Darkness and Daylight by Mary J. Holmes (best ereader for manga .txt) 📖

to Grassy Spring, and assist her in airing the house.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, the keys of Collingwood were delivered to Edith, together with a sealed note, containing a single line,

“The iron broken key unlocks the DEN.”

Had Arthur wished to puzzle Edith he could not have done so more effectually than he did by these few words.

“What do I care,” she said, “which unlocks the Den. I certainly should not cross its threshold were the door left wide open. What does he mean?” and she was still wondering over the message when Grace Atherton was announced.

As she grew older Grace assumed a more familiar, youthful manner than had characterized her early womanhood, and now, tossing her riding hat and whip upon the bed, she sank into Edith’s easy chair and began: “The funniest thing imaginable has happened at Grassy Spring. His Royal Highness, Lord St. Claire, has flown into a violent passion with Mrs. Johnson for having shown us into that room.”

“Shown YOU, you mean. I didn’t go in,” interrupted Richard, and Grace continued, “Well, shown ME, then, though I think you might at least share in the disgrace. I never saw Arthur as indignant as he was last night when he called on me. ‘Women were curious, prying creatures, anyway,’ he said, ‘and he had no faith in any of them.’”

“Did he say so?” asked Edith, and Grace replied, “Well, not exactly that. He did make a few exceptions, of which you are one. Mrs. Johnson must have told him that you refused to enter. What harm was there, any way, and what’s the room for? I’m beginning to grow curious. Here, he’s dismissed Mrs. Johnson and her daughter, telling her if he could not trust her in small matters he could not in those of greater importance, and the good soul has taken the afternoon express for Boston, where she formerly lived. She says he paid her three months’ extra wages, so he was liberal in that respect; but the strangest part of all is that he is going to Florida, where he has some claim to or owns a plantation of negroes, and he intends to bring a whole cargo of them to Grassy Spring—housekeeper, cook, chambermaid, coachman, gardener, and all. Don’t you think he’s crazy?”

Edith thought the facts would warrant such a conclusion, and Grace went on. “I offered to take charge of his house, telling him it ought not to be shut up for several weeks, but he declined so haughtily, saying he should leave the keys with someone less curious than myself, and asked if I supposed YOU would be offended if he offered them to you. I told him no, and I dare say he will send them here, if indeed, he has not already done so. Has he?” she asked, quickly, as she saw a peculiar smile on Edith’s lip.

“Yes,” Edith answered, feeling the while SO glad that Richard had prevented her from sending that insulting note.

She knew now why the keys were given to her, and the fact that Arthur St. Claire trusted HER even before his own cousin, left a warm, happy spot in her heart. Upon second thought this act was not displeasing to Grace herself. It evinced a preference in Arthur for Edith Hastings, and on her way home she busied herself in building castles of the future, when Edith, as the wife of Arthur and mistress of Grassy Spring, would cease to be her rival. As Grace had said, Mrs. Johnson and Rose, her daughter, were dismissed, the house was shut up, the owner gone, the keys in Edith’s possession, and for many days the leaves of crimson and of gold drifted down upon the walks and lay piled beneath the windows and upon the marble steps, where they rested undisturbed, save when the evening wind whirled them in fantastic circles and then sent them back again to their first lodging place.

Occasionally Edith, on her spirited Bedouin, rode slowly by, glancing at the grounds and garden, where so many flowers were blossoming for naught, and then gazing curiously at the latticed windows looking out toward Collingwood. She knew which ones they were, though the blinds were closed tightly over them, and she wondered if the mystery of that room would ever be revealed to her. Once, as she was riding by, she saw a stranger standing upon the steps of the front door and pulling vehemently at the silver knob which brought him no response. Reining Bedouin at the gate the waited until the gentleman, tired of ringing, came slowly down the walk, apparently absorbed in some perplexing thought. He did not see her until almost upon her, when, bowing politely, he said, “I beg your pardon, Miss, can you tell me where Mr. St. Claire’s to be found?”

“He has gone to Florida,” she answered, “and will not return for some weeks.”

“Gone to Florida, and I not know it! That’s very queer,” and the stranger bit his lip with vexation.

“Did you wish particularly to see him?” asked Edith, and he replied,

“Yes, a friend lies very sick in the—” he paused a moment, looked searchingly at Edith, and added, “in Worcester. We can do nothing with her, and I have come for him.”

Edith thought of NINA, thought of the Den, thought of everything, except that the man seemed waiting for her to speak.

“Won’t be home for some weeks,” he said at last, as she continued silent, “And you don’t know where a letter would reach him?”

“No, sir, but I will deliver any message from you as soon as he returns.”

The stranger scrutinized her closely a second time ere he replied,

“Tell him Griswold has been here and wishes him to come to Worcester at once.”

Edith was mortal, nay more, was a genuine descendant of mother Eve, and with a feeling akin to what that fair matron must have felt when she wondered how those apples did taste, she said to the man, “Who shall I say is sick?”

“A friend,” was the laconic reply, as he walked rapidly away, muttering to himself, “A pretty scrape St. Claire is getting himself into. Poor Arthur, poor Arthur.”

It would seen that Edith, too, was imbued with something of the spirit which prompted him to say, “Poor Arthur,” for she involuntarily sighed, and casting another glance at the windows of the den, gave loose rein to Bedouin and galloped swiftly down the road.

The next morning was clear and bright, and as Richard felt the bracing air, he said to her, “We will visit Grassy Spring to-day. It’s time you gave it a little air.”

The carriage was accordingly brought out, and in half an hour’s time Richard and Edith were treading the deserted rooms, into which they let the warm sunlight by opening wide the windows, all save those of one chamber. Edith did not go near the Den, and she marvelled that Arthur should have given her its key, indicating which it was. She did not know that the rather peculiar young man had lain for her a snare, by which means he would surely know how far her curiosity had led her. He might have spared himself the trouble, for Edith was the soul of honor, and nothing could have induced her to cross the proscribed threshold.

“It’s very pleasant here, isn’t it?” Richard asked, as they went from one room to another, and he felt the soft carpets yield to his tread.

“Yes,” she answered; “but not as pleasant as Collingwood. I like my own home best,” and she looked into his face in time to catch the expression she loved so well—an expression of trusting, childlike happiness, touching to behold in a strong man.

He liked to know that Edith was contented with Collingwood; contented with him; and he hoped it would be so always. He could not bear the thought that he had suffered every fibre of his heart to twine and intertwine themselves around her, only to be one day broken and cast bleeding at his feet. But somehow, here at Grassy Spring, in the home of Arthur St. Claire, he felt oppressed with a dread lest this thing should be; and to Edith, when she asked what made him so pale, he said,

“It’s close in here, I think. Let’s hurry out into the open air.”

She led him to an iron chair beneath a forest maple, and leaving him there alone went back to close the windows she had opened. One of those in the drawing-room resisted all her efforts for a time, but came down at last with a bang, causing her to start, and hit her foot against a frame which she had not before observed, but which she now saw was a portrait standing in the dark corner with its face against the wall.

“Truly there can be no harm in looking at this,” she thought, and turning it to the light she stepped back to examine it.

‘Twas the picture of a black-eyed, black-haired child—a little girl, scarcely three years old, judging from the baby face, and the fat, dimpled hands turning so earnestly the leaves of a picture book. One tiny foot was bare, and one encased in a red morocco shoe.

“Dear, darling baby,” she said aloud, feeling an irresistible desire to hug the little creature to her bosom. “Who are you, baby? Where are you now? and how came you with Mr. St. Claire?”

She asked these questions aloud, and was answered by Richard calling from his seat beneath the maple to know why she tarried so long. With one more lingering glance at the infant, she locked the doors and hastened out to her blind charge. On three or four other occasions she came alone to Grassy Spring, opening the doors and windows, and feasting her eyes upon the beautiful little child. Edith was wonderfully in love with that picture, and many a theory she built as to the original. Grace had told her that Arthur had no sister, and this, while it tended to deepen the mystery, increased her interest.

“I’ll ask him about her when he gets home,” she thought; and she waited anxiously for his return, which occurred much sooner than she anticipated.

It was a cold, raw November day, and the rain was beating against the windows of the little room she called her boudoir, and where she now sat sewing, when Victor, who had been sent to Grassy Spring to see that the storm did not penetrate the western blinds, appeared before her, ejaculating, “Mon Dieu, Miss Hastings. What do you think there is over yonder at Grassy Spring? A whole swarm of niggers, and Guinea niggers at that, I do believe. Such outlandish specimens! There they sit bent up double with the cold and hovering round the kitchen fire, some on the floor, some on chairs, and one has actually taken the tin dish pan and turned it bottom side up for a stool. They come from Florida, they say, and they sorter ‘long to Marsa St. Claire. They called me MARSA, too, and when Mr. St. Claire asked me how my MASTER and young lady were, the old she one who sat smoking in the corner, with a turban on her head as high as a church steeple, took the pipe from her month and actually SWORE.

“Swore, Victor!” exclaimed Edith, who had listened in amazement to his story.

“I don’t know what you call it but swearing; says she, ‘A white nigger, Lor’-a-mighty,’ and the whole bevy of them opened their ranks for time to sit down in their circle—kind of a fellow feeling, you know,” and Victor endeavored to hide the shock his pride had received by laughing loudly at the negroes’ mistake.

“How did you get in?” asked Edith. “He must have been