University of Virginia Library

21. 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 nought 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 forget 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 more 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 upon her lap, wiping from
her temple the drops of blood slowly trickling from a cut,
made by a sharp stone.

“Miggie, Miggie,” she cried, “wake up. You scare me,
you look so white and stiff. Please open your eyes, darling,
just a little ways, so Nina'll know that you ain't dead.
Oh, Arthur, she is dead!” and Nina shrieked aloud, when,
opening herself the lids, she saw the dull, fixed expression
of the glassy eye.

Laying her back upon the grass, she crept to Arthur's
side, and tried to rouse him, saying imploringly, “Miggie's
dead, Arthur; Miggie's dead. There is blood all
over her face. Its' on me, too, look,” and she held before
him her fingers, covered with a crimson stain. Even this
did not move him; he only kissed the tiny hand wet
with Edith's blood, and whispered to her, “Richard.”

It was enough. Nina comprehended his meaning at
once; and when next he looked about him she was flying
like a deer across the fields to Collingwood, leaving him
alone with Edith. From where he sat he could see her
face, and its corpse-like pallor chilled him with horror.
He must go to her. It would be long ere Nina guided
the blind man to the spot, and, exerting all his strength,
he tottered to the brook, filled his hat with water, and
crawling, rather than walking, to Edith's side, dashed it
upon her head, washing the stains of blood away, and
forcing back the life so nearly gone. Gradually the eyes
unclosed, and looked into his with a glance so full of love,
tenderness, reproach, and cruel disappointment, that he
turned away, for he could not meet that look.

The blood from the wound upon the forehead was
flowing freely now, and faint from its loss, Edith sank
again into a state of unconsciousness, while Arthur,
scarcely knowing what he did, crept away to a little distance,
where, leaning against a tree, he sat insensible as it
were, until the sound of footsteps roused him, and he saw
Nina coming, holding fast to the blind man's wrist, and
saying to him encouragingly,

“We are almost there. I see her dress now by the
bank. Wake up, Miggie; we're coming — Richard and
I. Don't you hear me, Miggie?”

Victor had been sent to the village upon an errand for
Richard, who was sitting in his arm-chair, just where

Edith had left him an hour before, dozing occasionally, as
was his custom after dinner, and dreaming of his singing
bird.

“Little rose-bud,” he whispered to himself. “It's
strange no envious, longing eyes have sought her out as
yet, and tried to win her from me. There's St. Claire —
cannot help admiring her, but thus far he's been very discreet,
I'm sure. Victor would tell me if he saw any indications
of his making love to Edith.”

Deluded Richard! Victor Dupres kept his own counsel
with regard to Edith and the proprietor of Grassy
Spring; and when questioned by his master, as he sometimes
was, he always answered, “Monsieur St. Claire
does nothing out of the way.”

So Richard, completely blinded, trusted them both, and
had no suspicion of the scene enacted that afternoon in
the Deering Woods. Hearing a swift footstep coming up
the walk, he held his breath to listen, thinking it was
Edith, but a moment only sufficed to tell it was Nina.
With a rapid, bounding tread she entered the library, and
gliding to his side, startled him with, “Come, quick, Miggie's
dead — dead in the Deering Woods!”

For an instant Richard's brain reeled, and rings of fire
danced before his sightless eyes; then, remembering the
nature of the one who had brought to him this news,
hope whispered that it might not be so bad, and this it
was which buoyed him up and made him strong to follow
his strange guide.

Down the lane, across the road, and over the fields Nina
led him, bareheaded as he was, and in his thin-soled
slippers, which were torn against the briers and stones,
for in her haste Nina did not stop to choose the smoothest
path, and Richard was too intent on Edith to heed
the roughness of the way. Many questions he asked her
as to the cause of the accident, but she told him nothing

save that “Miggie was talking and fell down dead.” She
did not mention Arthur, for, fancying that he had in some
way been the cause of the disaster, she wished to shield
him from all censure, consequently Richard had no idea
of the crushed, miserable wretch leaning against the sycamore
and watching him as he came up. He only heard
Nina's cry, “Wake up, Miggie, Richard's here!”

It needed more than that appeal, however, to rouse the
unconscious girl, and Richard, as he felt her cold, clammy
flesh, wept aloud, fearing lest she were really dead. Eagerly
he felt for her heart, knowing then that she still lived.

“Edith, darling, speak to me,” and he chafed her nerveless
hands, bidding Nina bring him water from the brook.

Spying Arthur's hat Nina caught it up, when the
thought entered her mind, “He'll wonder whose this is.”
Then with a look of subtle cunning, she stole up behind
the blind man, and placing the hat suddenly upon his
head, withdrew it as quickly, saying, “I'll get it in this,
shan't I?”

Richard was too much excited to know whether he had
worn one hat or a dozen, and he answered her at once,
“Use it of course.”

The cold water brought by Nina roused Edith once
more, and with a sigh she lay back on Richard's bosom,
so trustfully, so confidingly, that Arthur, looking on, foresaw
what the future would bring, literally giving her up
then and there to the blind man, who, as if accepting the
gift, hugged her fondly to him and said aloud, “I thank
the good Father for restoring to me my Edith.”

She suffered him to caress her as much as he liked, and
offered no remonstrance when lifting her in his strong
arms, he bade Nina lead him back to Collingwood. Like
a weary child Edith rested her head upon his shoulder,
looking behind once, and regarding Arthur with a look
he never forgot, even when the darkness in which he now
was groping had passed away, and the full daylight was

shining o'er him. Leading Richard to a safe distance,
Nina bade him wait a moment while she went back for
something she had forgotten — then hastening to Arthur's
side she wound her arms around his neck, smoothed his
hair, kissed his lips, and said to him so low that Richard
could not hear,

“Nina won't desert you. She'll come to you again
when she gets Miggie home. You did do it, didn't you?
but Nina'll never tell.”

Kissing him once more, she bounded away, and with
feelings of anguish which more than compensated for his
error, Arthur looked after them as they moved slowly
across the field, Richard sometimes tottering beneath his
load, which, nevertheless, he would not release, and Nina,
holding to his arm, telling him where to go, and occasionally
glancing backward toward the spot where Arthur sat,
until the night shadows were falling, and he shivered with
the heavy dew. Nina did not return, and thinking that
she would not, he started for home, never knowing how
he reached there, or when; only this he knew, no one
suspected him of being in the Deering Woods when
Edith Hastings was attacked with that strange fainting
fit. Thanks for this to little Nina, who, returning as she
had promised, found the forgotten hat still dripping with
water, and hiding it beneath her shawl, carried it safely
to Grassy Spring, where it would betray no one.