Darkness and Daylight, Mary J. Holmes [classic book list .txt] 📗

second Mrs. Bernard’s picture?” she asked, and Arthur answered, “It was never taken, but Phillis declares YOU are like her, and this accounts for Nina’s pertinacity in calling you Miggie.”

The pictures were by this time duly examined, and then Nina, still playing the part of hostess, showed to Edith every thing of the least interest until she came to the door, leading into the large square closet.

“Open it, please,” she whispered to Arthur. “Let Miggie see where Nina stays when she tears.”

Arthur unlocked the door, and Edith stepped with a shudder into the solitary cell which had witnessed more than one wild revel, and echoed to more than one delirious shriek.

“Is it necessary?” she asked, and Arthur replied: “We think so; otherwise she would demolish every thing within her reach, and throw herself from the window it may be.”

“THAT’S SO,” said Nina, nodding approvingly. “When I’m bad, I have to tear. It cures my head, and I’m so strong then, that it takes Phillis and Arthur both to put that gown on me. I can’t tear that,” and she pointed to a loose sacque-like garment, made of the heaviest possible material, and hanging upon a nail near the door of the cell.

“Have you been shut up since you came here?” Edith inquired, and Nina rejoined. “Once; didn’t you hear me scream?” Phillis tried to make me quit, but I told her I wouldn’t unless they’d let you come. I saw you on the walk, you know. I’m better with you, Miggie; a heap better since you made me cry. It took a world of hardness and pain away, and my head has not ached a single time since then. I’m most well; ain’t I, Arthur.”

“Miss Hastings certainly has a wonderful influence over you,” returned Arthur, and as the evening wore away, Edith began to think so, too.

Even the servants commented upon the change in Nina, who appeared so natural and lady-like, that once there darted across Arthur’s mind the question, “what if her reason SHOULD be restored! I will do right, Heaven helping me,” he moaned mentally, for well he knew that Nina sane would require of him far different treatment from what Nina crazy did. It was late that night when they parted, he to his lonely room where for hours he paced the floor with feverish disquiet, while Edith went from choice with Nina to the DEN, determined to share her single bed, and smiling at her own foolishness when once a shadow of fear crept into her heart. How could she be afraid of the gentle creature, who, in her snowy night dress, with her golden hair falling about her face and neck, looked like some beautiful angel flitting about the room, pretending to arrange this and that, casting half bashful glances at Edith, who was longer in disrobing and at last, as if summoning all her courage for the act, stepping behind the thin lace window curtains, which she drew around her, saying softly, “don’t look at me, Miggie, will you, ‘cause I’m going to pray.”

Instantly the brush which Edith held was stayed amid her raven hair, and the hot tears rained over her face as she listened to that prayer, that God would keep Nina from TEARING any more, and not let Arthur cry, but make it all come right some time with him and Miggie, too. Then followed that simple petition, “now I lay me down to sleep,” learned at the mother’s knee by so many thousand children whose graves like hillocks in the churchyard lie, and when she arose and came from behind the gauzy screen where she fancied she had been hidden from view, Edith was not wrong in thinking that something like the glory of Heaven shone upon her pure white brow. All dread of her was gone, and when Sophy came in, offering to sleep upon the floor as was her usual custom, she promptly declined, for she would rather be alone with Nina.

Edith had never been intimate with any girl of her own age, and to her it was a happiness entirely new, she nestling down in the narrow bed with a loved companion whose arms wound themselves caressingly around her neck, and whose lips touched hers many times, whispering, “Bless you, Miggie, bless you, precious sister, you can’t begin to guess how much I love you. Neither can I tell you. Why, it would take me till morning.”

It became rather tiresome after a time being kept awake, and fearing lest she WOULD talk till morning, Edith said to her,

“I shall go home if you are not more quiet.”

There was something in Edith’s voice which prompted the crazy girl to obey, and with one more assurance of love she turned to her pillow, and Edith knew by her soft, regular breathing, that her troubles were forgotten.

“I hardly think you’ll care to repeat the experiment again,” Arthur said to Edith next morning, when he met her at the table, and saw that she looked rather weary. “Nina, I fear, was troublesome, as Sophy tells me she often is.”

Edith denied Nina’s having troubled her much. Still she felt that she preferred her own cozy bed-chamber to Nina’s larger, handsomer room, and would not promise to spend another night at Grassy Spring, although she expressed her willingness to resume her drawing lessons, and suggested that Nina, too, should become a pupil. Arthur would much rather have had Edith all to himself, for he knew that Nina’s presence would be a restraint upon him, but it was right, and he consented as the only means of having Edith back again in her old place, fancying that when he had her there it would be the same as before. But he was mistaken, for when the lessons were resumed, he found there was something between them,— something which absorbed Edith’s mind, and was to him a constant warning and rebuke. Did he bend so near Edith at her task, that his brown locks touched her blacker braids, a shower of golden curls was sure to mingle with the twain, as Nina also bent her down to see what he was looking at. Did the hand which sometimes guided Edith’s pencil ever retain the fingers longer than necessary, a pair of deep blue eyes looked into his, not reproachfully, for Nina could not fathom the meaning of what she saw, but with an expression of childlike trust and confidence far more potent than frowns and jealous tears would have been. Nina was in Arthur’s way, but not in Edith’s, and half the pleasure she experienced now in going to Grassy Spring, was derived from the fact that she thus saw more of Nina than she would otherwise have done. It was a rare and beautiful sight, the perfect love existing between these two young girls, Edith seeming the elder, inasmuch as she was the taller and more self-reliant of the two. As a mother watches over and loves her maimed infant, so did Edith guard and cherish Nina, possessing over her so much power that a single look from her black eyes was sufficient to quiet at once the little lady, who, under the daily influence of her society visibly improved both in health and spirits.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

DR. GRISWOLD.

 

Still Nina’s mind was enshrouded in as deep a gloom as ever, and Dr. Griswold, who, toward the latter part of June, came to see her, said it would be so always. There was no hope of her recovery, and with his olden tenderness of manner he caressed his former patient, sighing as he thought of the weary life before her. For two days Dr. Griswold remained at Grassy Spring, learning in that time much how matters stood. He saw Edith Hastings,— scanned with his clear, far-reaching eye every action of Arthur St. Claire, and when at last his visit was ended, and Arthur was walking with him to the depot, he said abruptly, “I am sorry for you, St. Claire; more sorry than I ever was before, but you know the path of duty and you must walk in it, letting your eyes stray to neither side, lest they fall upon forbidden fruit.”

Arthur made no reply save to kick the gnarled roots of the tree under which they had stopped for a few moments.

“Edith Hastings is very beautiful!” Dr. Griswold remarked suddenly, and as if SHE had just entered his mind. “Does she come often to Grassy Spring?”

“Every day,” and Arthur tried to look his friend fully in the face, but could not, and his brown eyes fell as he added hastily, “she comes to see Nina; they are greatly attached.”

“She HAS a wonderful power over her, I think,” returned Dr. Griswold; “and I am not surprised that you esteem her highly on that account, but how will it be hereafter when other duties, other relations claim her attention. Will she not cease to visit you and so Nina made worse?”

“What new duties? What relations do you mean,” Arthur asked quickly, trembling in every joint as he anticipated the answer.

“I have a fancy that Miss Hastings will reward that blind man for all his kindness with her heart and hand.”

“Her hand it may be, but her heart, NEVER,” interrupted Arthur, betraying by his agitation what Dr. Griswold had already guessed.

“Poor Arthur,” he said, “I know what is in your mind and pity you so much, but you can resist temptation and you MUST. There’s no alternative. You chose your destiny years ago—abide by it, then. Hope and pray, as I do, that Edith Hastings will be the blind man’s bride.”

“Oh, Griswold,” and Arthur groaned aloud, “you cannot wish to sacrifice her thus!”

“I can—I do—it will save you both from ruin.”

“Then you think—you DO think she loves me,” and Arthur looked eagerly at his friend, who answered, “I think nothing, save that she will marry Mr. Harrington. Your cousin told me there was a rumor to that effect. She is often at Collingwood, and ought to be posted.”

“Griswold, I wish I were dead,” exclaimed Arthur. “Yes, I wish I were dead, and were it not that I dread the hereafter, I would end my existence at once in yonder river,” and he pointed to the Chicopee, winding its slow way to the westward.

Dr. Griswold gazed at him a moment in silence, and then replied somewhat sternly, “Rather be a man and wait patiently for the future.”

“I would, but for the fear that Edith will be lost to me forever,” Arthur answered faintly, and Dr. Griswold replied, “Better so than lost herself. Why not be candid with her; tell her everything; go over the entire past, and if she truly loves you, she will wait, years and years if need be. She’s young yet, too young to be a wife. Will you tell her?”

“I can’t, I can’t,” and Arthur shook his head despairingly. “I have hidden the secret too long to tell it now. It might have been easy at first, but now—it’s too late. Oh, Griswold, you do not understand what I suffer, for you never knew what it was to love as I love Edith Hastings.” For a moment Dr. Griswold looked at him in silence. He knew how fierce a storm had gathered round him, and how bravely he had met it. He knew, too, how impetuous and ardent was his disposition, how much one of his temperament must love Edith Hastings, and he longed to speak to him a word of comfort. Smoothing the brown hair of the bowed head, and sighing to see how many threads of silver were woven in it, he said,

“I pity you so much, and can feel for you more than you suspect. You say I know not what it is to love. Oh,