Darkness and Daylight - Mary J. Holmes (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

she said, Mrs. Eliakim smilingly assented, drawing her own conclusions the while and feeling vastly relieved when, at last, her visitor departed, leaving her at liberty to don her green calash and start for the neighbors with this precious morsel of gossip. Turning back, Edith saw her hurrying across the fields, and knew it would not be long ere all Shannondale were talking of Arthur’s ward.

Arrived at home she found the dinner waiting for her, and when asked by Richard what had kept her she replied by repeating to him in substance what she had already told Mrs. Eliakim Rogers. There was this difference however, between the two stories—the one told to Richard was longer and contained more of the particulars. She did not, however, tell him of Arthur’s love for Nina, or of the neglected wife, the mother of little Miggie, though why she withheld that part of the story she could not tell. She felt a strange interest in that young mother dying alone in the noisome city, and in the little child buried upon her bosom, but she had far rather talk of Nina and her marvellous beauty, feeling sure that she had at least one interested auditor, Victor, who was perfectly delighted to have the mystery of Grassy Spring unravelled, though he felt a little disappointed that it should amount to nothing more than a crazy girl, to whom Mr. St. Claire was guardian.

This feeling of Victor was in a great measure shared by the villagers, and, indeed, after a day or two of talking and wondering, the general opinion seemed to be that Arthur had magnified the evil and been altogether too much afraid of Madam Rumor, who was inclined to be rather lenient toward him, particularly as Edith Hastings took pains to tell how kind he was to Nina, who gave him oftentimes so much trouble. The tide of popular feeling was in his favor, and the sympathy which many openly expressed for him was like a dagger to the young man, who knew he did not deserve it. Still he was relieved of a great burden, and was far happier than he had been before, and even signified to Grace his willingness to mingle in society and see company at his own house. The consequence of this was throngs of visitors at Grassy Spring, said visitors always asking for Mr. St. Claire, but caring really to see Nina, who shrank from their advances, and hiding herself in her room refused at last to go down unless Miggie were there.

MIGGIE had purposely absented herself from Grassy Spring more than two whole weeks, and when Richard asked the cause of it she answered that she did not know, and, indeed, she could not to herself define the reason of her staying so long from a place where she wished so much to be, unless it were that she had not quite recovered from the shock it gave her to know that Arthur had once been engaged, even though he had wearied of the engagement. It seemed to her that he had built between them a barrier which she determined he should be the first to cross. So she studiously avoided him, and thus unconsciously plunged him deeper and deeper into the mire, where he was already foundering. Her apparent indifference only increased the ardor of his affection, and though he struggled against it as against a deadly sin, he could not overcome it, and at last urged on by Nina, who begged so hard for Miggie, he resolved upon going to Collingwood and taking Nina with him.

It was a warm, pleasant afternoon in May, and Nina had never looked more beautiful than when seated in the open carriage, and on her way to Collingwood, talking incessantly of Miggie, whom she espied long before they reached the house. It was a most joyful meeting between the two young girls, Nina clinging to Edith as if fearful of losing her again, if by chance she should release her hold.

Arthur did not tell Edith how much he had missed her, but Nina did, and when she saw the color deepen on Edith’s cheeks she added, “You love him, don’t you, Miggie?”

“I love every body, I hope,” returned the blushing Edith, as she led her guests into the room where Richard was sitting.

At sight of the blind man Nina started, and clasping her hands together, stood regarding him fixedly, while a look of perplexity deepened upon her face.

“Speak to her, Edith,” whispered Arthur, but ere Edith could comply with his request, Nina’s lips parted and she said, “YOU DID DO IT, DIDN’T YOU?”

“Whose voice was that?” and Richard started forward.

It’s Nina, Mr. Harrington; pretty Nina Bernard; and Edith came to the rescue.

“She has a sweet, familiar voice,” said Richard, “Come to me, little one, will you?”

He evidently thought her a child, for in her statement Edith had not mentioned her age, and Richard had somehow received the impression that she was very young. It suited Nina to be thus addressed, and she went readily to Richard, who pressed her soft, warm hands, and then telling her playfully that he wished to know how she looked, passed his own hand slowly over her face and hair, caressing the latter and twining one of the curls around his fingers; then, winding his arm about her slender waist, he asked how old she was.

“FIFTEEN YEARS AND A HALF,” was her prompt reply.’

Richard never thought of doubting her word. She was very slight indeed. “A little morsel,” he called her, and as neither Arthur nor Edith corrected the mistake, he was suffered to think of Nina Bernard as one, who, were she rational, would be a mere school-girl yet.

She puzzled him greatly, and more than once he started at some peculiar intonation of her voice.

“Little Snowdrop,” he said, at last, “it seems to me I have known you all my life. Look at me, and say if we have met before?”

Edith was too intent upon Nina’s answer to notice Arthur, and she failed to see the spasm of pain and fear which passed over his face, leaving it paler than its wont. Bending over Nina he waited like Edith while she scanned Richard curiously, and then replied, “Never, UNLESS YOU ARE THE ONE THAT DID IT—are you?”

“Did what?” asked Richard, and while Nina hesitated, Arthur replied, “She has a fancy that somebody made her crazy.”

“Not I, oh, no, not I, poor little dove. I did not do it, sure,” and Richard smoothed the yellow curls resting on his knee.

“Who was it, then?” persisted Nina. “He was tall, like you, and dark and handsome, wasn’t he Arthur? You know—you were there?” and she turned appealingly to the young man, whose heart beat so loudly as to be plainly audible to himself.

“It was Charlie Hudson, perhaps,” suggested Edith, and Arthur mentally blessed her for a remark which turned the channel of Nina’s thoughts, and set her to telling Richard how Charlie cried when he saw her through the iron bars, wearing that queer-looking gown.

“I danced for him with all my might,” she said, “and sang so loud, for I thought it would make him laugh as it did the folks around me, but he only cried the harder. What made him?” and she looked up wistfully in Richard’s face. “YOU are crying, too!” she exclaimed. “Everybody cries where I am. Why do they? I wish they wouldn’t. I’m good to-day—there, please don’t, Mr. Big-man, THAT DID DO IT,”? and raising her waxen hand she brushed away the tear trembling on Richard’s long eyelashes.

Edith now sought to divert her by asking if she were fond of music, and would like to hear her play,

“Nina’ll play,” returned the little maiden, and going to the piano she dashed off a wild, impassioned, mixed-up impromptu, resembling now the soft notes of the lute or the plaintive sob of the winter wind, and then swelling into a full, rich, harmonious melody, which made the blood chill in Edith’s veins, and caused both Richard and Arthur to hold their breath.

This music ceased, and rising from the stool Nina expressed a desire to go home, insisting that Edith should go with her and stay all night.

“I want to sleep with my arms around your neck just like you used to do,” she said; and when Arthur, too, joined in the request, Edith answered that she would if Richard were willing.

“And sleep with a lunatic,—is it quite safe?” he asked.

“Perfectly so,” returned Arthur, adding that the house was large enough, and Edith could act her own pleasure with regard to sleeping apartments.

“Then it’s settled that I may go,” chimed in Edith, quite as much delighted at the prospect of a long evening with Arthur, as with the idea of seeing more of Nina.

She knew she was leaving Richard very lonely, but she promised to be home early on the morrow, and bidding good-bye, followed Arthur and Nina to the carriage.

Nina was delighted to have Edith with her, and after their arrival at Grassy Spring, danced and skipped about the house like a gay butterfly, pausing every few moments to wind her arms around the neck of her guest, whom she kissed repeatedly, calling her always MIGGIE, and telling her how much she loved her.

“Don’t you want to see YOU as you used to be?” she asked suddenly. “If you do, come up,—come to my room. She may?” and she turned toward Arthur, who answered, “certainly, I will go myself,” and the three soon stood at the door of the DEN.

It was Edith’s first visit there, and a feeling of awe came over her as she crossed the threshold of the mysterious room. Then a cry of joyful surprise burst from her lips as she saw how pleasant it was in there, and how tastefully the chamber was fitted up. Not another apartment in the house could compare with it, and Edith felt that she could be happy there all her life, were it not for the iron lattice, which gave it somewhat the appearance of a prison.

“Here you are,” cried Nina, dragging her across the floor to the portrait of the little child which had so interested her during Arthur’s absence. “This is she—this is you,—this is Miggie,” and Nina jumped up and down, while Edith gazed again upon the sweet baby face she had once seen in the drawing-room.

“There is a slight resemblance between you,” said Arthur, glancing from one to the other, “Had she lived, her eyes must have been like yours; but look, this was Nina’s father.”

Edith did not answer him. Indeed, she scarcely knew what he was saying, for a nameless fascination chained her to the spot, a feeling as if she were beholding her other self, as if she had leaped backward many years, and was seated again upon the nursery floor like the child before her. Like gleams of lightning, confused memories of the past came rushing over her only to pass away, leaving her in deeper darkness. One thought, however, like a blinding flash caused her brain to reel, while she grasped Arthur’s arm, exclaiming, “Are you sure the baby died—sure she was buried with her mother?”

“Yes, perfectly sure,” was Arthur’s reply, and with the sensation of disappointment, Edith turned at last from Miggie to the contemplation of the father; the Mr. Bernard whom she was not greatly disposed to like.

He was a portly, handsome man, but his face showed traces of early debauchery and later dissipation. Still, Edith was far more interested in him than in the portrait of Nina’s mother, the light-haired, blue-eyed woman, so much like the daughter that the one could easily be recognized from it a resemblance to the other.

“Where is the