PARTING.
It was late the next morning, ere Nina and Edith awoke from that
long sleep, which proved so refreshing to the latter, stilling her
throbbing pulse, cooling her feverish brow, and subduing the wild
look of her eyes, which had in them the clear light of reason.
Edith was better. She would live, the physician said, feeling a
glow of gratified vanity as he thought how that last dose of
medicine, given as an experiment, and about which he had been so
doubtful, had really saved her life. She would have died without
it, he knew, just as Mrs. Matson, who inclined to homoeopathic
principles, knew her patient would have died if she had not slily
thrown it in the fire, substituting in its stead sweetened water
and pills of bread.
Victor and Nina, too, had their theory with regard to the real
cause of Edith's convalescence, but each kept his own counsel,
Victor saying to Richard when questioned as to whether he had read
the paper or not,
"No, Miss Nina keeps it clutched tightly in her hand, as if
suspecting my design."
In the course of the day, however, Nina relaxed her vigilance, and
Victor, who was sent up stairs with wood, saw the important
document lying upon the hearth rug, where Nina had unconsciously
dropped it.
"It's safer with me," he thought, and picking it up, he carried it
to his own apartment, locking it in his trunk where he knew no
curious eyes would ever find it.
In her delight at Edith's visible improvement, Nina forgot the
paper for a day or two, and when at last she did remember it,
making anxious inquiries for it, Mrs. Matson, who was not the
greatest stickler for the truth, pacified her by saying she had
burned up a quantity of waste papers scattered on the floor, and
presumed this was among them. As Nina cared for nothing save to
keep the SCRATCHING OUT from every one except those whom it
directly concerned, she dismissed the subject from her mind, and
devoted herself with fresh energy to Edith, who daily grew better.
She had not seen Arthur since that night in the Deering Woods,
neither did she wish to see him. She did not love him now, she
said; the shock had been so great as to destroy the root of her
affections, and no excuse he could offer her would in the least
palliate his sin. Edith was very harsh, very severe toward Arthur.
She should never go to Grassy Spring again, she thought; never
look upon his face unless he came to Collingwood, which she hoped
he would not do, for an interview could only be painful to them
both. She should tell him how deceived she was in him, and Edith's
cheeks grew red, and her eyes unusually bright, as she mentally
framed the speech she should make to Arthur St. Claire, if ever
they did meet. Her excitement was increasing, when Nina came in,
and tossing bonnet and shawl on the floor, threw herself upon the
foot of the bed, and began to cry, exclaiming between each sob,
"Nina can't go! Nina won't go, and leave you here alone! I told
him so the vile boy, but he wouldn't listen, and Soph is packing
my trunks. Oh, Miggie, Miggie! how can I go without you? I shall
tear again, and be as bad as ever."
"What do you mean?" asked Edith, "Where are you going, and why?"
Drying her tears, Nina, in her peculiar way, related how "Arthur
wouldn't believe it was scratched out; Richard couldn't do such a
thing, he said; nobody could do it, but a divorce, and Arthur
wouldn't submit to that. He loves me better, than he used to do,"
she said; "and he talked a heap about how he'd fix up Sunny Bank.
Then he asked me how I liked the name of Nina St. Claire. _I_ HATE
IT!" and the blue eyes flashed as Edith had never seen them flash
before. "I won't be his wife! I'd forgotten all what it was that
happened that night until he told it to you in the woods. Then it
came back to me, and I remembered how we went to Richard, because
he was most blind, and did not often come to Geneva. That was
Sarah Warren's plan I believe, but my head has ached and whirled
so since that I most forget. Only this I know, nothing ever came
of it; and over the sea I loved Charlie Hudson, and didn't love
Arthur. But, Miggie he's been so good to me so like my mother.
He's held me in his arms a heap of nights when the fire was in my
brain; and once, Miggie, he held me so long, and I tore so
awfully, that he fainted, and Dr. Griswold cried, and said, 'Poor
Arthur; poor boy!' That's when _I_ BIT HIM!--bit Arthur, Miggie,
right on his arm, because he wouldn't let me pull his hair. Dr.
Griswold shook me mighty hard, but Arthur never said a word. He
only looked at me so sorry, so grieved like, that I came out of my
tantrum, and kissed the place. I've kissed it ever so many times
since then, and Arthur knows I'm sorry. I ain't a fit wife for
him. I don't blame him for wanting you. I can't see the WRONG, but
it's because I'm so thick-headed, I suppose! I wish I wasn't!" And
fixing her gaze upon the window opposite, Nina seemed to be living
over the past, and trying to arrange the events of her life in
some clear, tangible form.
Gradually as she talked Edith had softened toward Arthur--poor
Arthur, who had borne so much. She might, perhaps, forgive him,
but to FORGET was impossible. She had suffered too much at his
hands for that, and uttering a faint moan as she thought how all
her hopes of happiness were blasted, she turned on her pillow just
as Nina, coming out of her abstracted fit, said to her,
"Did I tell you we are going to Florida--Arthur and I--going back
to our old home, in two or three days, Arthur says it is better
so. Old scenes may cure me."
Alas, for poor human nature. Why did Edith's heart throb so
painfully, as she thought of Nina cured, and taken to Arthur's
bosom as his wife. She knew SHE could not be that wife, and only
half an hour before she had said within herself, "_I_ HATE HIM."
Now, however, she was conscious of a strong unwillingness to yield
to another the love lost to her forever, and covering her head
with the sheet, she wept to think how desolate her life would be
when she knew that far away, in the land of flowers, Arthur was
learning to forget her and bestowing his affection upon restored,
rational Nina.
"Why do you cry?" asked Nina, whose quick ear detected the stifled
sobs. "Is it because we are going? I told him you would, when he
bade me come and ask if you would see him before he goes."
"Did he--did he send me that message?" and the Edith, who wouldn't
for the world meet Arthur St. Claire again, uncovered her face
eagerly. "Tell him to come to-morrow at ten o'clock. I am the
strongest then; and Nina, will you care if I ask you to stay away?
I'd rather see him alone."
Edith's voice faltered as she made this request, but Nina received
it in perfect good faith, answering that she would remain at home.
"I must go now," she added. "He's waiting for me, and I do so hope
you'll coax him to stay here. I hate old Florida."
Edith however felt that it was better for them both to part. She
had caught a glimpse of her own heart, and knew that its bleeding
fibres still clung to him, and still would cling till time and
absence had healed the wound.
"I will be very cold and indifferent to-morrow," she said to
herself, when after Nina's departure, she lay, anticipating the
dreaded meeting and working herself up to such a pitch of
excitement that the physician declared her symptoms worse, asking
who had been there, and saying no one must see her, save the
family, for several days.
The doctor's word was law at Collingwood, and with sinking spirits
Edith heard Richard in the hall without, bidding Mrs. Matson keep
every body from the sick room for a week. Even Nina was not to be
admitted, for it was clearly proved that her last visit had made
Edith worse. What should she do? Arthur would be gone ere the week
went by, and she MUST see him. Suddenly Victor came into her mind.
She could trust him to manage it, and when that night, while Mrs.
Matson was at her tea he came up as usual with wood, she said to
him, "Victor, shut the door so no one can hear, and then come
close to me."
He obeyed, and standing by her bedside waited for her to speak.
"Victor, Mr. St. Claire is going to Florida in a day or two. I've
promised to see him to-morrow at ten o'clock, and Richard says no
one can come in here, but I must bid Arthur good-bye and Nina,
too. Can't you manage it, Victor?"
"Certainly," returned Victor, who, better than any one else knew
his own power over his master. "You shall see Mr. St. Claire, and
see him alone."
Victor had not promised more than be felt able to perform, and
when at precisely ten o'clock next day the door bell rang, he
hastened to answer the summons, admitting Arthur, as he had
expected.
"I called to see Miss Hastings," said Arthur, "I start for Florida
to-morrow, and would bid her good-bye."
Showing him into the parlor, Victor sought Richard's presence, and
by a few masterly strokes of policy and well-worded arguments,
obtained his consent for Arthur to see Edith just a few moments.
"It was too bad to send him away without even a good-bye, when she
had esteemed him so highly as a teacher," Richard said,
unwittingly repeating Victor's very words--that a refusal would do
her more injury than his seeing her could possibly do. "I'll go
with him. Where is he?" he asked, rising to his feet.
"Now, I wouldn't if I was you. Let him talk with her alone. Two
excite her a great deal more than one, and he may wish to say some
things concerning Nina which he does not care for any one else to
hear. There is a mystery about HER, you know."
Richard did not know, but he suffered himself to be persuaded, and
Victor returned to Arthur, whom be conducted in triumph to the
door of Edith's chamber. She heard his well known step. She knew
that he was coming, and the crimson spots upon her cheeks told how
much she was excited. Arthur did not offer to caress her--he dared
not do that now--but be knelt by her side, and burying his face in
her pillow, said to her,
"I have come for your forgiveness, Edith. I could not go without
it. Say that I am forgiven, and it will not be so hard to bid you
farewell forever."
Edith meant to be very cold, but her voice was choked as she
replied,
"I can forgive you, Arthur, but to forget is harder far. And still
even that might be possible were I the only one whom you have
wronged; but Nina--how could you prove so faithless to your
marriage vow?"
"Edith," and Arthur spoke almost sternly. "You would not have me
live with Nina as she is now."
"No, no," she moaned, "not as she is now, but years ago. Why
didn't you acknowledge her as your wife, making the best of your
misfortune. People would have pitied you so much, and I--oh,
Arthur, the world would not then have been so dark, so dreary for
me. Why did you deceive me, Arthur? It makes my heart ache so
hard."
"Oh, Edith, Edith, you drive me mad," and Arthur took in his the
hand which all the time had unconsciously been creeping toward
him. "I was a boy, a mere boy, and Nina was a little girl. We
thought it would be romantic, and were greatly influenced by
Nina's room-mate, who planned the whole affair. I told you once
how Nina wept, pleading with her father to let her stay in Geneva,
but I have not told you that she begged of me to tell him all,
while I unhesitatingly refused. I knew expulsion from College
would surely be the result, and I was far too ambitious to submit
to this degradation when it could be avoided. You know of the
gradual change in our feelings for each other, know what followed
her coming home, and you can perhaps understand how I grew so
morbidly sensitive to anything concerning her, and so desirous to
conceal my marriage from every one. This, of course, prompted me
to keep her existence a secret as long as possible, and, in my
efforts to do so, I can see now that I oftentimes acted the part
of a fool. If I could live over the past again I would proclaim
from the housetops that Nina was my wife. I love her with a
different love since I told you all. She is growing fast into my
heart, and I have hopes that a sight of her old home, together
with the effects of her native air, will do her good. Griswold
always said it would, and preposterous as it seems, I have even
dared to dream of a future, when Nina will be in a great measure
restored to reason."
"If she does, Arthur, what then?" and, in her excitement, Edith
raised herself in bed, and sat looking at him with eyes which grew
each moment rounder, blacker, brighter, but had in them, alas, no
expression of joy; and when in answer to her appeal, Arthur said,
"I shall make her my wife," she fell back upon her pillow,
uttering a moaning cry, which to the startled Arthur sounded like,
"No, no! no, no! not your wife."
"Edith," and rising to his feet Arthur stood with folded arms,
gazing pityingly upon her, himself now the stronger of the two.
"Edith, you, of all others, must not tempt me to fall. You surely
will counsel me to do right! Help me! oh, help me! I am so weak,
and I feel my good resolutions all giving way at sight of your
distress! If it will take one iota from your pain to know that
Nina shall never be my acknowledged wife, save as she is now, I
will swear to you that, were her reason ten times restored, she
shall not; But, Edith, don't, don't make me swear it. I am lost,
lost if you do. Help me to do right, won't you, Edith?"
He knelt beside her again, pleading with her not to tempt him from
the path in which he was beginning to walk; and Edith, as she
listened, felt the last link, which bound her to him, snapping
asunder. For a moment she HAD wavered; had shrank from the thought
that any other could ever stand to him in the relation she once
had hoped to stand; but that weakness was over, and while chiding
herself for it, she hastened to make amends.
Turning her face toward him, and laying both her hands on his
bowed head, she said,
"May the Good Father bless you, Arthur, even as you prove true to
Nina. I have loved you, more than you will ever know, or I can
ever tell, and my poor, bruised heart clings to you still with a
mighty grasp. It is so hard to give you up, but it is right. I
shall think of you often in your beautiful Southern home, praying
always that God will bless you and forgive you at the last, even
as I forgive you. And now farewell, MY Arthur, I once fondly hoped
to call you, but mine no longer--NINA'S Arthur--go."
She made a gesture for him to leave her, but did not unclose her
eyes. She could not look upon him, find know it was the last, last
time, but she offered no remonstrance when he left, upon her lips
a kiss so full of hopeless and yearning tenderness that it burned
there many a day after he was gone. She heard him turn away, heard
him cross the floor, knew he paused upon the threshold, and still
her eye-lids never opened, though the hot tears rained over her
face in torrents.
"The sweetest joy I have ever known was my love for you, Edith
Hastings," he whispered, and then the door was closed between
them.
Down the winding stairs he went, Edith counting every step, for
until all sound of him had ceased she could not feel that they
were parted forever. The sounds did cease at last, he had bidden
Richard a calm good-bye, had said good-bye to Victor, and now he
was going from the house. He would soon be out of sight, and with
an intense desire to stamp his image upon her mind just as he was
now, the changed, repentant Arthur, Edith arose, and tottering to
the window, looked after him, through blinding tears, as he passed
slowly from her sight, and then crawling, rather than walking back
to her bed, she wept herself to sleep.
It was a heavy, unnatural slumber, and when she awoke from it, the
fever returned with redoubted violence, bringing her a second time
so near the gates of death that Arthur St. Claire deferred his
departure for several days, and Nina became again the nurse of the
sick room. But all in vain were her soft caresses and words of
love. Edith was unconscious of everything, and did not even know
when Nina's farewell kiss was pressed upon her lips and Nina's
gentle hands smoothed her hair for the last time. A vague
remembrance she had of an angel flitting around the room, a
bright-haired seraph, who held her up from sinking in the deep,
dark river, pointing to the friendly shore where life and safety
lay, and this was all she knew of a parting which had wrung tears
from every one who witnessed it, for there was something
wonderfully touching in the way the crazy Nina bade adieu to
"Miggie," lamenting that she must leave her amid the cold northern
hills, and bidding her come to the southland, where the magnolias
were growing and flowers were blossoming all the day long. Seizing
the scissors, which lay upon the stand, she severed one of her
golden curls, and placing it on Edith's pillow, glided from the
room, followed by the blessing of those who had learned to love
the beautiful little girl as such as she deserved to be loved.
* * * * * *
One by one the grey December days went by, and Christmas fires
were kindled on many a festal hearth. Then the New Year dawned
upon the world, and still the thick, dark curtains shaded the
windows of Edith's room. But there came a day at last, a pleasant
January day, when the curtains were removed, the blinds thrown
open, and the warm sunlight came in shining upon Edith, a
convalescent. Very frail and beautiful she looked in her crimson
dressing gown, and her little foot sat loosely in the satin
slipper, Grace Atherton's Christmas gift. The rich lace frill
encircling her throat was fastened with a locket pin of
exquisitely wrought gold, in which was encased a curl of soft,
yellow hair, Nina's hair, a part of the tress left on Edith's
pillow. This was Richard's idea,--Richard's New Year's gift to his
darling; but Richard was not there to share in the general joy.
Just across the hall, in a chamber darkened as hers had been, he
was lying now, worn out with constant anxiety and watching. When
Nina left, his prop was gone, and the fever which had lain in wait
for him so long, kindled within his veins a fire like to that
which had burned in Edith's, but his strong, muscular frame met it
fiercely, and the danger had been comparatively slight.
All this Grace told to Edith on that morning when she was first
suffered to sit up, and asked why Richard did not come to share
her happiness, for in spite of one's mental state, the first
feeling of returning health is one of joy. Edith felt it as such
even though her heart was so sore that every beat was painful. She
longed to speak of Grassy Spring, but would not trust herself
until Victor, reading her feelings aright, said to her with an
assumed indifference, "Mr. St. Claire's house is shut up, all but
the kitchen and the negro apartments. They are there yet, doing
nothing and having a good time generally."
"And I have had a letter from Arthur," chimed in Mrs. Atherton,
while the eyes resting on Victor's face turned quickly to hers.
"They reached Sunny Bank in safety, he and Nina, and Soph."
"And Nina," Edith asked faintly, "how is she?"
"Improving, Arthur thinks, though she misses you very much."
Edith drew a long, deep sigh, and when next she spoke, she said,
"Take me to the window, please, I want to see the country."
In an instant, Victor, who knew well what she wanted, took her in
his arms, and carrying her to the window, set her down in the
chair which Grace brought for her; then, as if actuated by the
same impulse, both left her and returned to the fire, while she
looked across the snow-clad fields to where Grassy Spring reared
its massive walls, now basking in the winter sun. It was a
mournful pleasure to gaze at that lonely building, with its barred
doors, its closed shutters, and the numerous other tokens it gave
of being nearly deserted. There was no smoke curling from the
chimneys, no friendly door opened wide, no sweet young face
peering from the iron lattice of the Den, no Arthur, no Nina
there. Nothing but piles of snow upon the roof, snow upon the
window-sills, snow upon the doorsteps, snow upon the untrodden
walk, snow on the leafless elms, standing there so bleak and
brown. Snow everywhere, as cold, as desolate as Edith's heart, and
she bade Victor take her back again to the warm grate where she
might perhaps forget how gloomy and sad, and silent, was Grassy
Spring.
"Did I say anything when I was delirious--anything I ought not to
have said?" she suddenly asked of Grace; and Victor, as if she had
questioned him, answered quickly,
"Nothing, nothing--all is safe."
Like a flash of lightning, Grace Atherton's eyes turned upon him,
while he, guessing her suspicions, returned her glance with one as
strangely inquisitive as her own.
"Mon Dieu! I verily believe she knows," he muttered, as he left
the room, and repairing to his own, dived to the bottom of his
trunk, to make sure that he still held in his possession the paper
on which it had been "scratched out."
That night as Grace Atherton took her leave of Edith, she bent
over the young girl, and whispered in her ear,
"I know it all. Arthur told me the night before he left. God pity
you, Edith! God pity you!"