Part 21 (2/2)
”You must hug Miggie, too,” Nina said to him one day, when he had held her slight form for a moment to his bosom. ”She's just as good to you as I am.”
”Nina,” said Edith, ”Dr. Griswold does not love me as he does you, and you must not worry him so. Don't you see it makes him worse?”
and lifting the hair she pointed to the drops of perspiration standing upon his forehead.
This seemed to satisfy Nina, while at the same time her darkened mind must have caught a glimmer of the truth, for her manner changed perceptibly, and for a day or so she was rather shy of Dr.
Griswold. Then the mood changed again, and to the poor dying man was vouchsafed a glimpse of what it might have been to be loved by Nina Bernard.
”Little sunbeam--little clipped-winged bird--little pearl,” were the terms of endearment he lavished upon her, as, with his feeble arm about her, he told her one night how he loved her. ”Don't go Edith,” he said, as he saw her stealing from the room; ”sit down here beside me and listen to what I have to say.”
Edith obeyed, and taking her hand and Nina's in his, as if the touch of them both would make him strong to unburden his mind, he began:
”Let me call you Edith, while I'm talking, for the sake of one who loves you even as I love Nina,”
Edith started, and very foolishly replied,
”Do you mean Mr. Harrington?”
She knew he didn't, but her heart was so sore on the subject of Arthur's absence that she longed to be rea.s.sured in some way, and so said what she did.
”No, Edith, it is not Mr. Harrington, I mean,” and Dr. Griswold's bright eyes fastened themselves upon the trembling girl as if to read her inmost soul, and see how far her feelings were enlisted.
”It's Arthur,” said Nina, nodding knowingly at both.
”Arthur,” Edith repeated bitterly. ”Fine proof he gives of his love. Going from home for an indefinite length of time without one word for me. He hates me, I know,” and bursting into tears she buried her face in the lap of Nina, who sat upon the bed.
”Poor Edith!” and another hand than Nina's smoothed her bands of s.h.i.+ning hair. ”By this one act you have confessed that Arthur's love is not unrequited. I hoped it might be otherwise. G.o.d help you, Edith. G.o.d help you.”
He spoke earnestly, and a thrill of fear ran through Edith's veins. Lifting up her head, she said,
”You talk as if it were a certainty that Arthur St. Claire loves me. He has never told me so--never.”
She could not add that he had never given her reason to think so, for he had, and her whole frame quivered with joy as she heard her suspicions confirmed by Dr. Griswold.
”He does love you, Edith Hastings. He has confessed as much to me, and this is why he has gone from home. He would forget you, and it is right. He must forget you; he must not love. It would be a wicked, wicked thing; and Edith--are you listening--do you hear all I say?”
”Yes,” came faintly from Nina's lap, where Edith had laid her face again.
”Then promise not to marry him, so long--so long--Oh, Nina, how can I say it? Edith, swear you'll never marry Arthur. Swear, Edith, swear.”
His voice was raised to a shriek, and by the dim light of the lamp, which fell upon his pallid features, both Edith and Nina saw the wild delirium flas.h.i.+ng from his eye. Nina was the first to detect it, and wringing Edith's hand she whispered, imploringly,
”Swear, Miggie, once. Say THUNDER, or something like that as softly as you can. It won't be so very bad, and he wants you to so much.”
Frightened as Edith was at Dr. Griswold's manner she could not repress a smile at Nina's mistaken idea. Still she did NOT swear, and all that night he continued talking incoherently of Arthur, of Edith, of Nina, Geneva, Richard Harrington, and a thousand other matters, mingling them together in such a manner that nothing clear or connected could be made of what he said. In the morning he was more quiet, but there was little hope of his life, the physician said. From the first he had greatly desired to see Arthur once more, and when his danger became apparent a telegram had been forwarded to the wanderer, but brought back no response.
Another was sent, and another, the third one, in the form of a letter, finding him far up the Red river, where in that sultry season the air was rife with pestilence, which held with death many a wanton revel, and would surely have claimed him for its victim, but for the timely note which called him away.
Night and day, day and night, as fast as the steam-G.o.d could take him, he traveled, his heart swelling with alternate hope and fear as he neared the north-land, seeing from afar the tall heads of the New England mountains, and knowing by that token that he was almost home.
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