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, 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
hearth-stone 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 to me,
and this is why he has gone from home. He would forget you, and it
is right. He must forget you; he must not love. It would be a
wicked, wicked thing; and Edith--are you listening--do you hear
all I say?"
"Yes," came faintly from Nina's lap, where Edith had laid her face
again.
"Then promise not to marry him, so long--so long--Oh, Nina, how
can I say it? Edith, swear you'll never marry Arthur. Swear,
Edith, swear."
His voice was raised to a shriek, and by the dim light of the
lamp, which fell upon his pallid features, both Edith and Nina saw
the wild delirium flashing from his eye. Nina was the first to
detect it, and wringing Edith's hand she whispered, imploringly,
"Swear, Miggie, once. Say THUNDER, or something like that as
softly as you can. It won't be so very bad, and he wants you to so
much."
Frightened as Edith was at Dr. Griswold's manner she could not
repress a smile at Nina's mistaken idea. Still she did NOT swear,
and all that night he continued talking incoherently of Arthur, of
Edith, of Nina, Geneva, Richard Harrington, and a thousand other
matters, mingling them together in such a manner that nothing
clear or connected could be made of what he said. In the morning
he was more quiet, but there was little hope of his life, the
physician said. From the first he had greatly desired to see
Arthur once more, and when his danger became apparent a telegram
had been forwarded to the wanderer, but brought back no response.
Another was sent, and another, the third one, in the form of a
letter, finding him far up the Red river, where in that sultry
season the air was rife with pestilence, which held with death
many a wanton revel, and would surely have claimed him for its
victim, but for the timely note which called him away.
Night and day, day and night, as fast as the steam-god could take
him, he traveled, his heart swelling with alternate hope and fear
as he neared the north-land, seeing from afar the tall heads of
the New England mountains, and knowing by that token that he was
almost home.
* * * * * *
It was night, dark night at Grassy Spring, and the summer
rain, which all the day had fallen in heavy showers, beat drearily
against the windows of the room where a fair young girl was
keeping watch over the white-faced man whose life was fast ebbing
away. They were alone,--Dr. Griswold and Nina--for both would have
it so. He, because he felt how infinitely precious to him would be
his last few hours with her, when there was no curious ear to
listen; and she, because she would have Miggie sleep. Nina knew no
languor from wakefulness. She was accustomed to it, and as if
imbued with supernatural strength, she had sat night after night
in that close room, ministering to the sick man as no one else
could have done, and by her faithfulness and tender care repaying
him in part for the love which for long, weary years had known no
change, and which, as life draw near its close, manifested itself
in a desire to have her constantly at his side, where he could
look into her eyes, and hear the murmurings of her bird-like
voice.
Thus far Edith and the servants had shared her vigils, but this
night she preferred to be alone, insisting that Edith, who began
to show signs of weariness, should occupy the little room,
adjoining, where she could be called, if necessary. Not
apprehending death so soon the physician acquiesced in this
arrangement, stipulating, however, that Phillis should sleep upon
the lounge in Dr. Griswold's chamber, but the care, the
responsibility, should all be Nina's, he said, and with childish
alacrity she hastened to her post. It was the first time she had
kept the watch alone, but from past experience the physician
believed she could be trusted, and he left her without a moment's
hesitation.
Slowly the hours went by, and Nina heard no sound save the low
breathing of the sleepers near, the dropping of the rain, and the
mournful sighing of the wind through the maple trees. Midnight
came, and then the eyes of the sick man opened wide and wandered
about the room as if in quest of some one.
"Nina," he said, faintly, "Are you here? Why has the lamp gone
out? It's so dark that I can't see your face."
Bending over him, Nina replied,
"I'm here, doctor. Nina's here. Shall I get more light so you CAN
see?"
"Yes, darling, more light--more light;" and swift as a fawn Nina
ran noiselessly from room to room, gathering up lamp after lamp,
and candle after candle, and bringing them to the sick chamber,
which blazed as if on fire, while the musical laugh of the lunatic
echoed through the room as she whispered to herself, "Twenty sperm
candles and fifteen lamps! 'Tis a glorious watch I keep to-night."
Once she thought of wakening Edith to share in her transports, but
was withheld from doing so by a feeling that "Miggie" would not
approve her work.
"It's light as noonday," she said, seating herself upon the
bedside. "Can't you see me now?"
"No, Nina, I shall never look on your dear face again until we
meet in Heaven. There you will be my own. No one can come between
us," and the feeble arms wound themselves lovingly around the
maiden, who laid her cheek against his feverish one, while her
little fingers strayed once more amid the mass of disordered hair,
pushing it back from the damp forehead, which she touched with her
sweet lips.
"Nina," and the voice was so low that Nina bent her down to catch
the sound, "I am dying, darling. You are not afraid to stay with
me till the last?"
"No," she answered, "not afraid, but I do so wish you could see
the splendid illumination. Twenty candles and fifteen lamps--the
wicks of them all an inch in height. Oh, it's grand!" and again
Nina chuckled as she saw how the lurid blaze lit up the window
panes with a sheet of flame which, flashing backward, danced upon
the wall in many a grotesque form, and cast a reddish glow even
upon the white face of the dying.
He was growing very restless now, for the last great struggle had
commenced; the soul was waging a mighty battle with the body, and
the conflict was a terrible one, wringing groans of agony from him
and great tears from Nina, who forgot her bonfire in her grief.
Once when the fever had scorched her veins and she had raved in
mad delirium, Dr. Griswold had rocked her in his arms as he would
have rocked a little child, and remembering this the insane desire
seized on Nina to rock him, too, to sleep. But she could not lift
him up, though she bent every energy to the task, and at last,
passing one arm beneath his neck she managed to sit behind him,
holding him in such a position that he rested easier, and his
convulsive movements ceased entirely. With his head upon her bosom
she rocked to and fro, uttering a low, cooing sound, as if
soothing him to sleep.
"Sing, Nina, sing," he whispered, and on the night air a mournful
cadence rose, swelling sometimes so high that Edith moved uneasily
upon her pillow, while even Phillis stretched out a hand as if
about to awaken.
Then the music changed to a plaintive German song, and Edith
dreamed of Bingen on the Rhine, while Dr. Griswold listened
eagerly, whispering at intervals,
"Precious Nina, blessed dove, sing on--sing till I am at rest."
This was sufficient for Nina, and one after another she warbled
the wild songs she knew he loved the best, while the lamps upon
the table and the candles upon the floor flickered and flamed and
cast their light far out into the yard, where the August rain was
falling, and where more than one bird, startled from its slumbers,
looked up to see whence came the fitful glare, wondering, it may
be, at the solemn dirge, floating out into the darkness far beyond
the light.
The gray dawn broke at last, and up the graveled walk rapid
footsteps came--Arthur St. Claire hastening home. From a distant
hill he had caught the blaze of Nina's bonfire, and trembling with
fear and dread, he hurried on to learn what it could mean. There
was no stir about the house--no sign of life, only the crimson
blaze shining across the fields, and the sound of a voice, feeble
now, and sunk almost to a whisper, for Nina's strength was giving
way. For hours she had sung, while the head upon her bosom pressed
more and more heavily--the hand which clasped hers unloosed its
hold--the eyes which had fastened themselves upon her with a look
of unutterable love, closed wearily--the lips, which, so long as
there was life in them, ceased not to bless her, were still, and
poor, tired, crazy Nina, fancying that he slept at last, still
swayed back and forth, singing to the cold senseless clay, an
infant lullaby.
"Hushaby, my baby--go to sleep, my child."
HE had sung it once to her. SHE sang it now to him, and the
strange words fell on Arthur's ear, even before he stepped across
the threshold, where he stood appalled at the unwonted spectacle
which met his view. Nina manifested no surprise whatever, but
holding up her finger, motioned him to tread cautiously, if he
would come near where she was.
"He couldn't see," she whispered, "and I made him a famous light.
Isn't it glorious here, smoke, and fire and all? He is sleeping
quietly now, only his head is very heavy. It makes my arm ache so
hard, and his hands are growing cold, I cannot kiss them warm,"
and she held the stiffening fingers against her burning cheek,
shuddering at the chill they gave her, just as Arthur shuddered at
the sight, for it needed nothing more to tell him that Dr.
Griswold was dead!