University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
EX-OFFICIO.

The spacious rooms at Grassy Spring had been filled to
their utmost capacity by those of the villagers, who, having
recovered from their panic, came to join in the funeral obsequies
of Dr. Griswold. In the yard without the grass
was trampled down and the flowers broken from their
stalks by the crowds, who, failing to gain admittance to
the interior of the house, hovered about the door, struggling
for a sight of the young girl, whose strange death
watch and stranger bonfire was the theme of every tongue.
Solemnly the voice of God's ambassador was heard, proclaiming,
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the
Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet

shall he live,” and then a song was sung, the voices of
the singers faltering, all but one, which, rising clear and
sweet above the rest, sang of the better world, where the
bright eternal noonday ever reigns, and the assembled
throng without held their breath to listen, whispering to
each other, “It is Nina, the crazy girl. She was the
doctor's betrothed.”

Down the gravelled walk, — along the highway, — over
the river, and up the hill to the village churchyard the
long procession moved, and when it backward turned,
one of the number was left behind, and the August sunset
fell softly upon his early grave. Sadly the mourners,
Arthur, Edith and Nina, went to their respective homes,
Edith seeking the rest she so much needed, Nina subdued
and awed into perfect quiet, sitting with folded hands in
the room where her truest friend had died, while Arthur,
alone in his chamber, held as it 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 furture 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 housekeeper 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 he 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

she 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 Soph 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 knee, 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.