unwilling that Edith’s glorious beauty should be wasted thus.

“If she loved him,” he said to himself, as, gliding back to his room, he cautiously shut the door, ere Edith reached the first landing. “If she loved him, I would not care. More unsuitable matches than this have ended happily—but she don’t. Her whole life is bound with that of another, and she shrinks from Mr. Harrington as she was not wont to do. I saw it in her face, as she turned away from him. There’ll be another grave in the Collingwood grounds—another name on the tall monument, ‘Edith, wife of Richard Harrington, aged 20.’”

Victor wrote the words upon a slip of paper, reading them over until tears dimmed his vision, for, in fancy, the imaginative Frenchman assisted at Edith’s obsequies, and even heard the grinding of the hearse wheels, once foretold by Nina. Several times he peered out into the silent hall, seeing the lamplight shining from the ventilator over Edith’s door, and knowing by that token that she had not retired. What was she doing there so long? Victor fain would know, and as half-hour after half-hour went by, until it was almost four, he stepped boldly to the door and knocked. Long association with Victor had led Edith to treat him more as an equal than a servant; consequently he took liberties both with her and Richard, which no other of the household would dare to do, and now, as there came no response, he cautiously turned the knob and walked into the room where, in her crimson dressing-gown, her hair unbound and falling over her shoulders, Edith sat, her arms crossed upon the table, and her face upon her arms. She was not sleeping, for as the door creaked on its hinges, she looked up, half-pleased to meet only the good-humored face of Victor where she had feared to see that of Richard.

“Miss Edith, this is madness—this is folly,” and Victor sat down before her. “I was a fool to think it was Mrs. Atherton.”

“Victor Dupres, what do you mean? What do you know? Why are you here?” and Edith’s eyes flashed with insulted pride; but Victor did not quail before them. Gazing steadily at her, he replied, “You are engaged to your guardian, and you do not love him.”

“Victor Dupres, I DO!” and Edith struck her hand upon the table with a force which made the glass lamp rattle.

“Granted you do,” returned Victor, “but how do you love him? As a brother, as a friend, as a father, if you will, but not as you should love your husband; not as you could love Arthur St. Claire, were he not bound by other ties,”

Across the table the blanched, frightened face of Edith looked, and the eyes which never before had been so black, scanned Victor keenly.

“What do you know of Arthur St. Claire’s ties?” she asked at last, every word a labored breath.

Victor made no answer, but hurrying from the room, returned with the crumpled, soiled sheet of foolscap, which he placed before her, asking if she ever saw it before.

Edith’s mind had been sadly confused when Nina read to her the SCRATCHING OUT, and she had forgotten it entirely, but it came back to her now, and catching up the papers, she recognized Richard’s unmistakable handwriting. He knew, then, of her love for Arthur—of the obstacle to that love—of the agony it cost her to give him up. He had deceived her—had won her under false pretenses, assuming that she loved no one. She did not think this of Richard, and in her eyes, usually so soft and mild, there was a black, hard, terrible expression, as she whispered hoarsely, “How came this in your possession?”

He told her how—thus exonerating Richard from blame, and the hard, angry look was drowned in tears as Edith wept aloud.

“Then he don’t know it,” she said at length, “Richard don’t. I should hate him if he did and still wished me to be his wife.”

“I can tell him,” was Victor’s dry response, and in an instant Edith was over where he sat.

“You cannot, you must not, you shall not. It will kill him if I desert him. He told me so, and I promised that I wouldn’t— promised solemnly. I would not harm a hair of Richard’s head, and he so noble, so good, so helpless, with so few sources of enjoyment; but oh, Victor, I did love Arthur best—did love him so much,” and in that wailing cry Edith’s true sentiments spoke out. “I did love him so much—I love him so much now,” and she kept whispering it to herself, while Victor sought in vain for some word of comfort, but could find none. Once he said to her, “Wait, and Nina may die,” but Edith recoiled from him in horror.

“Never hint that Again,” she almost screamed. “It’s murder, foul murder. I would not have Nina die for the whole world—beautiful, loving Nina. I wouldn’t have Arthur, if she did. I couldn’t, for I am Richard’s wife. I wish I’d told him early June instead of October. I’ll tell him to-morrow and in four weeks more all the dreadful uncertainty will be ended. I ought to love him, Victor, he’s done so much for me. I am that Swedish child he saved from the river Rhine, periling life and limb, losing his sight for me. He found it so that time he went with you to New York,” and Edith’s tears ceased as she repeated to Victor all she knew of her early history. “Shouldn’t I marry him?” she asked, when the story was ended. “Ought I not to be his eyes? Help me, Victor. Don’t make it so hard for me; I shall faint by the way if you do.”

Victor conceded that she owed much to Richard, but nothing could make him think it right for her to marry him with her present feelings. It would be a greater wrong to him than to refuse him, but Edith did not think so.

“He’ll never know what I feel,” she said, and by and by I shall be better,—shall love him as he deserves. There are few Richards in the world, Victor.”

“That is true,” he replied, “but ‘tis no reason why you must be sacrificed. Edith, the case is like this: I wish, and the world at large, if it could speak, would wish for Richard to marry you, but would not wish you to marry Richard.”

“But I shall,” interrupted Edith. “There is no possible chance of my not doing so, and Victor, you will help me.—You won’t tell him of Arthur. You know how his unselfish heart would give me up if you did, and break while doing it. Promise, Victor.”

“Tell me first what you meant by early June, and October,” he said, and after Edith had explained, he continued, “Let the wedding be still appointed for October, and unless I see that it is absolutely killing you, I will not enlighten Mr. Harrington.”

And this was all the promise Edith could extort from him.

“Unless he saw it was absolutely killing her, he would not enlighten Richard.”

“He shall see that it will not kill me,” she said to herself, “I will be gay whether I feel it or not. I will out-do myself, and if my broken heart should break again, no one shall be the wiser.”

Thus deciding, she turned toward the window where the gray dawn was stealing in, and pointing to it, said:

“Look, the day is breaking; the longest night will have an end, so will this miserable pain at my heart. Daylight will surely come when I shall be happy with Richard. Don’t tell him, Victor, don’t; and now leave me, for my head is bursting with weariness.”

He knew it was, by the expression of her face, which, in the dim lamplight, looked ghastly and worn, and he was about to leave her, when she called him back, and asked how long he had lived with Mr. Harrington.

“Thirteen years,” he replied. “He picked me up in Germany, just before he came home to America. He was not blind then.”

“Then you never saw my mother?”

“Never.”

“Nor Marie?”

“Never to my knowledge,”

“You were in Geneva with Richard, you say. Where were you, when— when—”

Edith could not finish, but Victor understood what she would ask, and answered her,

“I must have been in Paris. I went home for a few months, ten years ago last fall, and did not return until just before we came to Collingwood. The housekeeper told me there had been