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

were communion with the dead, who seemed this night to be so near to him.

Swiftly, silently, one by one, the days came and went until it was weeks since Dr. Griswold died, and things at Grassy Spring assumed their former routine. At first Nina was inclined to be melancholy, talking much of the deceased, and appearing at times so depressed that Arthur trembled, lest she should again become unmanageable, wondering what he should do with her now the Dr. was gone. Gradually, however, she recovered her usual health and spirits, appearing outwardly the same; but not so with Arthur, whose thoughts and feelings no one could fathom. It was as if he had locked himself within a wall of ice, which nothing had power to thaw. He saw but little of Edith now; the lessons had been tacitly given up, and, after what she had heard from Dr. Griswold, she could not come to Grassy Spring just as she used to do, so she remained at home, marvelling at the change in Arthur, and wondering if he really loved her, why he did not tell her so. Much of what Dr. Griswold had said she imputed to delirium, and with the certainty that she was beloved, she would not dwell upon anything which made her unhappy, and she waited for the end, now hastening on with rapid strides.

Behind the icy wall which Arthur had built around himself, a fierce storm was blowing, and notwithstanding the many midnight watches kept over Dr. Griswold’s grave, the tempest still raged fearfully, threatening to burst its barriers and carry all before it. But it reached its height at last, and wishing to test his strength, Arthur asked Nina one pleasant night to go with him to Collingwood. She consented readily, and in a few moments they were on their way. They found the family assembled upon the broad piazza, where the full moon shone upon them through the broad leaves of woodbine twining about the massive pillars. Edith sat as usual upon a stool at Richard’s feet, and her face wore a look of disappointment. Thoughts of Eloise Temple had been in her mind the entire day, and sitting there with Richard, she had ventured to ask him again of the young girl in whom she was so much interested. But Richard shook his head. He was reserving Eloise Temple for a future day, and he said to Edith,

“I cannot tell you of her yet, or where she is.”

“When will you then?” and Edith spoke pettishly. “You always put me off, and I don’t see either why you need to be so much afraid of telling me about her, unless her mother was bad, or something.”

“Edith,” Richard replied, “I do not wish to explain to you now. By and by I’ll tell you, it may be, though even that will depend on circumstances;” and he sighed as he thought what the circumstances must be which would keep from Edith any further knowledge of Eloise than she already possessed.

Edith did not hear the sigh. She only knew that it was useless to question him, and beating her little foot impatiently, she muttered, “More mystery. If there’s any thing I hate it’s mystery.—”

She did not finish what she meant to say, for at that moment she spied Arthur and Nina coming through the garden gate as the nearest route.

Edith was not in the best of humors. She was vexed at Richard, because he wouldn’t tell and at Arthur for “acting so,” as she termed it,—this acting so implying the studied indifference with which he had treated her of late. But she was not vexed with Nina, and running out to meet her, she laid her arm across her neck, and led her with many words of welcome to the stool she had just vacated, saying laughingly: “I know Mr. Harrington would rather you should sit here than a cross patch like me! I’m ill-natured to-night, Mr. St. Claire,” and she bit her words off with playful spitefulness.

“Your face cannot be an index to your feelings, then,” returned Arthur, retaining her offered hand a moment, and looking into her eyes, just to see if he could do it without flinching.

It was a dangerous experiment, for Edith’s soul looked through her eyes, and Arthur read therein that which sent feverish heats and icy chills alternately through his veins. Releasing her hand he sat down upon the upper step of the piazza, and leaning against one of the pillars, began to pluck the leaves within his reach, and mechanically tear them in pieces.

Meantime Richard had signified to Edith his wish that she should bring another stool, and sit beside him just as Nina was doing.

“I can then rest my hands upon the heads of you both,” he said, smoothing the while Nina’s golden curls,

“Now tell us a story, please,” said Nina; and when Richard asked what it should be, she replied,

“Oh, tell us about the years ago when you were over the sea, and why you have never married. Maybe you have, though. You are old enough, I reckon. Did you ever marry anybody?”

“YES, I DID,” returned Richard; “a little girl with hair like yours, I think, though my eyesight then was almost gone, and I saw nothing distinctly.”

“Wha-a-at!” exclaimed Edith, at the same time asking Arthur if he was hurt as he started suddenly,

“There it goes. It was a BEE, I guess;” and Nina pointed to an insect flitting by, but so far from Arthur as to render a sting from the diminutive creature impossible. Still it served as an excuse, and blessing Nina in his heart for the suggestion, Arthur talked rapidly of various matters, hoping in this way to change the conversation. But Edith was not to be put off, even if Nina were. She was too much interested to know what Richard meant, and as soon as politeness would permit, she said to him,

“Please go on, and tell us of the girl you married. Who was the bridegroom, and where did it occur?”

There was no longer a shadow of hope that the story would not be told, and folding his arms like one resigned to his fate, Arthur listened, while Richard related to the two girls how, soon after his removal to Geneva, he had been elected Justice of the Peace in place of one resigned. “I did not wish for the office.” he said, “although I was seldom called upon to act, and after my sight began to fail so fast, people never came to me except on trivial matters. One night, however, as many as—let me see—as many as ten years ago, my house keeper told me there were in the parlor four young people desirous of seeing me, adding that she believed a wedding was in contemplation.”

“Splendid!” cried Edith; “and you married them, didn’t you? Tell us all about it; how the bride looked, and every thing.”

“I cannot gratify you in that respect,” returned Richard. “There was a veil of darkness between us, and I could see nothing distinctly, but I knew she was very slight, so much so, indeed, that I was sorry afterward that I did not question her age.”

“A runaway match from the Seminary, perhaps,” suggested Arthur, in tones so steady as to astonish himself.

“I have sometimes thought so since,” was Richard’s reply, “but as nothing of the kind was ever known to have occurred, I may have been mistaken.”

“But the names?” cried Edith, eagerly, “you could surely tell by that, unless they were feigned.”

“Which is hardly probable,” Richard rejoined, “though they might as well have been for any good they do me now. I was too unhappy then, too much wrapped up in my own misfortunes to care for what was passing around me, and though I gave them a certificate, keeping myself a memorandum of the same, I soon forgot their names entirely.”

“But the copy,” chimed in Edith, “that will tell. Let’s hunt it up. I’m so interested in these people, and it seems so funny that you should have married them. I wonder where they are. Have you never heard a word from them?”

“Never, since that night,” said Richard; “and what is more unfortunate still for an inquisitive mother Eve, like you, the copy which I kept was burned by a servant who destroyed it with sundry other business papers, on one of her cleaning house days.”

“Ah-h,” and Arthur drew a long, long breath, which prompted Edith to ask if be were tired.

“You’re not as much interested as I am,” she said. “I do wish I knew who the young bride was—so small and so fair. Was she as tall as Nina?” and she turned to Richard, who replied,

“I can hardly judge the height of either. Stand up, Snow Drop, and let me feel if you are as tall as the bride of ten years ago.”

“Yes, Nina is the taller of the two,” said Richard, as he complied with his request and stood under his hand. “I have often thought of this girl-wife and her handsome boy-husband, doubting whether I did right to marry them, but the young man who accompanied them went far toward reassuring me that all was right. They were residents of the village, he said, and having seen me often in town, had taken a fancy to have me perform the ceremony, just for the novelty of the thing.”

“It’s queer you never heard of them afterward,” said Edith; while Nina, looking up in the blind man’s face, rejoined,

“YOU DID IT THEN?”

“Nina,” said Arthur ere Richard could reply, “it is time we were going home; there is Sophy with the shawl which you forgot.” And he pointed toward Sophy coming through the garden, with a warm shawl tucked under her arm, for the dew was heavy that night and she feared lest Nina should take cold.

“Nina won’t go yet; she isn’t ready,” persisted the capricious maiden. “Go till I call you,” and having thus summarily dismissed Soph, the little lady resumed the seat from which she had arisen, and laying her head on Richard’s, whispered to him softly, “CAN’T YOU SCRATCH IT OUT?”

“Scratch what out?” he asked; and Nina replied,

“Why, IT; what you’ve been talking about. Nothing ever came of it but despair and darkness.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Richard said, and as Arthur did not volunteer any information, but sat carelessly scraping his thumb nail with a pen-knife, Edith made some trivial remark which turned the channel of Nina’s thoughts, and she forgot to urge the request that “it should be scratched out.”

“Nina’ll go now,” she said, after ten minutes had elapsed, and calling Soph, Arthur was soon on his way home, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry that every proof of his early error was forever destroyed.

 

CHAPTER XX.

THE DECISION.

 

The summer was over and gone; its last breath had died away amid the New England hills, and the mellow October days had come, when in the words of America’s sweetest poetess,

“The woods stand bare and brown, And into the lap of the South land, The flowers are blowing down.”

Over all there was that dreamy, languid haze, so common to the Autumn time, when the distant hills are bathed in a smoky light and all things give token of decay. The sun, round and red, as the October sun is wont to be, shone brightly upon Collingwood, and looked cheerily into the room where Edith Hastings sat, waiting apparently for some one whose tardy appearance filled her with impatience. In her hand she held a tiny note received the previous night, and as she read for the twentieth time the few lines contained therein, her blushes deepened on her cheek, and her