University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
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 glimspe 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 drew 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 grey 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 her's 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!