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

“I couldn’t bear to think of Arthur, and before I came home I determined never to live with him as his wife. I didn’t know then about this buzzing in my head, and the first thing I did when alone with him at the Revere House was to go down on my knees and beg of him not to make me keep my vow. I told him I loved Charlie best, and he talked so good to me—said maybe I’d get over it, and all that. Then he read pa’s letter, which told what I would some time be, and he didn’t ask me after that to live with him, but when he came from Florida and found me so dreadful, he put his arms around me, loving-like, and cried, while I raved like a fury and snapped at him like a dog. You see the buzzing was like a great noisy factory then, and Nina didn’t know what she was doing, she hated him so, and the more he tried to please her the more she hated him. Then, when I came to my senses enough to think I did not want our marriage known, I made him promise not to tell, in Florida or anywhere, so he didn’t, and the weary years wore on with people thinking I was his ward. Dr. Griswold was always kind and good, but not quite as patient and woman-like as Arthur. It seemed as if he had a different feeling toward me, and required more of me, for he was not as gentle when I tore as Arthur was. I was terribly afraid of him, though, and after a while he did me good. The buzzing wasn’t bigger than a mill-wheel, and it creaked just as a big wheel does when there is no water to carry it. It was crying that I wanted. I had not wept in three years, but the sight of you touched a spring somewhere and the waters poured like a flood, turning the wheel without that grating noise that used to drive me mad, and after that I never tore but once. He didn’t tell you, because I asked him not, but I scratched him, struck Phillis, burned up his best coat, broke the mirror, and oh, you don’t know how I did cut up! Then the pain went away and has never come back like that. Sometimes I can see that it was wrong for him to love you and then again I can’t, but if it was he has repented so bitterly of it since. He would not do it now. He needn’t have told you, either, for everybody was dead, and it never would have come back to me if he hadn’t said it in the Deering Woods. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see,” cried Edith, her tears dropping fast into her lap, “I see that I tempted him to sin. Oh, Arthur, I am most to blame— most to blame.”

“And you will give up Richard, won’t you?” Nina said. “Arthur is just as good, just as noble, just as true, and better too, it may be, for he has passed through a fiercer fire than Richard ever did. Will you give up Richard?”

“I can’t,” and Edith shook her head. “The chords by which he holds me are like bands of steel, and cannot be sundered. I promised solemnly that by no word or deed would I seek to break our engagement, and I dare not. I should not be happy if I did.”

And this was all Nina could wring from her, although she labored for many hours, sometimes rationally, sometimes otherwise, but always with an earnest simplicity which showed how pure were her motives, and how great her love for Edith.

CHAPTER XXX.

ARTHUR AND NINA.

It was rather late in the evening when Arthur returned, looking more than usually pale and weary, and still there was about him an air of playful pleasantry, such as there used to be, when Edith first knew him. During the long ride to Tallahassee, Victor, either from accident or design, touched upon the expected marriage of his master, and although Arthur would not ask a single question, he was a deeply-interested auditor, and listened intently, while Victor told him much which had transpired between himself and Edith, saying that unless some influence stronger than any he or Grace could exert were thrown around her, she would keep her vow to Richard, even though she died in keeping it.

“Girls like Edith Hastings do not die easily,” was Arthur’s only comment, and Victor half wished he had kept his own counsel and never attempted to meddle in a love affair.

But if Arthur said nothing, he thought the more, and the warfare within was not the less severe, because his face was so unruffled and his manner so composed. Thought, intense and almost bewildering, was busy at work, and ere the day was done, he had resolved that he would help Edith if all else forsook her. He would not throw one single obstacle across her pathway. He would make the sacrifice easier for her, even if to do it, he suffered her to think that his own love had waned. Nothing could more effectually cure her, and believing that she might be happy with Richard if she did not love another, he determined to measure every word and act so as to impress her with the conviction that though she was dear to him as a sister and friend, he had struggled with his affection for her and overcome it. It would be a living death to do this, he knew—to act so contrary to what he felt, but it was meet that he should suffer, and when at last he was left alone—when both wore lost to him forever—Edith and his child-wife Nina, he would go away across the sea, and lose, if possible, in foreign lands, all rememberance of the past. And this it was that made him seem so cheerful when he came in that night, calling Edith “little sister,” winding his arm around Nina, kissing her white face, asking if she had missed him any, if she were glad to have him back, and how she and Miggie had busied themselves during the day.

“We talked of you, Arthur, and of Richard,” Nina said. “Miggie has promised to many him! Did you know it?”

“Yes, I know it,” was Arthur’s reply; “and there is no person in the world to whom I would sooner give her than to Richard, for I know he will leave nothing undone to make her happy.”

There was no tremor in Arthur’s voice, and Nina little guessed how much it cost him thus to speak, with Edith sitting near. Looking up into his face with a startled, perplexed expression, she said, “I did not expect this, Arthur boy. I thought you loved Miggie.”

“Nina, please don’t,” and Edith spoke entreatingly, but Nina answered pettishly, “I ain’t going to please, for everything has got upside down. It’s all going wrong, and it won’t make a speck of difference, as I see, whether I die or not.”

“I think I’d try to live then,” Arthur said, laughingly, while Edith hailed the appearance of Marie as something which would put a restraint upon Nina.

It had been arranged that Edith should take Arthur’s place in the sick room that night, but Nina suddenly changed her mind, insisting that Arthur should sleep there as usual.

“There’s a heap of things I must tell you,” she whispered to him; “and my head is clearer when it’s darker and the candles are on the stand.”

So Edith retired to her own room, and after a time Arthur was alone with Nina. He was very tired, but at her request he sat down beside her, where she could look into his face and see, as she said, if he answered her for true. At first it was of herself she spoke—herself, as she used to be.

“I remember so well,” she said “when you called me your Florida rose, and asked for one of my curls. That was long ago, and there have been years of darkness since, but the clouds are breaking now—daylight is coming up, or rather Nina is going out, into the daylight, where there is no more buzzing, no more headache. Will I be crazy in Heaven, think?”

“No, darling, no,” and Arthur changed his seat from the chair to the bed, where he could be nearer to the little girl, who continued,

“I’ve thought these many weeks how good you’ve been to me—how happy you have made my last days, while I have been so bad to you, but you musn’t remember it against me, Arthur boy, when I’m dead and there isn’t any naughty Nina anywhere, neither at the Asylum, nor Grassy Spring, nor here in bed, nothing but a teenty grave, out in the yard, with the flowers growing on it, I say you must not remember the wicked things I’ve done, for it wasn’t the Nina who talks to you now. It was the buzzing Nina who tore your hair, and scratched your face, and bit your arm. Oh, Arthur, Nina’s so sorry now; but you musn’t lay it up against me.”

“No, my darling, God forbid that I, who have wronged you so terribly, should remember aught against you,” and Arthur kissed the slender hands which had done him so much mischief.

They were harmless now, those little waxen hands, and they caressed Arthur’s face and hair as Nina went on.

“Arthur boy, there’s one question I must ask you, now there’s nobody to hear, and you will tell me truly. Do you love me any— love me differently from what you did when I was in the Asylum, and if the buzzing all was gone, and never could come back, would you really make me your wife just as other husbands do—would you let me sit upon your knee, and not wish it was some one else, and in the night when you woke up and felt me close to you would you be glad thinking it was Nina? And when you had been on a great long journey, and were coming home, would the smoke from the chimney look handsomer to you because you knew it was Nina waiting for you by the hearthstone, and keeping up the fire? Don’t tell me a falsehood, for I’ll forgive you, if you answer no.”

“Yes, Nina, yes. I would gladly take you as my wife if it could be. My broken lily is very precious to me now, far more so than she used to be. The right love for her began to grow the moment I confessed she was my wife, and when she’s gone, Arthur will be so lonely.”

“Will you, Arthur boy? Will you, as true as you live and breathe, miss poor, buzzing Nina? Oh, I’m so glad, so glad,” and the great tears dimmed the brightness of the blue eyes, which looked up so confidingly at Arthur. “I, too, have loved you a heap; not exactly as I loved Charlie Hudson, I reckon, but the knowing you are my husband, makes Nina feel kind of nice, and I want you to love me some—miss me some—mourn for me some, and then, Arthur, Nina wants you to marry Miggie. There is no buzzing; no twist in her head. It will rest as quietly on your bosom where mine has never lain, not as hers will, I mean, and you both will be so happy at last—happy in knowing that Nina has gone out into the eternal daylight, where she would rather be. You’ll do it, Arthur; she must not marry Richard, and you must speak to her quick, before she goes home, so as