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

might, even though her going would necessarily defer a day to which he was so continually looking forward, but when he remembered the danger to which she would be exposed from the intense heat at that season of the year, he shrank from it at once, mildly but firmly refusing to let her incur the fearful risk.

“Could I be assured that my bird would fly back to me again with its plumage all unruffled I would let her go,” he said, “but the chances are against it. You would surely sicken and die, and I cannot let you go.”

Edith offered no remonstrance, but her face was very white and her eyes strangely black as she said, “Let us go home, then; go to-morrow. This is no place for me, with Nina dying.”

Nothing could please Richard more than to be back at Collingwood, and when Grace came to them he announced his intention of leaving on the morrow. Grace was willing, and Victor, when told of the decision, was wild with delight. Mr. Russell, too, decided to go with them to Shannondale, and when, next morning, the party came out to take the downward stage, they found him comfortably seated on the top, whither he had but little trouble in coaxing Grace, who expressed a wish to enjoy the mountain scenery as they descended.

“Will Miss Hastings come up, too?” he asked, but Edith declined and took her seat inside between Richard and Victor, the latter of whom had heard nothing of the letter; neither did Edith tell him until the next day when, arrived at Collingwood, they were alone for a moment in the library—then she explained to him that Nina was sick, possibly had sent for her.

“I thought things would work out after a time, though honestly I’d rather that little girl shouldn’t die if it could be brought round any other way,” was Victor’s reply, which called a flush at once to Edith’s cheek.

“Victor Dupres,” said she, “never hint such a thing again. It is too late now; it cannot be—it shall not be; and if I go, Arthur has promised not to say one word which can influence me.”

“If you go,” repeated Victor, “Then you have some intention of going—I thought he had objected.”

“So he has,” returned Edith, the same look stealing into her eyes which came there at the Falls. “So he has, but if Nina lives till the middle of October I shall go. My mind is made up.”

“Oh, consistency, thou art a jewel,” muttered Victor, as hearing some one coming, he walked away. “Means to jump down the lion’s throat, but does not expect to be swallowed! Splendid logic that!” and Victor shrugged his shoulders at what seemed so contradictory as Edith’s talk and Edith’s conduct.

As she had said, Edith meant to go, nay more, was determined to go, and when, on the third day after their return, Mr. Russell came for her final decision, she said to him, ere Richard had time to speak,

“I shall not go now; it is too early for that, but if Nina continues worse, I will come to her the latter part of October. I am writing so to her to-day.”

Richard was confounded, and could only stammer out,

“Who is to be your escort?”

“You, Richard;” and Edith clasped his arm, thus reassuring him at once.

She had some thought, some consideration for him; she did not intend to desert him wholly, and he playfully tapped her chin, laughing to think how the little lady had boldly taken matters into her own hands, telling what should be with as much sang froid as if she were master instead of himself. And Richard rather liked the independent spirit of Edith, particularly when he found that he was not wholly left out of her calculations. And so he arranged with Mr. Russell, that if Nina were not better as the autumn advanced, Edith should perhaps go down to see her.

Arthur had made his marriage with Nina public as soon as he returned to Sunnybank, but as Mr. Russell’s home was in Tallahassee, and he himself a quiet, taciturn man, he had not heard of it, and in speaking of Nina to Edith, he called her Miss Bernard, as usual, and thus Richard still remained in ignorance, never suspecting that golden haired Nina was the same young girl he had married years before.

Poor Richard, he was ignorant of many things and never dreamed how light and gay was Edith’s heart at the prospect of going to Florida, even though she half expected that when she went it would be as his wife. But Richard determined it otherwise. It cost him a struggle so to do, but his iron will conquered every feeling, save those of his better judgment, and calling Edith to him one day two weeks after Mr. Russell’s departure, he said,

“Birdie, I’ve come to the conclusion that a blind man like me will only be in your way, in case you go to Florida. I am not an interesting traveling companion. I require too much care, and I dread the curious gaze of strangers. It makes me very uncomfortable. So on the whole I’d rather stay at home and let Victor go in my stead. What does Birdie say?”

“She says you are the noblest, most unselfish man that ever lived,” and Edith kissed his lips, chiding herself seriously for the spirit which whispered to her that she too would rather go without him. “I won’t stay very long,” she said. “Our wedding need not be deferred more than two months; say, till the first of January, at 7 o’clock, just as we before arranged it for October, only a more quiet affair, I shall then be your New Year’s gift. Does that suit you, dearest?”

She did not often call him thus, and when she did she was sure of accomplishing her purpose. The strong man melted beneath a few words of love, becoming a very tool in the hands of a weak girl.

“Yes, darling,” he replied, “that will do—but supposing we hear that Nina is better, or dead—what then?”

The mere possibility was terrible to Edith, but she answered calmly,

“Then we’ll be married in October, just as first proposed;” and thus was the die cast, and a fresh link added to the chain of Edith’s destiny. She was going to Florida; going to Arthur; and going alone, so far as Richard was concerned.

Spying Victor coming up the walk from the post-office, she ran out to meet him, telling him of the journey before him, and almost crying for joy when he placed in her hand a worn envelope bearing the post-mark of Tallahassee. It was from Arthur, and contained a few lines only, telling of Nina’s increasing illness, and her restless, impatient desire for Miggie. In conclusion he wrote,

“We have had no fever this summer. You will be perfectly safe in coming any time after the middle of October. I shall welcome Mr. Harrington most cordially if he sees fit to accompany you.”

Edith could read this to Richard, and she did, feeling a pang at the perfect faith with which he answered,

“Were it not for the tedious journey I believe I would go with you, but it’s too much of an undertaking. I won’t trammel you with so great a burden. I’d rather stay at home and anticipate my darling’s return.”

Then with the same forethought and careful consideration which marked all his actions, Richard consulted with her as to the beat time for her to start, fixing upon the 15th of October, and making all his arrangements subservient to this. He did not tell her how lonely he should be without her—how he should miss her merry laugh, which, strange to say, grew merrier each day; but he let her know in various ways how infinitely precious she was to him, and more than once Edith felt constrained to give up the journey, but the influences from Florida drew her strangely in that direction, and revolving to pay Richard for his self-denial by an increase of love when she should return, she busied herself with her preparations until the 15th of October came, and her trunks stood ready in the hall.

“If I could only read your letters myself, it would not seem one-half so bad,” Richard said, when at the last moment, he held Edith’s hand, “but there’s a shadow over me this morning—a dark presentiment that in suffering you to leave me I am losing you forever.”

Edith could not answer, she pitied him so much, and kissing his lips, she put from her neck his clinging arms, wiped his tears away, smoothed his ruffled hair, and then went out from his presence, leaving him there in his sorrow and blindness alone.

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.

SUNNYBANK.

 

“Berry soon, Miss, an’ we’re thar. We turns the corner yonder, we drives ‘cross the plain, down a hill, up anoder, an’ then we’s mighty nigh a mile from the spot.”

Such was the answer made by Tom, the Bernard coachman to Edith’s repeated inquiries, “Are we almost there.”

For three successive days the Bernard carriage had been to Tallahassee in quest of the expected guest, whose coming was watched for so eagerly at Sunnybank, and who, as the bright October afternoon was drawing to its close, looked eagerly out at a huge old house which stood not very far distant with the setting sun shining on the roof and illuminating all the upper windows. A nearer approach showed it to be a large, square, wooden building, divided in the centre by a wide, airy hall, and surrounded on three sides by a verandah, the whole bearing a more modern look than most of the country houses in Florida, for Mr. Bernard had possessed considerable taste, and during his life had aimed at fitting up his residence somewhat after the northern fashion. To Edith there was something familiar about that old building, with its handsome grounds, and she said aloud,

“I’ve surely dreamed of Sunnybank.”

“Berry likely, Miss,” answered Tom, thinking the remark addressed to him, inasmuch as Edith’s head protruded from the window. “Dreams is mighty onsartin. Git ‘long, you Bill, none o’yer lazy carlicues, case don’t yer mind thar’s Mars’r Arthur on the v’randy, squinting to see if I’s fotched ‘em,” and removing his old straw hat, Tom swung it three times around his head, that being the signal he was to give if Edith were in the carriage.

With an increased flush upon his brow, Arthur St. Claire hastened down, pausing at an inner room while he bent over and whispered to a young girl reclining on her pillow,

“Nina, darling, Miggie’s come.”

There was a low cry of unutterable delight, and Nina Bernard raised herself upon her elbow, looking wistfully toward the door through which Arthur had disappeared.

“Be quiet, la petite Nina,” said a short, thick woman, who sat by the bed, apparently officiating in the capacity of nurse; then, as the carriage stopped at the gate, she glided to the window, muttering to herself, “Charmant charmant, magnifique,” as she caught a full view of the eager, sparkling face, turned toward the young man hastening down the walk. Then, with that native politeness natural to her country, she moved away so as not to witness the interview.

“Arthur!”

“Edith!”

That was all they said, for Richard and Nina stood between them, a powerful preventive to the expression of the great joy throbbing in the heart of each, as hand grasped hand, and eye sought eye, fearfully, tremblingly, lest too much should be betrayed.

“Miggie, Miggie, be quick,” came from the room where Nina was now standing up in bed, her white night dress hanging loosely about her forehead and neck.

It needed but this to break the spell which bound the two