Part 5 (2/2)
Edith by this time had the picture in her hand, and holding it to the light exclaimed, ”Oh, but she's so jolly, Mr. Arthur. May I kiss her, please?”
”Certainly,” he answered, and Edith's warm red lips pressed the senseless gla.s.s, which seemed to smile upon her.
”Pretty--pretty--pretty N-n-n-Nina!” she whispered, and in an instant Arthur clutched her so tightly that she cried out with pain.
”Who told you her name was Nina?” he asked in tones so stern and startling that Edith's senses all forsook her, and trembling with fright she stammered,
”I don't know, sir--unless you did. Of course you did, how else should I know. I never saw the lady.”
Yes, how else should she know, and though he would almost have sworn that name had never pa.s.sed his lips save in solitude, he concluded be most have dropped it inadvertently in Edith's hearing, and still holding her by the arm, he said, ”Edith, if I supposed yon would repeat the word Nina, either at Collingwood or elsewhere, I certainly should be tempted to leave you here alone.”
”I won't, I won't, oh, Mr. Arthur, I surely won't!” and Edith clung to him in terror. ”I'll never say it--not even to Mr.
Harrington. Ill forget it, I can, I know.”
”Not to Mr. Harrington of all others,” thought Arthur, but he would not put himself more in Edith's power than he already was, and feeling that he must trust her to a certain extent, he continued, ”If you stay at Collingwood, I may sometime bring this Nina to see you, but until I do you must never breathe her name to any living being, or say a word of the picture.”
”But Mr. Harrington,” interrupted the far-seeing Edith, ”He'll have to know why Mrs. Atherton sent me away.
”I'll attend to that,” returned Arthur. ”I shall tell him it was a daguerreotype of a lady friend. There's nothing wrong in that, is there?” he asked, as he noticed the perplexed look of the honest- hearted Edith.
”No,” she answered hesitatingly. ”It is a lady friend, but--but-- seems as if there was something wrong somewhere. Oh, Mr. Arthur-- ”and she grasped his hand as firmly as he had held her shoulder.
”You ain't going to hurt pretty Nina, are you? You never will do her any harm?”
”Heaven forbid,” answered Arthur, involuntarily turning away from the truthful eyes of the dark-haired maiden pleading with him not to harm the Nina--who, over the sea, never dreamed of the scene enacted in that room between the elegant Arthur St. Claire and the humble Edith Hastings. ”Heaven forbid that I should harm her---”
He said it twice, and then asked the child to swear solemnly never to repeat that name where any one could hear.
”I won't swear,” she said, ”but I'll promise as true as I live and breathe, and draw the breath of life, and that's as good as a swear.”
Arthur felt that it was, and with the compact thus sealed between them, he arose to go, reaching out his hand for the picture.
”No,” said Edith, ”I want her for company. I shan't be lonesome looking in her eyes, and I know you will come back if I keep her.”
Arthur understood her meaning, and answered laughingly, ”Well, keep her then, as a token that I will surely return,” and pressing a kiss upon the beautiful picture he left the room, while Edith listened with a beating heart, until the sound of his footsteps had died away. Then a sense of dreariness stole over her; the tears gathered in her eyes, and she sought by a one-sided conversation with her picture to drive the loneliness away.
”Pretty Nina! Sweet Nina! Jolly Nina!” she kept repeating, ”I guess I used to see you in Heaven, before I came down to the nasty old Asylum. And mother was there, too, with a great long veil of hair, which came below her waist. Where was it?” she asked herself as Nina, her mother and Marie were all mingled confusedly together in her mind; and while seeking to solve the mystery, the darkness deepened in the room, the gas lamps were lighted in the street, and with a fresh shudder of loneliness Edith crept into the bed, and nestling down among her pillows, fell asleep with Nina, pressed lovingly to her bosom.
At a comparatively early hour next morning, the door of her room, which had been left unfastened, was opened, and a chambermaid walked in, starting with surprise at sight of Edith, sitting up in bed, her thick black hair falling over her shoulders, and her large eyes fixed inquiringly upon her.
”An, sure,” she began, ”is it a child like you staying here alone the blessed night? Where's yer folks?”
”I hain't no folks,” answered Edith, holding fast to the locket, and chewing industriously the bit of gum which Rachel, who knew her taste, had slipped into her pocket at parting.
”Hain't no folks! How come you here then?” and the girl Lois advanced nearer to the bedside.
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