University of Virginia Library

20. 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,

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 black eyes grew softer and
more subdued in their expression.

“Edith,” the note began, “I must see you alone. I
have something to say to you which a third person cannot
hear. May I come to Collingwood to-morrow at three
o'clock, P. M.? In haste, Arthur St. Claire.”

The words were very cold, but to Edith they contained
a world of meaning. She knew she was beloved by
Arthur St. Claire. Dr. Griswold had told her so. Grace

had told her so. Nina had told her so, while more than
all his manner had told her so repeatedly, and now he
would tell her so himself, and had chosen a time when
Richard and Victor were both in Boston, as the one best
adapted to the interview. Edith was like all other maidens
of eighteen, and her girlish heart fluttered with joy as
she thought what her answer would be, but not at first, —
not at once, lest she seem too anxious. She'd make him
wait a whole week, then see how he felt. He deserved it
all for his weak vacillation. If he loved her why hadn't
he told her before! She didn't believe there was such a
terrible impediment in the way. Probably he had sworn
never to marry any one save Nina, but her insanity was
certainly a sufficient reason for his not keeping the oath.
Dr. Griswold was peculiar,— over-nice in some points,
and Arthur had been wholly under his control, becoming
morbidly sensitive to the past, and magnifying every
trivial circumstance into a mountain too great to be moved.

This was Edith's reasoning as she sat waiting that October
afternoon for Arthur, who came ere long, looking
happier, more like himself than she had seen him since
the memorable day when she first met Nina. Arthur
had determined to do right, to tell without reserve
the whole of his past history to Edith Hastings, and the
moment he reached this decision half his burden was
lifted from his mind. It cost him a bitter struggle thus
to decide, and lest his courage should give way, he had
asked for an early interview. It was granted, and without
giving himself time to repent he came at once and stood
before the woman who was dearer to him than his life.
Gladly would he have died could he thus have blotted
out the past and made Edith his wife, but he could not,
and he had come to tell her so.

Never had she been more beautiful than she was that
afternoon. Her dress of crimson merino contrasted well
with her clear dark complexion. Her magnificent hair,

arranged with far more care than usual, was wound in
many a heavy braid around her head, while, half-hidden
amid the silken bands, and drooping gracefully behind
one ear, was a single white rose-bud, mingled with scarlet
blossoms of verbena; the effect adding greatly to her
beauty. Excitement lent a brighter sparkle to her brilliant
eyes, and a richer bloom to her glowing cheeks, and
thus she sat waiting for Arthur St. Claire, who felt his
heart grow cold and faint as he looked upon her, and
knew her charms were not for him. She detected his
agitation, and as a kitten plays with a captured mouse,
torturing it almost to madness, so she played with him
ere suffering him to reach the point. Rapidly she went
from one subject to another, dragging him with her whether
he would or not, until at last as if suddenly remembering
herself, she turned her shining eyes upon him, and said,
“I have talked myself out, and will now give you a chance.
You wrote that you wished to see me.”

But for this direct allusion to his note, Arthur would
assuredly have gone away, leaving his errand untold.
But he could not do so now. She was waiting for him to
speak, and undoubtedly wondering at his silence. Thrice
he attempted to articulate, but his tongue seemed paralyzed,
and reeking with perspiration, he sat unable to
move until she said again, “Is it of Nina you would tell
me?”

Then the spell was broken, Nina was the sesame which
unlocked his powers of speech; and wiping the large
drops from his forehead, he answered,

“Yes, Edith, of Nina, of myself, of you. Edith, you
know how much I love you, don't you, darling?”

The words were apparently wrung from him greatly
against his will. They were not what he intended to
say, and he would have given worlds to have recalled
them, but they were beyond his reach, and the very walls
of the room seemed to echo in thunder tones,

“You know how much I love you, don't you, darling?”

Yes, she did know; he knew she did by the glance she
gave him back, and laying his head upon the table, he
neither moved nor spoke until a footstep glided to his side,
and a soft hand pressed his burning brow, while a voice,
whose tones drifted him far, far back to the sea of darkness
and doubt where he had so long been bravely buffetting
the billows, whispered to him,

“Arthur, I do know, or rather believe you love me.
You would not tell me an untruth, but I do not understand
why it should make you so unhappy.”

He did not answer her at once, but retained within his
own the little hand which trembled for a moment like an
imprisoned bird and then grew warm and full of vigorous
life just as Edith was, standing there before him.
What should he do? What could he do? Surely, never
so dark an hour had gathered round him, or one so fraught
with peril. Like lightning his mind took in once more
the whole matter as it was. Griswold was dead. On
his grave the autumn leaves were falling and the nightly
vigils by that grave had been of no avail. Nina could
never comprehend, the written proof was burned, Richard
had forgotten, there was nothing in the way save his
conscience, and that would not be silent. Loudly it whispered
to the anguished man that happiness could not be
secured by trampling on Nina's rights; that remorse
would mix itself with every joy and at the last would
drive him mad.

“You mistake me, I cannot,” he began to say, but
Edith did not heed it, for a sound without had caught her
ear, telling her that Richard had unexpectedly returned,
and Victor was coming for her.

There was an expression of impatience on Edith's face,
as to Victor's summons she replied, “Yes, yes, in a moment;”
but Arthur breathed more freely as, rising to his
feet, he said, “I cannot now say all I wish to say, but

meet me, to-morrow at this hour in the Deering Woods,
near the spot where the mill brook falls over those old
stones. You know the place. We went there once with
— Nina.”

He wrung her hand, pitying her more than he did himself,
for he knew how little she suspected the true nature
of what he intended to tell her.

“God help us both, me to do right, and her to bear it,”
was his mental prayer, as he left her at the door of the
room where Richard was waiting for her.

There were good and bad angels tugging at Arthur's
heart as he hastened across the fields where the night
was falling, darker, gloomier, than ever it fell before.
Would it be a deadly sin to marry Edith Hastings?
Would Nina be wronged if he did? were questions
which the bad spirits kept whispering in his ear, and
each time that he listened to these questionings, he drifted
further and further away from the right, until by the
time his home was reached he hardly knew himself what
his intentions were.

Very bright were the lights shining in the windows of
his home, and the fire blazed cheerfully in the library,
where Nina, pale and fair as a white pond lily, had ordered
the supper table to be set, because she thought it
would please him, and where, with her golden curls tucked
behind her ears, and a huge white apron on, she knelt
before the glowing coals, making the nicely-buttered toast
he liked so well. Turning toward him her childish face
as he came in, she said,

“See — Nina's a nice little housekeeper. Wouldn't it
be famous if we could live alone, you and I?”

Arthur groaned inwardly, but made her no reply. Sitting
down in his arm-chair, he watched her intently as
she made his tea, removed her apron, brushed her curls,
and then took her seat at the table, bidding him do the
same. Mechanically he obeyed, affecting to eat for her

sake, while his eyes were constantly fastened upon her
face. Supper being over and the table removed, he continued
watching her intently as she flitted about the
room, now perching herself upon his knee, calling him
“her good boy,” now holding a whispered conversation
with Miggie, who, she fancied, was there, and again singing
to herself a plaintive song she had sung to Dr. Grisworld.
When it drew near her bedtime she went to the
window, from which the curtain was thrown back, and
looking out upon the blackness of the night, said to
Arthur,

“The darkness is very dark. I should think poor Dr.
Griswold would be afraid lying there alone in that narrow
grave. What made him die, Arthur? I didn't
want him to. It had better been I, hadn't it?”

She came close to him now, and sitting on his knee
held his bearded chin in her hand, while she continued,

“Would my poor boy be very lonesome, knowing that
Nina wasn't here, nor up stairs, nor in the Asylum, nor
over at Miggie's, nor anywhere? Would you miss me a
bit?”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

The words came with quick, gasping sobs, for in his
hour of bitterest anguish, Arthur had never for an instant
wished her gone — the little blue-eyed creature clinging
so confidingly to him and asking if he would miss her
when she was dead.

“Nina's would be a little grave,” she said, “not as
large as Miggie's, and perhaps it won't be long before
they dig it. I can wait. You can wait; can't you,
boy?”

What was it which prompted her thus to speak to him?
What was it which made him see Griswold's glance in
the eyes looking so earnestly to his own? Surely there
was something more than mere chance in all this. Nina
would save him. She had grasped his conscience, and

she stirred it with no gentle hand, until the awakened
man writhed in agony, such as the drowning are said to
feel when slowly restored to life, and bowing his head on
Nina's, he cried,

“What shall I do? Tell me, Nina, what to do!”

Once before, when thus appealed to, she had answered
him, “Do right,” and she now said the same to the weeping
man, who sobbed aloud, “I will. I will tell her all
to-morrow. I wish it were to-morrow now, but the long
night must intervene, and a weak, vacillating fool like me
may waver in that time. Nina,” and he held her closer
to him, “stay here with me till morning. I am stronger
where you are. The sight of you does me good. Phillis
will fix you a bed upon the sofa and make you comfortable;
will you stay?”

Every novelty was pleasing to Nina and she assented
readily, stipulating, however, that he should not look at
her while she said her prayers.”

In much surprise Phillis heard of this arrangement, but
offered no objection, thinking that Arthur had probably
detected signs of a frenzied attack and chose to keep her
with him where he could watch her. Alas! they little
dreamed that 'twas to save himself he kept her there,
kneeling oftentimes beside her as she slept, 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.