Darkness and Daylight Part 25

"Edith--Edith--Edith," and with each word he hugged Nina closer to him, so close that she gave a cry of pain, but he did not heed it; he hardly knew he held her--his thoughts were all for the poor, wretched girl, rising slowly to her feet. "Edith, you surely understand me now. The obstacle between us is---; oh, Nina, say it for me, tell her what you are to me."

"I know," and Edith Hastings stood tall and erect before him, "NINA IS YOUR WIFE."

Nina looked up and smiled, while Edith crossed her arms upon her breast, and waited for him to answer.

"Yes, Edith,--though never before acknowledged as such, Nina is my wife; but, Edith, I swear it before high Heaven, she is only a wife in name. Never for a day, or hour, or moment have I lived with her as such. Were it otherwise, I could not have fallen so low. Her father came the very night we were married, and took her away next morning. Griswold and I must have met him just as we left the yard, after having a.s.sisted Nina and her room-mate, Sarah Warren, to reach the window, from which they had adroitly escaped little move than an hour before. No one had missed them,--no one ever suspected the truth, and as Miss Warren died a few months afterward, only Nina, Griswold and myself knew the secret, which I guarded most carefully for fear of expulsion from college. You know the rest. You know it all, Nina is my wife. Nina is my wife,- -my wife,--my wife."

He kept whispering it to himself, as if thus he would impress it the more forcibly upon the unconscious Edith, who lay upon the withered gra.s.s just where Nina had lain, rigid and white and free for the present from all suffering. Arthur could not move; the blow had fallen on them both with a mightier force than even he had antic.i.p.ated, killing her he feared, and so benumbing himself that to act was impossible, and he continued sitting upon the log with his elbows resting on his knees and his face upon his hands.

Only Nina had any reason then or judgment. Hastening to Edith she knelt beside her, and lifting up her head pillowed it upon her lap, wiping from her temple the drops of blood slowly trickling from a cut, made by a sharp stone.

"Miggie, Miggie," she cried, "wake up. You scare me, you look so white and stiff. Please open your eyes, darling, just a little ways, so Nina'll know that you ain't dead. Oh, Arthur, she is DEAD!" and Nina shrieked aloud, when, opening herself the lids, she saw the dull, fixed expression of the gla.s.sy eye.

Laying her back upon the gra.s.s, she crept to Arthur's side, and tried to rouse him, saying imploringly, "Miggie's dead, Arthur; Miggie's dead. There is blood all over her face. It's on me, too, look," and she held before him her fingers, covered with a crimson stain. Even this did not move him; he only kissed the tiny hand wet with Edith's blood, and whispered to her, "Richard."

It was enough. Nina comprehended his meaning at once; and when next he looked about him she was flying like a deer across the fields to Collingwood, leaving him alone with Edith. From where he sat he could see her face, and its corpse-like pallor chilled him with horror. He must go to her. It would be long ere Nina guided the blind man to the spot, and, exerting all his strength, he tottered to the brook, filled his hat with water, and crawling, rather than walking, to Edith's side, dashed it upon her head, washing the stains of blood, away, and forcing back the life so nearly gone. Gradually the eyes unclosed, and looked into his with a glance so full of love. tenderness, reproach, and cruel disappointment, that he turned away, for he could not meet that look.

The blood from the wound upon the forehead was flowing freely now, and faint from its loss, Edith sank again into a state of unconsciousness, while Arthur, scarcely knowing what he did, crept away to a little distance, where, leaning against a tree, he sat insensible as it were, until the sound of footsteps roused him, and he saw Nina coming, holding fast to the blind man's wrist, and saying to him encouragingly,

"We are almost there. I see her dress now by the bank. Wake up, Miggie; we're coming--Richard and I. Don't you hear me, Miggie?"

Victor had been sent to the village upon an errand for Richard, who was sitting in his arm-chair, just where Edith had left him an hour before, dozing occasionally, as was his custom after dinner, and dreaming of his singing bird.

"Little rose-bud," he whispered to himself. "It's strange no envious, longing eyes have sought her out as yet, and tried to win her from me. There's St. Claire--cannot help admiring her, but thus far he's been very discreet, I'm sure. Victor would tell me if he saw any indications of his making love to Edith."

Deluded Richard! Victor Dupres kept his own counsel with regard to Edith and the proprietor of Gra.s.sy Spring; and when questioned by his master, as he sometimes was, he always answered, "Monsieur St.

Claire does nothing out of the way."

So Richard, completely blinded, trusted them both, and had no suspicion of the scene enacted that afternoon in the Deering Woods. Hearing a swift footstep coming up the walk, he held his breath to listen, thinking it was Edith, but a moment only sufficed to tell it was Nina. With a rapid, bounding tread she entered the library, and gliding to his side, startled him with, "Come, quick, Miggie's dead--dead in the Deering Woods!"

For an instant Richard's brain reeled, and rings of fire danced before his sightless eyes; then, remembering the nature of the one who had brought to him this news, hope whispered that it might not be so bad, and this it was which buoyed him up and made him strong to follow his strange guide.

Down the lane, across the road, and over the fields Nina led him, bareheaded as he was, and in his thin-soled, slippers, which were torn against the briers and stones, for in her haste Nina did not stop to choose the smoothest path, and Richard was too intent on Edith to heed the roughness of the way. Many questions be asked her as to the cause of the accident, but she told him nothing save that "Miggie was talking and fell down dead." She did not mention Arthur, for, fancying that he had in some way been the cause of the disaster, she wished to shield him from all censure, consequently Richard had no idea of the crushed, miserable wretch leaning against the sycamore and watching him as he came up. He only heard Nina's cry, "Wake up, Miggie, Richard's here!"

It needed more than that appeal, however, to rouse the unconscious girl, and Richard, as he felt her cold, clammy flesh, wept aloud, fearing lest she were really dead. Eagerly he felt for her heart, knowing then that she still lived.

"Edith, darling, speak to me," and he chafed her nerveless hands, bidding Nina bring him water from the brook.

Spying Arthur's hat Nina caught it up, when the thought entered her mind, "He'll wonder whose this is." Then with a look of subtle cunning, she stole up behind the blind man, and placing the hat suddenly upon his head, withdrew it as quickly, saying, "I'll get it in this, shan't I?"

Richard was too much excited to know whether he had worn one hat or a dozen, and he answered her at once, "Use it of course."

The cold water brought by Nina roused Edith once more, and with a sigh she lay back on Richard's bosom, so trustfully, so confidingly, that Arthur, looking on, foresaw what the future would bring, literally giving her up then and there to the blind man, who, as if accepting the gift, hugged her fondly to him and said aloud, "I thank the good Father for restoring to me my Edith."

She suffered him to caress her as much as he liked, and offered no remonstrance when lifting her in his strong arms, he bade Nina lead him back to Collingwood. Like a weary child Edith rested her head upon his shoulder, looking behind once, and regarding Arthur with a look he never forgot, even when the darkness in which he now was groping had pa.s.sed away, and the full daylight was shining o'er him. Leading Richard to a safe distance, Nina bade him wait a moment while she went back for something she had forgotten--then hastening to Arthur's side she wound her arms around his neck, smoothed his hair, kissed his lips, and said to him so low that Richard could not hear,

"NINA won't desert you. She'll come to you again, when she gets Miggie home. You did do it, didn't you? but Nina'll never tell."

Kissing him once more, she bounded away, and with feelings of anguish which more than compensated for his error, Arthur looked after them as they moved slowly across the field, Richard sometimes tottering beneath his load, which, nevertheless, he would not release, and Nina, holding to his arm, telling him where to go, and occasionally glancing backward toward the spot where Arthur sat, until the night shadows were falling, and he shivered with the heavy dew. Nina did not return, and thinking that she would not, he started for home, never knowing how he reached there, or when; only this he knew, no one suspected him of being in the Deering Woods when Edith Hastings was attacked with that strange fainting fit. Thanks for this to little Nina, who, returning as she had promised, found the forgotten HAT still dripping with water, and hiding it beneath her shawl, carried it safely to Gra.s.sy Spring, where it would betray no one.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.

Death brooded over Collingwood, and his black wing beat clamorously against the windows of the room to which, on that fearful night, Richard had borne his fainting burden, and where for days and weeks she lay so low that with every coming morning the anxious villagers listened for the first stroke of the bell which should tell that Edith was dead. Various were the rumors concerning the cause of her illness, all agreeing upon one point, to wit, that she had fainted suddenly in the woods with Nina, and in falling, had received a deep gash upon her forehead. This it was which made her crazy, the people said, and the physician humored the belief, although with his experience he knew there was some secret sorrow preying upon that young mind, the nature of which he could not easily guess. It never occurred to him that it was in any way a.s.sociated with Arthur St. Claire, whose heart- broken expression told how much he suffered, and how dear to him was the delirious girl, who never breathed his name, or gave token that she knew of his existence. Every morning, regularly he rung the Collingwood bell, which was always answered by Victor, between whom and himself there was a tacit understanding, perceptible in the fervent manner with which the faithful valet's hand was pressed whenever the news was favorable. He did not venture into her presence, though repeatedly urged to do so by Grace, who mentally accused him of indifference toward Edith. Alas, she knew not of the nightly vigils kept by the wretched man, when with dim eye and throbbing head he humbled himself before his Maker, praying to be forgiven for the sorrow he had wrought, and again wrestling in agony for the young girl, whose sick room windows he could see, watching the livelong night the flickering of the lamp, and fancying he could tell from its position, if any great change occurred in her.

Richard was completely crushed, and without noticing any one he sat hour after hour, day after day, night after night, always in one place, near the head of the bed, his hands folded submissively together, and his sightless eyes fixed upon the pillow, where he knew Edith was, with a hopeless, subdued expression touching to witness. He did not weep, but his dry, red eyes, fastened always upon the same point, told of sealed fountains where the hot tears were constantly welling up, and failing to find egress without, fell upon the bruised heart, which blistered and burned beneath their touch, but felt no relief. It was in vain they tried to persuade him to leave the room; he turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, and the physician was beginning to fear for his reason, when crazy Nina came to his aid, and laying her moist hand upon his said to him, not imploringly, but commandingly, "Come with me."

There was a moment's hesitation, and then Richard followed her out into the open air, sitting where she bade him sit, and offering no resistance when she perched herself upon his knee and pa.s.sed her arm around his neck.

"Make him cry, can't you? That will do him good," whispered Victor, who had come out with them.

Nina knew that better than himself. SHE remembered the time when the sight of Edith had wrung from her torrents of tears, cooling her burning brow, and proving a blessed relief, the good effects of which were visible yet. And now it was her task to make the blind man cry. She recognized something familiar in the hard, stony expression of his face, something which brought back the Asylum, with all its dreaded horrors. She had seen strong men there look just as he was looking. Dr. Griswold had called them crazy, and knowing well what that word implied she would save Richard from so sad a fate.

"It will be lonesome for you when Miggie's gone," she said, as a prelude, to the attempt; "lonesomer than it has ever been before; and the nights will be so dark, for when the morning comes there'll be no Miggie here. She will look sweetly in her coffin, but you can't see her, can you? You can FEEL how beautiful she is, perhaps; and I shall braid her hair just as she used to wear it."

There was a perceptible tremor in Richard's frame, and perceiving it, Nina continued quickly,

"We shall never forget her, shall we? and we'll often fancy we hear her singing through the halls, even though we know she's far away heading the choir in Heaven. That will be a pleasanter sound, won't it, than the echo of the bell when the villagers count the eighteen strokes and a half, and know it tolls for Miggie? The hea.r.s.e wheels, too--how often we shall hear them grinding through the gravel, as they will grind, making a little track when they come up, and a deeper one when they go away, for they'll carry Miggie then."

"Oh, Nina! hush, hush! No, no!" and Richard's voice was choked with tears, which ran over his face like rain.

Nina had achieved her object, and, with a most satisfied expression she watched him as he wept. Her's was a triple task, caring for Richard, caring for Arthur, and caring for Edith, but most faithfully did she perform it. Every day, when the sun was low in the western sky, she stole away to Gra.s.sy Spring, speaking blessed words of comfort to the despairing Arthur, who waited for her coming as for the visit of an angel. She was dearer to him now since he had confessed his sin to Edith, and could she have been restored to reason he would have compelled himself to make her his wife in reality as well as in name. She was a sweet creature, he knew; and he always caressed her with unwonted tenderness ere he sent her back to the sick room, where Edith ever bemoaned her absence, missing her at once, asking for pretty Nina, with the golden hair. She apparently did not remember that Nina stood between herself and Arthur St. Claire, or, if she did, she bore no malice for the patient, all-enduring girl who nursed her with so much care, singing to her the plaintive German air once sung to Dr. Griswold, and in which Edith would often join, taking one part, while Nina sang the other; and the members of the household, when they heard the strange melody, now swelling load and full, as some fitful fancy took possession of the crazy vocalists, and now sinking to a plaintive wail, would shudder, and turn aside to weep, for there was that in the music which reminded them of the hea.r.s.e wheels grinding down the gravel, and of the village bell giving the eighteen strokes. Sometimes, for nearly a whole night those songs of the olden time would echo through the house, and with each note she sang the fever burned more fiercely in Edith's veins, and her glittering black eyes flashed with increased fire, while her fingers clutched at her tangled hair, as if they thus would keep time to the thrilling strain. Her hair troubled her, it was so heavy, so thick, so much in her way, and when she manifested a propensity to relieve herself of the burden by tearing it from the roots the physician commanded them to cut away those beautiful shining braids, Edith's crowning glory.

It was necessary, he said, and the sharp, polished scissors were ready for the task, when Nina, stepping in between them and the blue-black locks, saved the latter from the nurse's barbaric hand.

She remembered well when her own curls had fallen one by one beneath the shears of an unrelenting nurse, and she determined at all hazards to spare Edith from a like fancied indignity.

"Miggie's hair shall not be harmed," she said, covering with her ap.r.o.n the wealth of raven tresses. "I can keep her from pulling it. I can manage her;" and the sequel proved that she was right.

It was a singular power that blue-eyed blonde possessed over the dark-eyed brunette, who became at last as obedient to Nina's will as Nina once had been to her's, and it was amusing to watch Nina flitting about Edith, now reasoning with, now coaxing, and again threatening her capricious patient, who was sure eventually to do as she was bidden.

Only once while the delirium lasted did Edith refer to Arthur, and then she said reproachfully, "Oh, Nina, what made him do so?"

They were alone, and bending over her, Nina replied, "I am so sorry, Miggie, and I'll try to have the ugly thing SCRATCHED OUT."

This idea once fixed in Nina's mind could not easily be dislodged, and several times she went to Richard, asking him to SCRATCH IT OUT! Wishing to humor her as far as possible he always answered that he would if he knew what she meant. Nina felt that she must not explain, and with vigilant cunning she studied how to achieve her end without betraying Arthur. It came to her one night, and whispering to Edith, "I am going to get it fixed," she glided from the room and sought the library where she was sure of finding Richard. It was nearly eleven o'clock, but he had not yet retired, and with his head bent forward he sat in his accustomed place, the fire-light shining on his face, which had grown fearfully haggard and white within the last two weeks. He heard Nina's step, and knowing who it was, asked if Edith were worse.

"No," returned Nina, "she'll live, too, If you'll only scratch it out."

He was tired of asking what she meant, and he made no answer. But Nina was too intent upon other matters to heed his silence. Going to his secretary she arranged materials for writing, and then taking his hand, said, in the commanding tone she used toward Edith when at all refractory, "Come and write. 'Tis the only chance of saving her life."

"Write what?" he asked, as he rose from his chair and suffered her to lead him to the desk.