University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
NINA'S LETTER.

After a week or two had passed, Arthur went occasionally
to Collingwood, where Richard greeted him most cordially,
urging him to come more frequently and wondering
why he always seemed in so much haste to get away.
On the occasion of these visits Edith usually kept out of
the way, avoiding him so studiously that Richard began
to fear she might perhaps dislike him, and he resolved to
ask her the first good opportunity. But Edith avoided
him, too, never coming now to sit with him alone; somebody
must always be present when she was with him, else
had her bursting heart betrayed the secret telling so fearfully
upon her. Oh, how hateful to her were the preparations
for her bridal, which had commenced on a most
magnificent scale, for Richard, after waiting so long, would
have a grand wedding, and that all who chose might witness
the ceremony, it was to be performed in the church,
from which the guests would accompany him back to Collingwood.

All Shannondale was interested, and the most extravagant
stories were set afloat, not only concerning the trouseau
of the bride, but the bride herself. What ailed her?
What made her so cold, so white, so proudly reserved, so
like a walking ghost? She, who had been so full of vigorous
life, so merry, so light-hearted. Could it be the mourning
for sweet little Nina, or was it—?

And here the knot of gossippers, at the corner of the

streets, or in the stores, or in the parlors at home, would
draw more closely together as they whispered,

“Does she love Richard Harrington as she ought? Is
not her heart given rather to the younger, handsomer
St. Claire?”

How they pitied her if it were so, and how curiously
they watched her whenever she appeared in their midst,
remarking every action, and construing it according to
their convictions.

Victor, too, was on the alert, and fully aware of the
public feeling. Day after day he watched his young mistress,
following her when she left the house alone, and
seeing her more than once when in the Deering woods
she laid her face in the springing grass and prayed that
she might die. But for her promise, sworn to Richard,
she would have gone to him, and kneeling at his feet begged
him to release her from her vow, and so spare her the
dreadful trial from which she shrank more and more as
she saw it fast approaching.

Edith was almost crazy, and Arthur, whenever he
chanced to meet her, marvelled at the change since he saw
her last. Once he, too, thought of appealing to Richard
to save her from so sad a fate as that of an unloving
wife, but he would not interfere, lest by so doing he should
err again, and so in dreary despair, which each day grew
blacker and more hopeless, Edith was left alone, until Victor
roused in her behalf, and without allowing himself time
to reflect, sought his master's presence, bearing with him
Nina's letter, and the soiled sheet on which Richard had
unwittingly scratched out Arthur's marriage.

It was a warm, balmy afternoon, and through the open
windows of the library, the south wind came stealing in,
laden with the perfume of the pink-tinted apple blossoms,
and speaking to the blind man of the long ago, when it
was his to see the budding beauties now shut out from
his sight. The hum of the honey-bee was heard, and the

air was rife with the sweet sounds of later spring. On the
branch of a tree without, a robin was trilling a song. It
had sung there all the morning, and now it had come back
again, singing a second time to Richard, who thought of
the soft nest up in the old maple, and likened that robin
and its mate to himself and Edith, his own singing-bird.

But why linger so long over that May-day which Richard
remembered through many, many future years, growing
faint and sick as often as the spring brought back the
apple-blossom perfume or the song of mated robins.
It is, alas, that we shrink as Victor did from the task
imposed, that, like him, we dread the blow which will
strike at the root of Richard's very life, and we approach
tearfully, pityingly, half remorsefully, as we stand sometimes
by a sunken grave, doubting whether our conduct
to the dead were always right and just. So Victor felt,
as he drew near to Richard; and sitting down beside him
said,

“Can I talk with you awhile about Miss Hastings?”

Richard started. Victor had come to tell him she was
sick, and he asked if it were not so.

“Something has ailed her of late,” he said.

“She is greatly changed since Nina's death. She mourns
much for her sister.”

“Yes,” returned Victor; “she loved Nina dearly, but it
is more than this which ails her. God forbid that I should
unnecessarily wound you, Mr. Harrington, but I think it
right for you to know.”

The dark face, shaded with the long beard, was very
white now, and the sightless eyes had in them a look of
terror as Richard asked,

“What is it, Victor? Tell me.”

“Come to the sofa first,” Victor rejoined, feeling intuitively
that he was safer there than in that high arm chair,
and with unusual tenderness he led his master to the spot,
then sitting down beside him, he continued, “Do you remember

Nina once made you write something upon a sheet
of paper, and that you bade me ascertain what it was?”

“Yes, I remember,” answered Richard, “you told me
you had not read it, and imputing it to some crazy fancy of
no importance, I gave it no more thought. What of it,
Victor?”

“I had not read it then,” answered Victor, “but I have
done so since. I have it in my possession — here in my
hand. Would you like to hear it?”

Richard nodded, and Victor read aloud: “I, the blind
man, Richard Harrington, do hereby solemnly swear that
the marriage of Arthur St. Claire and Nina Bernard, performed
by me and at my house, is null and void.”

“What! Read it again! It cannot be that I heard
aright,” and Richard listened while Victor repeated the
lines. “Arthur and Nina! Was she the young girl wife,
he, the boy husband, who came to me that night?” Richard
exclaimed. “Why have I never known of this before?
Why did Edith keep it from me? Say, Victor,” and
again Richard listened, this time, oh, how eagerly, while
Victor told him what he knew of that fatal marriage, kept
so long a secret, and as he listened, the beaded drops
stood thickly upon his forehead and gathered around his
ashen lips, for Victor purposely let fall a note of warning
which shot through the quivering nerves of the blind man
like a barbed burning arrow, wringing from him the piteous
cry,

“Oh, Victor, Victor, does she — does Edith love Arthur?
Has she loved him all the time? Is it this which
makes her voice so sad, her step so slow? Speak — better
that I know it now than after 'tis too late. What
other paper is it you are unfolding?”

“'Tis a letter from Nina to you. Can you hear it now?”

“Yes, but tell me first all you know. Don't withhold
a single thing. I would hear the whole.”

So Victor told him what he knew up to the time of

their going to Florida; and then, opening Nina's letter, he
began to read, pausing, occasionally, to ask if he should
stop.

“No, no; go on!” Richard whispered, hoarsely, his
head dropping lower and lower, until the face was hidden
from view and the chin rested upon the chest, which heaved
with every labored breath.

Once at the words, “When you hear this Nina'll be
there with you. She'll sit upon your knee and wind her
arms around your neck” — he started, and seemed to be
thrusting something from his lap — something which made
him shiver. Was it Nina? He thought so, and strove to
push her off, but when Victor read, “She will comfort you
when the great cry comes in — the crash like the breaking
up of the ice in the Northern ponds,” he ceased to struggle,
and Victor involuntarily stopped when he saw the long
arms twine themselves as it were around an invisible form.
Then he commenced again: “And when you feel yourself
broken up like they are in the spring, listen and you'll
hear me whispering, `Poor Richard! I pity you so much,
and I'll kiss your tears away.”'

Did he hear her? hear Nina whispering comfort to his
poor bruised heart? We cannot tell. We only know he
bent his ear lower, as if to catch the faintest breath; but
alas! there were no tears to kiss away. The blind eyes
could not weep — they were too hot, too dry for that —
and blood-red rings of fire danced before them as they
did when Nina came to him with the startling news that
Miggie was dead in the Deering woods.

Victor was reading now about these woods and the
scene enacted there, and Richard understood it all, even
to the reason why Edith had persisted in being his wife.
The deepest waters run silently, it is said, and so, perhaps,
the strongest heart when crushed to atoms lies still as
death, and gives outwardly no token of its anguish.
True it is that Richard neither moaned, nor moved, nor

spoke; only the head drooped lower, while the arms clung
tightly to the fancied form he held, as if between himself
and Nina, wherever she was that dreary day, there was a
connecting link of sympathy which pervaded his whole
being, and so prevented him from dying outright as he
wished he could.

It was finished at last, Nina's letter — and it seemed to
Richard as if the three kinds of darkness, of which she
told him, had indeed settled down upon him, so confused
was his brain, so crushed his heart, and so doubly black
his blindness. He looked to Victor like some great oak,
seathed and blasted with one fell blow, and he was trembling
for the result, when the lips moved and he caught the
words, “Leave me little Snow Drop. Go back to Heaven,
whence you came. The blind man will do right.”

Slowly then the arms unclosed, and as if imbued with
sight, the red eyes followed something to the open window
and out into the bright sunshine beyond; then they
turned to Victor, and a smile broke over the stormy features
as Richard whispered:

“Nina's gone! Now take me to my room.”

Across the threshold Victor led the half-fainting man,
meeting with no one until his master's chamber was reached,
when Edith came through the hall, and, glancing in,
saw the white face on the pillow, where Victor had laid
his master down, Richard heard her step, and said, faintly,
“Keep her off; I cannot bear it yet!” But even while
he spoke Edith was there beside him, asking, in much
alarm, what was the matter. She did not observe how
Richard shuddered at the sound of her voice; she only
thought that he was very ill, and, with every womanly,
tender feeling aroused, she bent over him and pressed
upon his lips a kiss which burned him like a coal of fire.
She must not kiss him now, and, putting up his hands with
the feebleness of a little child, he cried piteously,

“Don't Edith, don't! Please leave me for a time. I'd
rather be alone!”

She obeyed him then, and went slowly out, wondering
what it was which had so affected him as to make even
her presence undesirable.

Meantime, with hands pressed over his aching eyes, to
shut out, if possible, the rings of fire still dancing before
them, Richard Harrington thought of all that was past
and of what was yet to come.

“How can I lose her now,” he moaned. “Why didn't
she tell me at the first? It would not then have been
half so bad. Oh, Edith, my lost Edith. You have not
been all guiltless in this matter. The bird I took to my
bosom has struck me at last with its talons, and struck so
deep. Oh, how it aches, how it aches, and still I love her
just the same; aye, love her more, now that I know she
must not be mine. Edith, oh, my Edith!”

Then Richard's thoughts turned upon Arthur. He
must talk with him, and he could not meet him there at
Collingwood. There were too many curious eyes to see,
too many ears to listen. At Grassy Spring they would
be more retired, and thither he would go, that very night.
He never should sleep again until he heard from Arthur's
own lips a confirmation of the cruel story. He could not
ask Edith. Her voice would stir his heart-strings with a
keener, deeper agony than he was enduring now. But to
Arthur he could speak openly, and then too — Richard
was loth to confess it, even to himself, but it was, never
theless, true — Arthur, though a man, was gentler than
Edith. He would be more careful, more tender, and while
Edith might confirm the whole with one of her wild, impulsive
outbursts, Arthur would reach the same point
gradually and less painfully.

“Order the carriage, Victor,” he said, as it was growing
dark in the room. “I am going to Grassy Spring.”

It was in vain that Victor attempted to persuade him
to wait until the morrow. Richard was determined, and
when Edith came from her scarcely tasted supper, she saw

the carriage as it passed through the Collingwood grounds
on its way to Grassy Spring, but little dreamed of what
would be ere its occupant returned to them again.