Darkness and Daylight | Page 7

first to communicate the bad
news.
CHAPTER III.
GRACE ATHERTON.
"Edith," said Mrs. Atherton, who had seen her coming, and hastened
out to meet her, "you were gone a long time, I think."
"Yes'm," answered Edith, spitting out the bonnet strings she had been
chewing, and tossing back the thick black locks which nearly concealed
her eyes from view. "Yes'm; it took me a good while to talk to old
Darkness."
"Talk to whom?" asked Grace; and Edith returned,
"I don't know what you call him if 'taint old Darkness; he kept
muttering about the dark, and asked "where Charlie was."
"Ole Cap'n Harrington," said Rachel. "They say how't he's allus goin'

on 'bout Charlie an' the dark."
This explanation was satisfactory to Grace, who proceeded next to
question Edith concerning Mrs. Richard Harrington, asking if she saw
her, etc.
"There ain't any such," returned Edith, "but I saw Mr. Richard. Jolly,
isn't he grand? He's as tall as the ridge-pole, and---"
"But what did he say to the flowers?" interrupted Grace, far more intent
upon knowing how her gift had been received, than hearing described
the personal appearance of one she had seen so often.
Edith felt intuitively that a narrative of the particulars attending the
delivery of the bouquet would insure her a scolding, so she merely
answered, "He didn't say a word, only kissed them hard, but he can't
see them, Mrs. Atherton. He can't see me, nor you, nor anybody. He's
blind as a bat--"
"Blind! Richard blind! Oh, Edith;" and the bright color which had
stained Grace's cheeks when she knew that Richard had kissed her
flowers, faded out, leaving them of a pallid hue. Sinking into the
nearest chair, she kept repeating "blind--blind--poor, poor Richard. It
cannot be. Bring me some water, Rachel, and help me to my room.
This intensely hot morning makes me faint."
Rachel could not be thus easily deceived. She remembered an old
house in England, looking out upon the sea, and the flirtation carried on
all summer there between her mistress, then a beautiful young girl of
seventeen, and the tall, handsome man, whom they called Richard
Harrington. She remembered, too, the white-haired, gouty man, who,
later in the autumn, came to that old house, and whose half million
Grace had married, saying, by way of apology, that if Richard chose to
waste his life in humoring the whims of his foolish father, she surely
would NOT waste hers with him. SHE would see the world!
Alas, poor Grace. She had seen the world and paid dearly for the sight,
for, go where she might, she saw always one face, one form; heard

always one voice murmuring in her ear, "Could you endure to share my
burden?"
No, she could not, she said, and so she had taken upon herself a burden
ten-fold heavier to bear--a burden which crushed her spirits, robbed her
cheek of its youthful bloom, after which she sent no regret when at last
it disappeared, leaving her free to think again of Richard Harrington. It
was a terrible blow to her that he was blind, and talk as she might about
the faintness of the morning, old Rachel knew the real cause of her
distress, and when alone with her, said, by way of comfort,
"Law, now, Miss Grace, 'taint worth a while to take on so. Like 'nough
he'll be cured--mebby it's nothin' but them fetch-ed water-
falls--CAT-A-RATS, that's it--and he can have 'em cut out. I wouldn't
go to actin' like I was love-sick for a man I 'scarded oncet."
Grace was far too proud to suffer even her faithful Rachel thus to
address her, and turning her flashing eyes upon the old woman, she said
haughtily,
"How dare you talk to me in this way--don't you know I won't allow it?
Besides, what reason have you for asserting what you have?"
"What reason has I? Plenty reason--dis chile ain't a fool if she is a
nigger, raised in Georgy, and a born slave till she was turned of thirty.
Your poor marm who done sot me free, would never spoke to me that
way. What reason has I? I'se got good mem'ry--I 'members them letters
I used to tote forrid and back, over thar in England; and how you used
to watch by the winder till you seen him comin', and then, gal-like, ran
off to make him think you wasn't particular 'bout seein' him. But, it
passes me, what made you have ole money bags. I never could see inter
that, when I knowd how you hated his shiny bald head, and slunk away
if he offered to tache you with his old, soft, flappy hands. You are glad
he's in Heaven, yon know you be; and though I never said nothin', I