Darkness and Daylight | Page 8

knowd you was glad that Squire Herrin'ton was come back to
Collingwood, just as I knowd what made you choke like a chicken with
the pip when Edith tole you he was blind. Can't cheat dis chile," and
adjusting her white turban with an air of injured dignity, Rachel left her

mistress, and returned to the kitchen.
"What ails Mrs. Atherton?" asked Edith, fancying it must be something
serious which could keep the old negress so long from her bread.
On ordinary occasions the tolerably discreet African would have made
some evasive reply, but with her feathers all ruffled, she belched out,
"The upshot of the matter is, she's in love?"
"In love? Who does Mrs. Atherton love?"
"Him--the blind man," returned Rachel, adding fiercely, "but if you
ever let her know I told you, I'll skin you alive--do you hear? Like
enough she'll be for sendin' you up thar with more posies, an' if she
does, do you hold your tongue and take 'em along."
Edith had no desire to betray Rachel's confidence, and slipping one
shoulder out of her low dress she darted off after a butterfly, wondering
to herself if it made everybody faint and sick at their stomach to be in
love! It seemed very natural that one as rich and beautiful as Grace
should love Richard Harrington, and the fact that she did, insensibly
raised in her estimation the poor, white-faced woman, who, in the
solitude of her chamber was weeping bitterer tears than she had shed
before in years.
Could it he so? She hoped there was some mistake--and when an hour
later she heard Kitty Maynard's cheerful voice in the lower hall her
heart gave a bound as she thought, "She'll know--she's heard of it by
this time."
"Please may I come in?" said Kitty, at her door. "Rachel told me you
had a headache, but I know you won't mind me," and ere the words
were half out of her mouth, Kitty's bonnet was off and she was perched
upon the foot of the bed. HAVE you heard the news?" she began. "It's
so wonderful, and so sad, too. Squire Harrington is not married; he's
worse off than that--he's hopelessly blind."
"Indeed!" and Grace Atherton's manner was very indifferent.

"Yes," Kitty continued, "His French valet, Victor, who travelled with
him in Europe, told brother Will all about it. Seven or eight years ago
they were spending the summer upon the banks of the Rhine, and in a
cottage near them was an American with a Swedish wife and baby. The
man, it seems, was a dissipated fellow, much older than his wife, whom
he neglected shamefully, leaving her alone for weeks at a time. The
baby's name was Eloise, and she was a great pet with Richard who was
fond of children. At last, one day in autumn, the little Eloise, who had
just learned to run alone, wandered off by herself to a bluff, or rock, or
something, from which she fell into the river. The mother, Petrea, was
close by, and her terrific shrieks brought Richard to the spot in time to
save the child. He had not been well for several days, and the frightful
cold he took induced a fever, which seemed to settle in his eyes, for
ever since his sight has been failing until now it has left him entirely.
But hark! isn't some one in the next room?" and she stepped into the
adjoining apartment just as the nimble Edith disappeared from view.
She had been sent up by Rachel with a message to Mrs. Atherton, and
was just in time to hear the commencement of Kitty's story. Any thing
relating to the blind man was interesting to her, and so she listened, her
large black eyes growing larger and blacker as the tale proceeded. It did
NOT seem wholly new to her, that story of the drowning child--that
cottage on the Rhine, and for a moment she heard a strain of low, rich
music sung as a lullaby to some restless, wakeful child. Then the music,
the cottage and the blue Rhine faded away. She could not recall them,
but bound as by a spell she listened still, until the word Petrea dropped
from Kitty's lips. Then she started suddenly. Surely, she'd heard that
NAME before. Whose was it? When was it? Where was it? She could
not tell, and she repeated it in a whisper so loud that it attracted Kitty's
attention.
"I shall catch it if she finds me listening," thought Edith, as she heard
Kitty's remark, and in her haste to escape she forgot all about
Petrea--all about the lullaby, and remembered nothing save the noble
deed of the heroic Richard. "What a noble man he must be," she said,
"to save that