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

and from the sight of her helpless innocence gathering strength for the morrow’s duty. How slowly the hours of that never-to-be-forgotten night dragged on, and when at last the grey dawn came creeping up the east, how short they seemed, looked back upon. Through them all Nina had slept quietly, moving only once, and that when Arthur’s tears dropped upon her face. Then, unconsciously, she put her arms around his neck and murmured, “It will all be right sometime.”

“Whether it is or not, I will do right to-day,” Arthur said aloud, and when the sun came stealing into the room, it found him firm as a granite rock.

Nina’s presence saved him, and when the clock pointed to three, he said to her, “Miggie is waiting for me in the Deering woods, where the mill-brook falls over the stones. You called it Niagara, you know, when you went there once with us. Go to Miggie, Nina. Tell her I’m coming soon. Tell her that I sent you.”

“And that you will do right?” interrupted Nina, retaining a confused remembrance of last night’s conversation.

“Yes, tell her I’ll do right. Poor Edith, she will need your sympathy so much;” and with trembling hands Arthur himself wrapped Nina’s shawl around her, taking more care than usual to see that she was shielded from the possibility of taking cold; then, leading her to the door and pointing in the direction of the miniature Niagara he bade her go, watching her with a beating heart as she bounded across the fields toward the Deering woods.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DEERING WOODS.

 

Edith had been in a state of feverish excitement all the day, so happy had she been made by the certainty that Arthur loved her. She had not doubted it before, but having it told her in so many words was delightful, and she could scarcely wait for the hour when she was to hear the continuation of a story abruptly terminated by the return of Richard. Poor Richard! He was sitting in his library now, looking so lonely, when on her way through the hall she glanced in at him, that she almost cried to think how desolate he would be when she was gone.

“I’ll coax Arthur to come here and live,” she said to herself, thinking how nice it would be to have Arthur and Nina and Richard all in one house.

The hands of her watch were pointing to three, as, stepping out upon the piazza she passed hurriedly through the grounds and turned in the direction of the Deering Woods. Onward, onward, over the hill and across the fields she flew, until the woods were reached—the silent, leafless woods, where not a sound was heard save the occasional dropping of a nut, the rustle of a leaf, or the ripple of the mill-brook falling over the stones. The warm sun had dried the withered grass, and she sat down beneath a forest tree, watching, waiting, wondering, and trembling violently at last as in the distance she heard the cracking of the brittle twigs and fancied he was coming.

“I’ll pretend I don’t hear him,” she said, and humming a simple air she was industriously pulling the bark from the tree when NINA stood before her, exclaiming,

“You ARE here just as Arthur said you’d be. The woods were so still and smoky that I was most afraid.”

Ordinarily Edith would have been delighted at this meeting, but now she could not forbear wishing Nina away, and she said to her somewhat sternly,

“What made you come?”

“He sent me,” and Nina crouched down at Edith’s feet, like a frightened spaniel. “Arthur is coming, too, and going to do right. He said he was, bending right over me last night, and when I woke this morning there was a great tear on my face. ‘Twasn’t mine, Miggie. It was too big for that. It was Arthur’s.”

“How came he in your room?” Edith asked, a little sharply, and Nina replied,

“I was in the library. We both staid there all night. It wasn’t in my room, though Arthur has a right, Miggie. IT NEVER WAS SCRATCHED OUT!”

Edith was puzzled, and was about to question Nina as to her meaning, when another step was heard, a manly, heavy tread, precluding all possibility of a mistake this time. Arthur St. Claire had come!

“It’s quite pleasant since yesterday,” he said, trying to force a smile, but it was a sickly effort, and only made more ghastly and wan his pallid features, over which ages seemed to have passed since the previous day, leaving them scarred, and battered, and worn.

Edith had never noticed so great a change in so short a time, for there was scarcely a vestige left of the once handsome, merry-hearted Arthur in the stooping, haggard man, who stood before her, with blood-shot eyes, and an humble, deprecating manner, as if imploring her forgiveness for the pain he had come to inflict. Nothing could prevent it now. Her matchless beauty was naught to him. He did not even see it. He thought of her only as a being for whose sake he would gladly die the most torturing death that human ingenuity could devise, if by this means, he could rescue her unscathed from the fire he had kindled around her. But this could not be; he had fallen, dragging her down with him, and now he must restore her even though it broke her heart just as his was broken. He had felt the fibres snapping, one by one; knew his life blood was oozing out, drop by drop, and this it was which made him hesitate so long. It was painful for him to speak, his throat was so parched and dry, his tongue so heavy and thick.

“What is it, Arthur?” Edith said at last, as Nina, uttering a cry of fear, hid her face in the grass to shut out Arthur from her sight, “Tell me, what is it?”

Seating himself upon a log near by, and clasping his hands together with a gesture of abject misery, Arthur replied.

“Edith, I am not worthy to look into your face; unless you take your eyes from mine—oh, take them away, or I cannot tell you what I must.”

Had her very life depended upon it, Edith could not have removed her eyes from his. An undefinable fear was curdling her blood—a fear augmented by the position of her two companions—Nina, with her head upon the grass, and that strange, white-faced being on the log. Could THAT be Arthur St. Claire, or was she laboring under some horrible delusion? No, the lips moved; it was Arthur, and leaning forward she listened to what he was saying,

“Edith, when yesterday I was with you, some words which I uttered and which were wrung from me, I know not how, gave you reason to believe that I was then asking you to become my wife, while something in your manner told me that to such asking you would not answer no. The temptation then to take you to my arms, defying earth and heaven, was a terrible one, and for a time I wavered, I forgot everything but my love for you; but that is past and I come now to the hardest part of all, the deliberate surrender of one dearer than life itself. Edith, do you remember the obstacle, the hindrance which I always said existed to my marrying any one?”

She did not answer; only the eyes grew larger as they watched him; and he continued,

“I made myself forgot it for a time, but Heaven was kinder far than I deserved, and will not suffer me longer. Edith, you CANNOT be my wife.”

She made a movement as if she would go to him, but his swaying arms kept her off, and he went on;

“There IS an obstacle, Edith—a mighty obstacle, I could trample it down if I would, and there is none to question the act; but, Edith, I dare not do you this wrong.”

His voice was more natural now, and Nina, lifting up her head, crept closely to him, whispering softly, “Good boy, you will do right.”

His long, white fingers threaded her sunny hair, and this was all the token he gave that he was conscious of her presence.

“Don’t you know now, Edith, what it is which stands between us?” he asked; and Edith answered, “It is Nina, but how I do not understand.”

Arthur groaned a sharp, bitter groan, and rocking to and fro replied, “Must I tell you? Won’t you ever guess until I do? Oh, Edith, Edith—put the past and present together—remember the picture found in my room when you were a little girl, the picture of Nina Bernard; think of all that has happened; my dread to meet with Richard, though that you possibly did not know; my foolish fear, lest you should know of Nina; her clinging devotion to me; my brotherly care for her; Richard’s story of the one single marriage ceremony he ever performed, where the bride’s curls were like these,” and he lifted Nina’s golden ringlets. “You hear me, don’t you?”

He knew she did, for her bosom was heaving with choking sobs as if her soul were parting from the body; her breath came heavily from between her quivering lips, and her eyes were riveted upon him like coals of living fire. Yes, he knew she heard, and he only questioned her to give himself another moment ere he cut asunder the last chord and sent her drifting out upon the dark sea of despair.

“Edith—Edith—Edith,” and with each word he hugged Nina closer to him, so close that she gave a cry of pain, but he did not heed it; he hardly knew he held her—his thoughts were all for the poor, wretched girl, rising slowly to her feet. “Edith, you surely understand me now. The obstacle between us is–; oh, Nina, say it for me, tell her what you are to me.”

“I know,” and Edith Hastings stood tall and erect before him, “NINA IS YOUR WIFE.”

Nina looked up and smiled, while Edith crossed her arms upon her breast, and waited for him to answer.

“Yes, Edith,—though never before acknowledged as such, Nina is my wife; but, Edith, I swear it before high Heaven, she is only a wife in name. Never for a day, or hour, or moment have I lived with her as such. Were it otherwise, I could not have fallen so low. Her father came the very night we were married, and took her away next morning. Griswold and I must have met him just as we left the yard, after having assisted Nina and her room-mate, Sarah Warren, to reach the window, from which they had adroitly escaped little move than an hour before. No one had missed them,—no one ever suspected the truth, and as Miss Warren died a few months afterward, only Nina, Griswold and myself knew the secret, which I guarded most carefully for fear of expulsion from college. You know the rest. You know it all, Nina is my wife. Nina is my wife,- -my wife,—my wife.”

He kept whispering it to himself, as if thus he would impress it the more forcibly upon the unconscious Edith, who lay upon the withered grass just where Nina had lain, rigid and white and free for the present from all suffering. Arthur could not move; the blow had fallen on them both with a mightier force than even he had anticipated, killing her he feared, and so benumbing himself that to act was impossible, and he continued sitting upon the log with his elbows resting on his knees and his face upon his hands. Only Nina had any reason then or judgment. Hastening to Edith she knelt beside her, and lifting up her head pillowed it