Part 46 (1/2)

”I am your Uncle Richard.”

”True as you live and breathe are you Uncle d.i.c.k,” the boy almost screamed, winding his chubby arms around the stranger's neck, while Nina standing upon her feet chirped out her joy as she patted the bearded cheek, and called him ”Uncle 'Ick.”

Surely if there had been any lingering pain in the heart of Richard Harrington it was soothed away by the four soft baby hands which pa.s.sed so caressingly over his face and hair, while honeyed lips touched his, and sweet bird-like voices told how much they had been taught to love the one whom they always called Uncle.

These children had been the hardest part of all to forgive, particularly the first born, for Richard, when he heard of him had felt all the old sorrow coming back again; a feeling as if Edith had no right with little ones which did not call him father. But time had healed that wound too, until from the sunny slopes of France, where his home had so long been, his heart had often leaped across the sea in quest of those same children now prattling in his ear and calling him Uncle d.i.c.k. There was another, a dearer name by which they might have called him, but he knew now that 'twas not for him to be thus addressed. And still he felt something like a father's love stealing into his heart as he wound his arms around the little forms, giving back kiss for kiss, and asking which was like their mother.

”Ain't none of us much,” d.i.c.k replied, ”We're like father and Aunt Nina, hanging on the wall in the library. Mother's got big black eyes, with winkers a rod long, and her hair s.h.i.+nes like my velvet coat, and comes most to her feet.”

Richard smiled, und was about to speak again, when d.i.c.k forestalled him by asking--not if he had him something but where it was.

”It's in your trunk, I guess,” he said, as his busy fingers investigated every pocket and found nothing savoring of playthings, except a knife, both blades of which were opened in a trice, and tried upon the window sill!

Richard, who, never having known much of children, had not thought of presents, was sorely perplexed, when luckily Victor returned, bringing a paper of mola.s.ses candy, which he slyly thrust into his master's hand, whispering to him,

”They always like that.”

Victor had calculated aright, for nothing could have pleased the St. Claires more; and when, as she entered at the door, Edith caught sight of her offspring, she hardly knew them, so besmeared were their little faces with mola.s.ses, Nina having wiped her hands first upon her hair and then rubbed them upon Richard's knee, while Victor looked on a little doubtful us to what the mother might say.

”There's mam-ma,” Nina cried, trying to shake back her curls, which nevertheless stuck lightly to her forehead. ”There's mam- ma,” and in an instant Little d.i.c.k, as he was called, found himself rather unceremoniously set down upon his feet, as Richard adjusted his shade, and resumed the air of helplessness so natural to the blind.

Edith had been to New York with Marie and the children, leaving the former there for a few weeks, and was now on her way home, whither she hoped ere long to welcome Richard, whom she had never seen since the night of her marriage, when Victor led him half fainting from the altar. He would not join them at the breakfast next morning, but sent them his good-bye, and when they returned from their long, happy bridal tour they found a letter for them saying Richard was in Paris.

Regularly after that they heard from him, and though he never referred to the past, Edith knew how much it cost him to write to one whom he had loved so much. Latterly, however, his letters had been far more cheerful in their tone, and it struck Edith that his hand-writing too, was more even than formerly, but she suspected nothing and rather antic.i.p.ated the time when she should be eyes for him again, just as she used to be. He had said in his last letter that he was coming home ere long, but she had no idea that he was so near, and she wondered what tall, greyish haired gentleman it was who had taken possession of her seat.

”Mother,” little d.i.c.k was about to scream, when Victor placed his hand upon his mouth, at the same time turning his back to Edith, who, a little surprised at the proceeding, and a little indignant it may be, said rather haughtily, and with a hasty glance at Richard,

”My seat, sir, if you please.”

The boy by this time had broken away from Victor, and yelled out, ”Uncle d.i.c.k, ma, Uncle d.i.c.k;” but it did not need this now to tell Edith who it was. A second glance had told her, and with face almost as white as the linen collar about her neck, she reeled forward, and would have fallen but for Victor, who caught her by the shoulder and sat her down beside his master.

Richard was far less excited than herself, inasmuch as he was prepared for the meeting and as she sank down with the folds of her grey traveling dress lying in his lap, he offered her his hand, and with the same old sunny smile she remembered so well, said to her,

”Do you not know me?”

”Yes,” she gasped, ”but it takes my breath away. I was not expecting you so soon. I am so glad.”

He knew she was by the way her snowy fingers twined themselves around his own and by the fervent pressure of her lips upon his hand.

”Mam-ma's tyin,” said Nina, and then Edith's tears fell fast, dropping upon the broad hand she still held, which very, very gradually, but still intentionally drew hers directly beneath the green shade, and there Richard kept it, his thumb hiding the broad band of gold which told she was a wife.

It was a very small, white, pretty hand, and so perhaps he imagined, for he held it a long, long time, while he talked quite naturally of Arthur, of Grace, of the people of Shannondale, and lastly of her children.

”They crept into my heart before I knew it,” he said, releasing Edith's hand and lifting Nina to his knee. ”They are neither of them much like you, my namesake says.”

This reminded Edith of the mysterious shade which puzzled her so much, and, without replying directly to him, she asked why it was worn. Victor shot a quick, nervous glance at his master, who without the slightest tremor in his voice, told her that he had of late been troubled with weak eyes, and as the dust and sunlight made them worse, he had been advised to wear it while traveling as a protection.

”I shall remove it by and by, when I am rested,” he said.

And Edith hoped he would, for he did not seem natural to her with that ugly thing disfiguring him as it did.