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

Arthur, Arthur. You little guessed what it cost me, years ago, to give up NINA BERNARD. It almost broke my heart, and the wound is bleeding yet! Could the past be undone; could we stand where we did that night which both remember so well, I would hold you back; and Nina, crazy as she is, should this moment be mine—mine to love, to cherish, to care for and weep over when she is dead. Poor little unfortunate Nina—my darling—my idol—my clipped-wing bird!”

It was Dr. Griswold’s voice which trembled now, and Arthur’s which essayed to comfort him.

“I never dreamed of this,” he said. “I knew you, with others, had a liking for her, but you relinquished her so willingly, I could not guess you loved her so well,” and in his efforts to soothe his friend, Arthur forgot his own sorrow in part.

It was time now for the Dr. to go, as the smoke of the coming train was visible over the hills. “You need not accompany me further,” he said, offering his hand to Arthur, who pressed it in silence, and then walked slowly back to Grassy Spring.

Those were terrible days which followed the visit of Dr. Griswold, for to see Edith Hastings often was a danger he dared not incur, while to avoid her altogether was utterly impossible, and at last resolving upon a change of scene as his only hope, he one morning astonished Grace with the announcement that he was going South, and it might be many weeks ere he returned.

Since coming to that neighborhood, Arthur had been a puzzle to Grace, and she watched him now in amazement, as he paced the floor, giving her sundry directions with regard to Nina, and telling her where a letter would find him in case she should be sick, and require his personal attention. It was in vain that Grace expostulated with him upon what seemed to her a foolish and uncalled-for journey. He was resolved, and saying he should not probably see Edith ere his departure, he left his farewell with her.

Once he thought of bidding her encourage Edith to marry the blind man, but he could not quite bring himself to this. Edith was dearer to him now than when she promised him that if Richard sought her hand she would not tell him no, and he felt that he would rather she should die than be thus sacrificed. Anxiously Grace looked after him as he walked rapidly away, thinking within herself that long association with Nina had impaired his reason. And Arthur was more than half insane. Not until now had he been wholly roused to the reality of his position. Dr. Griswold had rent asunder the flimsy veil, showing him how hopeless was his love for Edith, and so, because he could not have her, he must go away. It was a wise decision, and he was strengthened to keep it in spite of Nina’s tears that he should stay.

“Nina’ll die, or somebody’ll die, I know,” and the little girl clung sobbing to his neck, when the hour of parting came.

Very gently he unclasped her clinging arms; very tenderly he kissed her lips, bidding her give one to Miggie, and then he left her, turning back ere he reached the gate, as a new idea struck him. Would NINA go with him; go to her Florida home, if so he would defer his journey a day or so. He wondered he had not thought of this before. It would save him effectually, and he anxiously waited her answer.

“If Miggie goes I will, but not without.”

This was Nina’s reply, and Arthur turned a second time away.

In much surprise, Edith, who came that afternoon, heard of Arthur’s departure.

“Why did he go without bidding me good-bye?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but he left a kiss for you right on my lips,” said Nina, putting up her rosebud mouth for Edith to take what was unquestionably her own.

While they were thus talking together, the door bell rang, and Soph, who answered the ring, admitted Dr. Griswold.

“Dr. Griswold here again so soon!” exclaimed Edith, a suspicion crossing her mind that Arthur had arranged for him to take charge of Nina during his absence. “But it shall not be,” she thought, “I can prevent her returning to the Asylum, and I will.”

She might have spared herself all uneasiness, for Dr. Griswold knew nothing of Arthur’s absence, and seemed more surprised than she had been.

“I am so glad, so glad,” he said; and when Edith looked inquiringly at him, he answered, “I am glad because it is right that he should go.”

Edith did not in the least comprehend his meaning, and as he manifested no intention to explain, the conversation soon turned upon other topics than Arthur and his sudden journey. Since Arthur’s visit to Worcester, Dr. Griswold had heard nothing from him, and impelled by one of those strange influences which will sometimes lead a person on to his fate, he had come up to Shannondale partly to see how matters stood and partly to whisper a word of encouragement to one who needed it so much. He had never been very robust or strong; the secret which none save Arthur knew had gradually undermined his health, and he was subject to frequent attacks of what he called his nervous headaches. The slightest cause would sometimes induce one of these, and when on the morning after his arrival at Grassy Spring he awoke from a troubled sleep he knew by certain unmistakable signs that a day of suffering was in store for him. This on his own account he would not have minded particularly, for he was accustomed to it, but his presence was needed at home; and the knowledge of this added to the intensity of his pain, which became so great that to rise from his pillow was impossible, and Soph, when sent to his room to announce that breakfast was waiting, reported him to her mother as “mighty sick with blood in the face.”

All the day long he lay in the darkened room, sometimes dreaming, sometimes moaning, and watching through his closed eyes the movements of Nina, who had constituted herself his nurse, treading on tiptoe across the floor, whispering to herself, and apparently carrying on an animated conversation with some imaginary personage. Softly, she bathed his aching head, asking every moment if he were better, and going once behind the door where he heard her praying that “God would make the good doctor well.”

Blessed Nina, there was far more need for this prayer than she supposed, for when the next day came, the pain and heat about the eyes and head were not in the least abated, and a physician was called, who pronounced the symptoms to be those of typhoid fever. With a stifled moan, Dr. Griswold turned upon his pillow, while his great, unselfish heart went out after his poor patients in the Asylum, who would miss him so much. Three days passed away, and it was generally known in the village that a stranger lay sick of typhus fever at Grassy Spring, which with common consent was shunned as if the deadly plague had been rioting there. Years before the disease had raged with fearful violence in the town, and many a fresh mound was reared in the graveyard, and many a hearthstone desolated. This it was which struck a panic to the hearts of the inhabitants when they knew the scourge was again in their midst, and save the inmates of the house, and Edith Hastings, none came to Dr. Griswold’s aid. At first Richard refused to let the latter put herself in the way of danger, but for once Edith asserted her right to do as she pleased, and declared that she WOULD share Nina’s labors. So for many weary days and nights those two young girls hovered like angels of mercy around the bed where the sick man tossed from side to side, while the fever burned more and more fiercely in his veins until his reason was dethroned, and a secret told which otherwise would have died with him. Gradually the long hidden love for Nina showed itself, and Edith, who alone could comprehend the meaning of what he said and did, saw how a strong, determined man can love, even when there is no hope.

“Little wounded dove,” he called the golden-haired maiden, who bent so constantly over him, caressing his burning face with her cool, soft hands, passing her snowy fingers through his disordered hair, and suffering him to kiss her as he often did, but insisting always that MIGGIE should be kissed also, and Edith, knowing that what was like healing to the sick man would be withheld unless she, too, submitted, would sometimes bow her graceful head and receive upon her brow the token of affection.

“You must hug Miggie, too,” Nina said to him one day, when he had held her slight form for a moment to his bosom. “She’s just as good to you as I am.”

“Nina,” said Edith, “Dr. Griswold does not love me as he does you, and you must not worry him so. Don’t you see it makes him worse?” and lifting the hair she pointed to the drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead.

This seemed to satisfy Nina, while at the same time her darkened mind must have caught a glimmer of the truth, for her manner changed perceptibly, and for a day or so she was rather shy of Dr. Griswold. Then the mood changed again, and to the poor dying man was vouchsafed a glimpse of what it might have been to be loved by Nina Bernard.

“Little sunbeam—little clipped-winged bird—little pearl,” were the terms of endearment he lavished upon her, as, with his feeble arm about her, he told her one night how he loved her. “Don’t go Edith,” he said, as he saw her stealing from the room; “sit down here beside me and listen to what I have to say.”

Edith obeyed, and taking her hand and Nina’s in his, as if the touch of them both would make him strong to unburden his mind, he began:

“Let me call you Edith, while I’m talking, for the sake of one who loves you even as I love Nina,”

Edith started, and very foolishly replied,

“Do you mean Mr. Harrington?”

She knew he didn’t, but her heart was so sore on the subject of Arthur’s absence that she longed to be reassured in some way, and so said what she did.

“No, Edith, it is not Mr. Harrington, I mean,” and Dr. Griswold’s bright eyes fastened themselves upon the trembling girl as if to read her inmost soul, and see how far her feelings were enlisted.

“It’s Arthur,” said Nina, nodding knowingly at both.

“Arthur,” Edith repeated bitterly. “Fine proof he gives of his love. Going from home for an indefinite length of time without one word for me. He hates me, I know,” and bursting into tears she buried her face in the lap of Nina, who sat upon the bed.

“Poor Edith!” and another hand than Nina’s smoothed her bands of shining hair. “By this one act you have confessed that Arthur’s love is not unrequited. I hoped it might be otherwise. God help you, Edith. God help you.”

He spoke earnestly, and a thrill of fear ran through Edith’s veins. Lifting up her head, she said,

“You talk as if it were a certainty that Arthur St. Claire loves me. He has never told me so—never.”

She could not add that he had never given her reason to think so, for he had, and her whole frame quivered with joy as she heard her suspicions confirmed by Dr. Griswold.

“He does love you, Edith Hastings. He has confessed as much