University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE DARKNESS DEEPENS.

Death brooded over Collingwood, and his black wing
beat clamorously against the windows of the room to
which, on that fearful night, Richard had borne his fainting

burden, and where for days and weeks she lay so low
that with every coming morning the anxious villagers listened
for the first stroke of the bell which should tell
that Edith was dead. Various were the rumors concerning
the cause of her illness, all agreeing upon one point,
to wit, that she had fainted suddenly in the woods with
Nina, and in falling, had received a deep gash upon her
forehead. This it was which made her crazy, the people
said, and the physician humored the belief, although with
his experience he knew there was some secret sorrow
preying upon that young mind, the nature of which he
could not easily guess. It never occurred to him that it
was in any way associated with Arthur St. Claire, whose
heart-broken expression told how much he suffered, and
how dear to him was the delirious girl, who never breathed
his name, or gave token that she knew of his existence.
Every morning, regularly he rung the Collingwood bell,
which was always answered by Victor, between whom and
himself there was a tacit understanding, perceptible in the
fervent manner with which the faithful valet's hand was
pressed whenever the news was favorable. He did not
venture into her presence, though repeatedly urged to do
so by Grace, who mentally accused him of indifference
toward Edith. Alas, she knew not of the nightly vigils
kept by the wretched man, when with dim eye and throbbing
head he humbled himself before his Maker, praying
to be forgiven for the sorrow he had wrought, and again
wrestling in agony for the young girl, whose sick room
windows he could see, watching the livelong night the
flickering of the lamp, and fancying he could tell from its
position, if any great change occurred in her.

Richard was completely crushed, and without noticing
any one he sat hour after hour, day after day, night after
night, always in one place, near the head of the bed, his
hands folded submissively together, and his sightless eyes
fixed upon the pillow, where he knew Edith was, with a

hopeless, subdued expression touching to witness. He did
not weep, but his dry, red eyes, fastened always upon the
same point, told of sealed fountains where the hot tears
were constantly welling up, and failing to find egress
without, fell upon the bruised heart, which blistered and
burned beneath their touch, but felt no relief. It was in
vain they tried to persuade him to leave the room; he
turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, and the physician
was beginning to fear for his reason, when crazy Nina
came to his aid, and laying her moist hand upon his said
to him, not imploringly, but commandingly, “Come with
me.”

There was a moment's hesitation, and then Richard followed
her out into the open air, sitting where she bade
him sit, and offering no resistance when she perched herself
upon his knee and passed her arm around his neck.

“Make him cry, can't you? That will do him good,”
whispered Victor, who had come out with them.

Nina knew that better than himself. She remembered
the time when the sight of Edith had wrung from her
torrents of tears, cooling her burning brow, and proving
a blessed relief, the good effects of which were visible yet.
And now it was her task to make the blind man cry.
She recognized something familiar in the hard, stony expression
of his face, something which brought back the
Asylum, with all its dreaded horrors. She had seen
strong men there look just as he was looking. Dr. Griswold
had called them crazy, and knowing well what that
word implied she would save Richard from so sad a fate.

“It will be lonesome for you when Miggie's gone,” she
said, as a prelude to the attempt; “lonesomer than it has
ever been before; and the nights will be so dark, for when
the morning comes there'll be no Miggie here. She will
look sweetly in her coffin, but you can't see her, can you?
You can feel how beautiful she is, perhaps; and I shall
braid her hair just as she used to wear it.”

There was a perceptible tremor in Richard's frame,
and perceiving it, Nina continued quickly,

“We shall never forget her, shall we? and we'll often
fancy we hear her singing through the halls, even though
we know she's far away leading the choir in Heaven. That
will be a pleasanter sound, won't it, than the echo of the
bell when the villagers count the eighteen strokes and a
half, and know it tolls for Miggie? The hearse wheels,
too — how often we shall hear them grinding through the
gravel, as they will grind, making a little track when they
come up, and a deeper one when they go away, for they'll
carry Miggie then.”

“Oh, Nina! hush, hush! No, no!” and Richard's
voice was choked with tears, which ran over his face like
rain.

Nina had achieved her object, and, with a most satisfied
expression she watched him as he wept. Her's
was a triple task, caring for Richard, caring for Arthur,
and caring for Edith, but most faithfully did she perform
it. Every day, when the sun was low in the western sky,
she stole away to Grassy Spring, speaking blessed words
of comfort to the despairing Arthur, who waited for her
coming as for the visit of an angel. She was dearer to
him now since he had confessed his sin to Edith, and
could she have been restored to reason he would have
compelled himself to make her his wife in reality as well
as in name. She was a sweet creature, he knew; and he
always caressed her with unwonted tenderness ere he sent
her back to the sick room, where Edith ever bemoaned
her absence, missing her at once, asking for pretty Nina,
with the golden hair. She apparently did not remember
that Nina stood between herself and Arthur St. Claire,
or, if she did, she bore no malice for the patient, all-enduring
girl who nursed her with so much care, singing
to her the plaintive German air once sung to Dr. Griswold,
and in which Edith would often join, taking one

part, while Nina sang the other; and the members of the
household, when they heard the strange melody, now
swelling loud and full, as some fitful fancy took possession
of the crazy vocalists, and now sinking to a plaintive
wail, would shudder, and turn aside to weep, for there
was that in the music which reminded them of the hearse
wheels grinding down the gravel, and of the village bell
giving the eighteen strokes. Sometimes, for nearly a
whole night those songs of the olden time would echo
through the house, and with each note she sang the fever
burned more fiercely in Edith's veins, and her glittering
black eyes flashed with increased fire, while her fingers
clutched at her tangled hair, as if they thus would keep
time to the thrilling strain. Her hair troubled her, it
was so heavy, so thick, so much in her way, and when she
manifested a propensity to relieve herself of the burden
by tearing it from the roots, the physician commanded
them to cut away those beautiful shining braids, Edith's
crowning glory.

It was necessary, he said, and the sharp, polished scissors
were ready for the task, when Nina, stepping in between
them and the blue-black locks, saved the latter
from the nurse's barbaric hand. She remembered well
when her own curls had fallen one by one beneath the
shears of an unrelenting nurse, and she determined at
all hazards to spare Edith from a like fancied indignity.

“Miggie's hair shall not be harmed,” she said, covering
with her apron the wealth of raven tresses. “I can keep
her from pulling it. I can manage her;” and the sequel
proved that she was right.

It was a singular power that blue-eyed blonde possessed
over the dark-eyed brunette, who became at last as obedient
to Nina's will as Nina once had been to her's, and
it was amusing to watch Nina flitting about Edith, now
reasoning with, now coaxing, and again threatening her

capricious patient, who was sure eventually to do as she
was bidden.

Only once while the delirium lasted did Edith refer to
Arthur, and then she said reproachfully, “Oh, Nina, what
made him do so?”

They were alone, and bending over her, Nina replied,
“I am so sorry, Miggie, and I'll try to have the ugly thing
scratched out.”

This idea once fixed in Nina's mind could not easily be
dislodged, and several times she went to Richard, asking
him to scratch it out! Wishing to humor her as far as
possible he always answered that he would if he knew
what she meant. Nina felt that she must not explain,
and with vigilant cunning she studied how to achieve her
end without betraying Arthur. It came to her one night,
and whispering to Edith, “I am going to get it fixed,”
she glided from the room and sought the library where she
was sure of finding Richard. It was nearly eleven o'clock,
but he had not yet retired, and with his head bent forward
he sat in his accustomed place, the fire-light shining
on his face, which had grown fearfully haggard and white
within the last two weeks. He heard Nina's step, and
knowing who it was, asked if Edith were worse.

“No,” returned Nina, “she'll live, too, if you'll only
scratch it out.”

He was tired of asking what she meant, and he made
no answer. But Nina was too intent upon other matters
to heed his silence. Going to his secretary she arranged
materials for writing, and then taking his hand, said, in
the commanding tone she used toward Edith when at all
refractory, “Come and write. 'Tis the only chance of
saving her life.”

“Write what?” he asked, as he rose from his chair and
suffered her to lead him to the desk.

He had written occasionally since his blindness, but it
was not a frequent thing, and his fingers closed awkwardly

about the pen she placed in his hand. Feeling curious
to know the meaning of all this, he felt for the paper and
then said to her,

“I am ready for you to dictate.”

But dictation was no part of Nina's intentions. The
lines traced upon that sheet would contain a secret which
Richard must not know; and with a merry laugh, as she
thought how she would cheat him, she replied,

“No, sir. Only Miggie and I can read what you write.
Nina will guide your hand and trace the words.”

Dipping the pen afresh into the ink, she bade him take
it, and grasping his fingers, guided them while they wrote
as follows:

“I, the blind man, Richard Harrington, —

“That last was my name,” interrupted Richard, who
was rewarded by a slight pull of the hair, as Nina said.

“Hush, be quiet.”

A great blot now came after the “Harrington,” and
wiping it up with the unresisting Richard's coat sleeve,
Nina continued:

“— DO HEREBY SOLEMNLY —

She was not sure whether “swear” or “declare” would
be the more proper word, and she questioned Richard,
who decided upon “swear” as the stronger of the two,
and she went on:

“— SWEAR THAT THE MARRIAGE OF —

“As true as you live you can't see?” she asked, looking
curiously into the sightless eyes.

“No; I can't see,” was the response, and satisfied that
she was safe, Nina made him write,

“— ARTHUR ST. CLAIRE and NINA BERNARD,
PERFORMED AT MY HOUSE, IN MY PRESENCE, AND BY ME —

Nina didn't know what, but remembering a phrase she
had often heard used, and thinking it might be just what
was needed, she said,

“Does `null and void' mean `scratched out?”'

“Yes,” he answered, smiling in spite of himself, and
Nina added with immense capitals,

“— NULL AND VOID,”

to what he had already written.

“I reckon it will be better to have your name,” she
said, and the cramped fingers were compelled to add:

“RICHARD HARRINGTON,
COLLINGWOOD,
November 25th, 18 —”

“There!” and Nina glanced with an unusual amount
of satisfaction at the wonderful hieroglyphics which covered
nearly an entire page of foolscap, so large were the
letters and so far apart the words. “That'll cure her,
sure,” and folding it up, she hastened back to Edith's
chamber.

Old Rachel watched that night, but Nina had no difficulty
in coaxing her from the room, telling her she needed
sleep, and Miggie was so much more quiet when alone
with her. Rachel knew this was true, and after an hour
or so withdrew to another apartment, leaving Edith alone
with Nina. For a time Edith slept quietly, notwithstanding
that Nina rattled the spoons and upset a chair, hoping
thus to wake her.

Meanwhile Richard's curiosity had been thoroughly
roused with regard to the scratching out, and knowing
Victor was still up, he summoned him to his presence, repeating
to him what had just occurred, and saying, “If
you find that paper read it. It is surely right for me to
know what I have written.”

“Certainly,” returned Victor, bowing himself from the
room.

Rightly guessing that Nina would read it aloud to
Edith, he resolved to be within hearing distance, and
when he heard Rachel leave the chamber he drew near
the door, left ajar for the purpose of admitting fresher air.
From his position he saw that Edith was asleep, while

Nina, with the paper clasped tightly in her hand, sat
watching her. Once the latter thought she heard a suspicious
sound, and stealing to the door she looked up and
down the hall where a lamp was burning, showing that
it was empty.

“It must have been the wind,” she said, resuming her
seat by the bedside, while Victor Dupres, gliding from the
closet where he had taken refuge, stood again at his former
post, waiting for that deep slumber to end.

“Nina, are you here?” came at last from the pale lips,
and the bright, black eyes unclosed looking wistfully
about the room.

Silent and motionless Victor stood, while Nina, bending
over Edith, answered, “Yes, Miggie, I am here, and
I've brought you something to make you well. He wrote
it — Richard did — just now, in the library. Can you see
if I bring the lamp?” and thrusting the paper into Edith's
hands she held the lamp close to her eyes.

“You havn't strength, have you?” she continued, as
Edith paid no heed. “Let me do it for you,” and taking
the crumpled sheet, she read in tones distinct and clear:

“I, the blind man, Richard Harrington, do hereby solemnly
swear that the marriage of Arthur St. Claire
and Nina Bernard, performed at my house, in my
presence, and by me, is null and void. Richard Harrington,
Collingwood, November 5th, 18 —”

Slowly a faint color deepened on Edith's cheek, a soft
lustre was kindled in her eye, and the great tears dropped
from her long lashes. Her intellect was too much clouded
for her to reason clearly upon anything, and she did not,
for a moment, doubt the validity of what she heard.
Richard could annul the marriage if he would, she was
sure, and now that he had done so, the bitterness of death
was past,— the dark river forded, and she was saved.
Nina had steered the foundering bark into a calm, quiet
sea, and exulting in her good work, she held Edith's head

upon her bosom, and whispered to her of the joyous
future when she would live with Arthur.

As a child listens to an exciting tale it only comprehends
in part, so Edith listened to Nina, a smile playing
about her mouth and dancing in her eyes, which at last,
as the low voice ceased, closed languidly as did the soft
blue orbs above them, and when the grey dawn stole into
the room it found them sleeping in each other's arms,—
the noble-hearted Nina who had virtually given up her
husband and the broken-hearted Edith who had accepted
him. They made a beautiful tableau, and Victor for a
time stood watching them, wiping the moisture from his
own eyes, and muttering to himself, “Poor Edith, I understand
it now, and pity you so much. But your secret is
safe. Not for worlds would I betray that blessed angel,
Nina.” Then, crossing the hall with a cautious tread, he
entered his own apartment and sat down to think.

Victor Dupres knew what had been scratched out!