Darkness and Daylight by Mary J. Holmes (best ereader for manga .txt) đ
- Author: Mary J. Holmes
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âYes, yes, much too soon,â cried Edith. âGive me the whole summer in which to be free. Iâve never been any where you know. I want to see the world. Letâs go to Saratoga, and to all those places Iâve heard so much about. Then, in the autumn, weâll have a famous wedding at Collingwood, and I will settle down into the most demure, obedient of wives.â
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 âpoor blind man.â
âYou did not think youâd ever be the poor blind manâs wife,â he said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry even now.
âNo,â 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 stoneâheavy, numb, and sluggish in its beat.
Of one thing, only, was she conscious, and that a sense of wearinessâa 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.
âFor me, I shall never know fatigue or pain again,â he said, as he led her to the door, âbut my singing-bird is differentâshe must sleep. God bless you, darling. You have made the blind man very happy.â
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 beyondâthe dark, gloomy hall, where no light was, save a single ray, shining through the keyhole of Victorâs door.
CHAPTER XXVI.
EDITH AND THE WORLD.
âVictor is faithful,â 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 Edithâs 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 Edithâs glorious beauty should be wasted thus.
âIf she loved him,â he said to himself, as, gliding back to his room, he cautiously shut the door, ere Edith reached the first landing. âIf she loved him, I would not care. More unsuitable matches than this have ended happilyâbut she donât. 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. Thereâll be another grave in the Collingwood groundsâanother name on the tall monument, âEdith, wife of Richard Harrington, aged 20.ââ
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 Edithâs 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 Edithâs 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.
âMiss Edith, this is madnessâthis is folly,â and Victor sat down before her. âI was a fool to think it was Mrs. Atherton.â
âVictor Dupres, what do you mean? What do you know? Why are you here?â and Edithâs eyes flashed with insulted pride; but Victor did not quail before them. Gazing steadily at her, he replied, âYou are engaged to your guardian, and you do not love him.â
âVictor Dupres, I DO!â and Edith struck her hand upon the table with a force which made the glass lamp rattle.
âGranted you do,â returned Victor, âbut 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,â
Across the table the blanched, frightened face of Edith looked, and the eyes which never before had been so black, scanned Victor keenly.
âWhat do you know of Arthur St. Claireâs ties?â 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.
Edithâs 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 Richardâs unmistakable handwriting. He knew, then, of her love for Arthurâof the obstacle to that loveâof the agony it cost her to give him up. He had deceived herâhad 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, âHow came this in your possession?â
He told her howâthus exonerating Richard from blame, and the hard, angry look was drowned in tears as Edith wept aloud.
âThen he donât know it,â she said at length, âRichard donât. I should hate him if he did and still wished me to be his wife.â
âI can tell him,â was Victorâs dry response, and in an instant Edith was over where he sat.
âYou cannot, you must not, you shall not. It will kill him if I desert him. He told me so, and I promised that I wouldnâtâ promised solemnly. I would not harm a hair of Richardâs head, and he so noble, so good, so helpless, with so few sources of enjoyment; but oh, Victor, I did love Arthur bestâdid love him so much,â and in that wailing cry Edithâs true sentiments spoke out. âI did love him so muchâI love him so much now,â 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, âWait, and Nina may die,â but Edith recoiled from him in horror.
âNever hint that Again,â she almost screamed. âItâs murder, foul murder. I would not have Nina die for the whole worldâbeautiful, loving Nina. I wouldnât have Arthur, if she did. I couldnât, for I am Richardâs wife. I wish Iâd told him early June instead of October. Iâll tell him to-morrow and in four weeks more all the dreadful uncertainty will be ended. I ought to love him, Victor, heâs 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,â and Edithâs tears ceased as she repeated to Victor all she knew of her early history. âShouldnât I marry him?â she asked, when the story was ended. âOught I not to be his eyes? Help me, Victor. Donât make it so hard for me; I shall faint by the way if you do.â
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.
âHeâll never know what I feel,â she said, and by and by I shall be better,âshall love him as he deserves. There are few Richards in the world, Victor.â
âThat is true,â he replied, âbut âtis 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.â
âBut I shall,â interrupted Edith. âThere is no possible chance of my not doing so, and Victor, you will help me.âYou wonât tell him of Arthur. You know how his unselfish heart would give me up if you did, and break while doing it. Promise, Victor.â
âTell me first what you meant by early June, and October,â he said, and after Edith had explained, he continued, âLet the wedding be still appointed for October, and unless I see that it is absolutely killing you, I will not enlighten Mr. Harrington.â
And this was all the promise Edith could extort from him.
âUnless he saw it was absolutely killing her, he would not enlighten Richard.â
âHe shall see that it will not kill me,â she said to herself, âI 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.â
Thus deciding, she turned toward the window where the gray dawn was stealing in, and pointing to it, said:
âLook, 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. Donât tell him, Victor, donât; and now leave me, for my head is bursting with weariness.â
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.
âThirteen years,â he replied. âHe picked me up in Germany, just before he came home to America. He was not blind then.â
âThen you never saw my mother?â
âNever.â
âNor Marie?â
âNever to my knowledge,â
âYou were in Geneva with Richard, you say. Where were you, whenâ whenââ
Edith could not finish, but Victor understood what she would ask, and answered her,
âI 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
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