Part 22 (1/2)
It was night, dark night at Gra.s.sy Spring, and the summer rain, which all the day had fallen in heavy showers, beat drearily against the windows of the room where a fair young girl was keeping watch over the white-faced man whose life was fast ebbing away. They were alone,--Dr. Griswold and Nina--for both would have it so. He, because he felt how infinitely precious to him would be his last few hours with her, when there was no curious ear to listen; and she, because she would have Miggie sleep. Nina knew no languor from wakefulness. She was accustomed to it, and as if imbued with supernatural strength, she had sat night after night in that close room, ministering to the sick man as no one else could have done, and by her faithfulness and tender care repaying him in part for the love which for long, weary years had known no change, and which, as life draw near its close, manifested itself in a desire to have her constantly at his side, where he could look into her eyes, and hear the murmurings of her bird-like voice.
Thus far Edith and the servants had shared her vigils, but this night she preferred to be alone, insisting that Edith, who began to show signs of weariness, should occupy the little room, adjoining, where she could be called, if necessary. Not apprehending death so soon the physician acquiesced in this arrangement, stipulating, however, that Phillis should sleep upon the lounge in Dr. Griswold's chamber, but the care, the responsibility, should all be Nina's, he said, and with childish alacrity she hastened to her post. It was the first time she had kept the watch alone, but from past experience the physician believed she could be trusted, and he left her without a moment's hesitation.
Slowly the hours went by, and Nina heard no sound save the low breathing of the sleepers near, the dropping of the rain, and the mournful sighing of the wind through the maple trees. Midnight came, and then the eyes of the sick man opened wide and wandered about the room as if in quest of some one.
”Nina,” he said, faintly, ”Are you here? Why has the lamp gone out? It's so dark that I can't see your face.”
Bending over him, Nina replied,
”I'm here, doctor. Nina's here. Shall I get more light so you CAN see?”
”Yes, darling, more light--more light;” and swift as a fawn Nina ran noiselessly from room to room, gathering up lamp after lamp, and candle after candle, and bringing them to the sick chamber, which blazed as if on fire, while the musical laugh of the lunatic echoed through the room as she whispered to herself, ”Twenty sperm candles and fifteen lamps! 'Tis a glorious watch I keep to-night.”
Once she thought of wakening Edith to share in her transports, but was withheld from doing so by a feeling that ”Miggie” would not approve her work.
”It's light as noonday,” she said, seating herself upon the bedside. ”Can't you see me now?”
”No, Nina, I shall never look on your dear face again until we meet in Heaven. There you will be my own. No one can come between us,” and the feeble arms wound themselves lovingly around the maiden, who laid her cheek against his feverish one, while her little fingers strayed once more amid the ma.s.s of disordered hair, pus.h.i.+ng it back from the damp forehead, which she touched with her sweet lips.
”Nina,” and the voice was so low that Nina bent her down to catch the sound, ”I am dying, darling. You are not afraid to stay with me till the last?”
”No,” she answered, ”not afraid, but I do so wish you could see the splendid illumination. Twenty candles and fifteen lamps--the wicks of them all an inch in height. Oh, it's grand!” and again Nina chuckled as she saw how the lurid blaze lit up the window panes with a sheet of flame which, flas.h.i.+ng backward, danced upon the wall in many a grotesque form, and cast a reddish glow even upon the white face of the dying.
He was growing very restless now, for the last great struggle had commenced; the soul was waging a mighty battle with the body, and the conflict was a terrible one, wringing groans of agony from him and great tears from Nina, who forgot her bonfire in her grief.
Once when the fever had scorched her veins and she had raved in mad delirium, Dr. Griswold had rocked her in his arms as he would have rocked a little child, and remembering this the insane desire seized on Nina to rock him, too, to sleep. But she could not lift him up, though she bent every energy to the task, and at last, pa.s.sing one arm beneath his neck she managed to sit behind him, holding him in such a position that he rested easier, and his convulsive movements ceased entirely. With his head upon her bosom she rocked to and fro, uttering a low, cooing sound, as if soothing him to sleep.
”Sing, Nina, sing,” he whispered, and on the night air a mournful cadence rose, swelling sometimes so high that Edith moved uneasily upon her pillow, while even Phillis stretched out a hand as if about to awaken.
Then the music changed to a plaintive German song, and Edith dreamed of Bingen on the Rhine, while Dr. Griswold listened eagerly, whispering at intervals,
”Precious Nina, blessed dove, sing on--sing till I am at rest.”
This was sufficient for Nina, and one after another she warbled the wild songs she knew he loved the best, while the lamps upon the table and the candles upon the floor flickered and flamed and cast their light far out into the yard, where the August rain was falling, and where more than one bird, startled from its slumbers, looked up to see whence came the fitful glare, wondering, it may be, at the solemn dirge, floating out into the darkness far beyond the light.
The gray dawn broke at last, and up the graveled walk rapid footsteps came--Arthur St. Claire hastening home. From a distant hill he had caught the blaze of Nina's bonfire, and trembling with fear and dread, he hurried on to learn what it could mean. There was no stir about the house--no sign of life, only the crimson blaze s.h.i.+ning across the fields, and the sound of a voice, feeble now, and sunk almost to a whisper, for Nina's strength was giving way. For hours she had sung, while the head upon her bosom pressed more and more heavily--the hand which clasped hers unloosed its hold--the eyes which had fastened themselves upon her with a look of unutterable love, closed wearily--the lips, which, so long as there was life in them, ceased not to bless her, were still, and poor, tired, crazy Nina, fancying that he slept at last, still swayed back and forth, singing to the cold senseless clay, an infant lullaby.
”Hushaby, my baby--go to sleep, my child.”
HE had sung it once to her. SHE sang it now to him, and the strange words fell on Arthur's ear, even before he stepped across the threshold, where he stood appalled at the unwonted spectacle which met his view. Nina manifested no surprise whatever, but holding up her finger, motioned him to tread cautiously, if he would come near where she was.
”He couldn't see,” she whispered, ”and I made him a famous light.
Isn't it glorious here, smoke, and fire and all? He is sleeping quietly now, only his head is very heavy. It makes my arm ache so hard, and his hands are growing cold, I cannot kiss them warm,”
and she held the stiffening fingers against her burning cheek, shuddering at the chill they gave her, just as Arthur shuddered at the sight, for it needed nothing more to tell him that Dr.
Griswold was dead!
CHAPTER XIX.