PARTING WITH THE DEAD, AND PARTING WITH THE LIVING.
Softly the morning broke and the raindrops glittered like diamonds
in the rising sun, whose rays fell mockingly upon desolate
Sunnybank, where the howling of the blacks mingled with the sobs
of those more nearly bereaved. Very troublesome had the beautiful
departed been in life; none knew how troublesome one-half so well
as Arthur, and yet of all the weeping band who gathered around her
bed, none mourned her more truly than did he who had been her
husband in name for eleven years. Eleven years! How short they
seemed, looked back upon, and how much sorrow they had brought
him. But this was all forgotten, and in his heart there was naught
save tender love for the little maiden now forever at rest.
All the day he sat by her, and both Edith and Victor felt that it
was not the mere semblance of grief he wore, while others of the
household, who knew nothing of his past in connection with Edith,
said to each other, "It is strange he should love her so well when
she was so much care to him."
They did not know it was this very care for her; this bearing with
her which made her so dear to him, and as the mother longs for and
wishes back the unfortunate but beloved child which made her life
so wearisome so Arthur mourned and wept for Nina, thanking God one
moment that her poor, pain-worn head was at rest, and again
murmuring to himself, "I would that I had her back again."
He scarcely spoke to Edith, although he knew whenever her
footsteps crossed the threshold of the darkened room; knew when
she bent over Nina; heard the kisses she pressed on the cold lips;
and even watched until it was dry the tear she once left on Nina's
cheek, but he held no communication with her, and she was left to
battle with her grief alone. Once, indeed, she went to him and
asked what Nina should be buried in, and this for a time roused
him from his apathetic grief.
"Nina must be buried in white," he said; "she looked the best in
that; and, Edith, I would have her curls cut off, all but those
that shade her face. You have arranged them every day. Will you do
so once more if I will hold her up?"
Edith would rather the task had devolved upon some one else, but
she offered no objection, though her tears fell like rain when she
brought the curling-stick and brush and began to separate the
tangled locks, while Arthur encircled the rigid form with his arm,
as carefully as if she still were living, watching her with
apparent interest as she twined about her fingers the golden hair.
But when, at last, she held the scissors which were to sever those
bright tresses, his fortitude all gave way, for he remembered
another time when he had held poor Nina, not as he held her now,
but with a stronger, firmer grasp, while, by rougher hands than
Edith's, those locks were shorn away. Groan after groan came from
his broad chest, and his tears moistened the long ringlets he so
lovingly caressed.
"You may cut them now," he said at last, holding his breath as if
the sharp steel were cutting into his heart's core, as, one by
one, the yellowish curls were severed, and dropped, some into
Edith's lap, while others, lodging upon his fingers, curled about
them with a seemingly human touch, making him moan bitterly, as he
pressed them to his lips, and then shook them gently off.
Nina's hair, like her sister's, had been her crowning glory--so
thick, so wavy, so luxuriant it was; and when the task was done,
and the tresses divided, five heavy curls were Arthur's and five
more were Edith's.
"Where shall I put yours?" Edith asked, and for a moment Arthur
did not answer.
In a rosewood box, into which he had not looked for years, there
was a mass of longer, paler, more uneven curls than these, but
Arthur would not distress Edith by telling her about them, and he
replied, at last, "I will put them away, myself." Then taking them
from her and going to his own private chamber, he opened the box
and dropped them in, weeping when he saw how strongly they
contrasted with the other faded crazy curls, as he called them.
In a plain white muslin, which had been made for Nina at Grassy
Spring, they arrayed her for the coffin, the soft, rich lace
encircling her throat and falling about her slender arms folded so
meekly together. Flowers were twined about her head--flowers were
on her pillow--flowers in her hands--flowers upon her bosom--
flowers of purest white, and meet emblems of the sweet young girl,
whose features, to the last, retained the same childlike, peaceful
expression which had settled upon them when she called back to
Arthur, "Climb up the bank. I'm most across."
The day of her burial was balmy and warm, and the southern wind
blew softly across the fields as the weeping band followed the
lost one across the threshold and laid her away where the flowers
of spring would blossom above her little grave. Very lonely and
desolate seemed the house when the funeral train returned to it,
and the lamentations of the blacks broke out afresh as they began
to realize that their young mistress was really gone, and
henceforth another must fill her place. Would it be Arthur or
would it be the queenly Edith, whose regal beauty had captivated
all their hearts? Assembled in the kitchen they discussed this
question, giving to neither the preference, for though they had
tried Arthur and found him a kind and humane master, they felt
that after Nina, Edith had the right. Then, as other than blacks
will do, they speculated upon the future, wondering why both
Arthur and Edith could not rule jointly over them; they would like
that vastly, and had nearly decided that it would be, when Victor,
who was with them, tore down their castle by telling them that
Edith was already engaged to some one else. This changed the
channel of conversation, and Victor left them wondering still what
the future would bring.
Slowly the evening passed, in kitchen and in parlor and only those
who have felt it can tell the unspeakable loneliness of that first
evening after the burial of the dead. Several times Arthur started
as if he would go to the bed standing empty in the corner, while
Edith, too, fancied that she heard the name "Miggie," spoken as
only Nina could speak it. Then came a feeling of desolation as the
thought was forced upon them, "She is gone;" and as the days went
on till three suns had risen on her grave, the loneliness
increased until Edith could bear it no longer, and to Victor she
said, "We will go back to Richard, who is waiting so anxiously for
us."
Everything which Arthur could do he did to reinstate Edith in her
rights. Not one dollar of the Bernard estate had he ever spent for
himself and very little for Nina, preferring to care for her out
of his own resources and thus the property had increased so
rapidly that Edith was richer than her wildest hopes. But not one
feather did this weigh with her, and on the day when matters were
arranged, she refused to do or say anything about it, persisting
so obstinately in her refusal, that the servants whispered slily
to each other, "That's a heap of old marster's grit thar."
For a time Arthur coaxed and reasoned with her; then finding that
this did not avail, he changed the mode of treatment, and, placing
a chair by his own, said to her commandingly, "Edith, sit here!"
and she sat there, for there was that in Arthur's sternness which
always enforced obedience.
"It cannot be more unpleasant for you than for me, but it is
necessary," he said to her, in a low tone, as she sank into her
seat, and ashamed of her willfulness, Edith whispered back, "I am
sorry I behaved so like a child. Forgive me won't you?"
Still it grated harshly, this being compelled to listen while the
lawyer, summoned by Arthur, talked to her of lands and mortgages,
of bank stock, and, lastly, of the negroes. Would she have them
sold, or what? Then Edith roused from her apathy. Nina had
entrusted them to her, and she would care for them. They should
not be sold, and so she said; they should still live at Sunnybank,
having free papers made out in case of accident to herself, or, if
they preferred, they should go with her at once to Collingwood,
and Sunnybank to be sold.
"Oh, Heavens!" exclaimed Victor, who had stationed himself behind
Edith. "Forty niggers at Collingwood! Mr. Harrington never would
stand that. Leave them here."
Arthur smiled at the Frenchman's evident distress, while Edith
made a gesture that Victor should be still, and then continued,
"It may be better to leave them here for a time at least, and Mr.
Harrington shall decide upon their future home."
She said this naturally, and as a matter of course, but her heart
leaped to her throat when she saw the pallor which for an instant
overspread Arthur's face at her allusion to one who would soon
have the right to rule her and hers.
"Is Mr. Harrington your guardian, Miss Bernard?" the lawyer asked,
and ere Edith could reply, Arthur answered for her, "He is to be
her husband."
The lawyer bowed and went on with his writing, all unconscious of
the wounds his question had tore open, leaving them to bleed
afresh as both Arthur and Edith assumed a mask of studied
indifference, never looking at or addressing each other again
while that painful interview lasted. It was over at length, and
the lawyer gone. Matters were adjusted as well they could be at
present. The negroes were to remain at Sunnybank under charge of
an overseer as usual, while Arthur was to stay there, too, until
he decided upon his future course. This was his own proposition,
and Edith acceded to it joyfully. There were no sweet home
associations, connected in her mind with Sunnybank, it is true,
for she was too young when she left it to retain more than a dim,
shadowy remembrance of a few scenes and places; but it had been
Nina's home; there she was born, there she had lived, there she
had died, and Edith felt that it would not be one half so dreary
looked back upon, if Arthur would stay there always.
"Why can't you?" she asked of him when in the evening she sat with
him in the rather gloomy parlor. "I'll make you my agent in
general, giving you permission to do whatever you please, or would
you rather live at Grassy Spring?"
"Anywhere but there," was Arthur's quick response, "I shall sell
Grassy Spring and go abroad. I shall be happier so. I have never
known the comfort of a home for any length of time, and it does
not matter where I am. My mother, as Grace may have told you, was
a gay, fashionable woman, and after the period of mourning had
expired, I only remember her resplendent in satin and diamonds,
kissing me good-night ere her departure for some grand party.
Then, when I was eight years old, she, too, died, leaving me to
the care of a guardian. Thus, you see, I have no pleasant memories
of a home, and the cafes of Paris will suit me as well as
anything, perhaps. Once I hoped for something better, but that is
over now, Nina is dead, while you, on whom, as my wife's sister, I
have some claim, will soon be gone from here and I shall be alone.
I shall sell Grassy Spring,--shall place the negroes there in your
keeping, and then next spring leave the country, never to return,
it may be."
He ceased speaking, and there was a silence in the room which
Edith could not break. Arthur had told her frankly of his intended
future, but she could not speak of hers--could not tell him that
Collingwood's doors were ever open to him--that she would be his
sister in very deed--that Richard would welcome him as a brother
for her sake, and that the time might come when they could be
happy thus. All this passed through her mind, but not a word of it
escaped her lips, lest by doing so she would betray her real
feelings. Arthur did not seem to her now as he had done a few days
previous; their relations to each other had changed, and were
there no Richard, it would not be wicked to love him now. Nina was
gone; the past was more than atoned for; the marble, at first
unsightly to some degree, had been hewn and polished, and though
the blows had each struck deep, they wrought in Arthur St. Claire
a perfect work. Ennobled, subdued, and purified, he was every way
desirable, both as brother, friend, and husband, but he was not
for her, and the consciousness that it was so, palsied her powers
of speech.
Wishing to say something to break the awkward silence, Arthur
asked at last, if it were true, as Victor had said, that she
intended starting for Collingwood the day after to-morrow, and
then she burst into tears, but made him no reply, only passionate
sobs which smote cruelly upon his heart, for well he guessed their
meaning. He could read Edith Hastings aright--could fathom her
utmost thoughts, find he knew how she shrank from the future
dreading a return to Collingwood, and what awaited her there. He
knew, too, that but a few words from himself were needed to keep
her at Sunnybank with him forever. Others might be powerless to
influence her decision, but he was not; he could change her whole
future life by whispering in her ear, "Stay with me, Edith; don't
go back," but the Arthur of to-day was stronger than the Arthur of
one year ago, and though the temptation was a terrible one, he met
it bravely, and would not deal thus treacherously with Richard,
who had so generously trusted her with him. Edith must keep her
vow, and when at last he spoke, it was to say something of the
journey, as if that had all the time been uppermost in his mind.
"He does not love me any more, and I don't care," was Edith's
mental comment, as she soon after left him and hurried to her
room, where she wept herself to sleep, never suspecting how long
and dreary was that night to the young man whose eyelids never for
a moment closed, and who, as the day was breaking, stole out to
Nina's grave, finding there a peace which kept his soul from
fainting.
At the breakfast table he was the same easy, elegant, attentive
host he always was in his own house, conversing pleasantly upon
indifferent topics, but he could not look at her now, on this her
last day with him; could not endure to hear her voice, and he
avoided her presence, seeing as little of her as possible, and
retiring unusually early, even though he read in her speaking eyes
a wish that he would tarry longer.
The next morning, however, he knew the instant she was astir,
listening eagerly to the sound of her footsteps as she made her
hasty toilet, and watching her from his window as she went to
Nina's grave, sobbing out her sad farewell to the loved dead. He
saw her, too, as she came back to the house, and then with a
beating heart went down to meet her.
The breakfast was scarcely touched, and the moment it was over
Edith hurried to her chamber, for it was nearly time to go. The
trunks were brought down--Edith's and Marie's--for the latter was
to live henceforth with her young mistress; the servants had
crowded to the door, bidding their mistress good bye, and then it
was Arthur's turn. Oh, who shall tell of the tempest which raged
within as he held for a moment her soft, white hand in his and
looked into the face which, ere he saw it again, might lose its
girlish charm for him, inasmuch as a husband's kisses would have
been showered upon it. Many times he attempted to speak, but could
not, and pressing his lips to hers, he hastened away, going
straight to Nina's grave which had become to him of late a Bethel.
Scarcely was he gone, when Tom, the driver, announced that
something was the matter with the harness, and by this delay,
Edith gained a few moments, which she resolved to spend with Nina.
She did not know that Arthur, too, was there, until she came close
upon him as he bent over the little mound. He heard her step, and
turning toward her, and, half bitterly, "Edith, why will you tempt
me so?"
"Oh, Arthur, don't," and with a piteous cry Edith sank at his
feet, and laying her face on Nina's grave, sobbed out, "I did not
know that you were here, but I am so glad that you are, for I
cannot be without your blessing, you must tell me I am doing
right, or I shall surely die. The world is so dark--so dark."
Arthur had been tempted before--sorely, terribly tempted--but
never like this, and recoiling a pace or two, he stood with the
dead Nina between himself and she weeping heavily, while the wild
thought swept over him, "Is it right that I should fiend her away?
" but over her an instant, and stretching his hand across the
grave, he laid it on the head of the kneeling girl, giving her the
blessing she so much craved, and then bidding her leave him.
"They are calling to you," he added, as he heard Victor's voice in
the distance, and struggling to her feet, Edith started to go, but
forgetting all sense of propriety in that dreadful parting, she
turned to him again and said,
"I am going, Arthur, but I must ask one question. It will make my
future brighter if I know you love me still, be it ever so little.
Do you, Arthur, and when you know I am Richard's wife will you
think of me sometimes, and pity me, too? I shall need it so much!"
Arthur had not expected this, and he reeled as if smitten with a
heavy blow. Leaning for support against Petrea's monument, whence
Miggie's name had been effaced, he gasped:
"God help me, Edith! You should have spared me this. Do I love
you? Oh Edith, alas, alas! Here with Nina, whom, Heaven is my
witness, I did love truly at the last--here with her, I say, lying
dead between us, I swear to you that never was maiden loved as I
this moment love you; but I cannot make you mine. I dare not prove
thus treacherous to Richard, who trusted you with me, and, Edith,
you can be happy with him, and you will. You must forget that I
ever crossed your path, thinking of me only as one who was your
sister's husband. And God will give you strength to do this if you
ask it of him aright I shall not forgot you, Edith. That cannot
be. Across the sea, wherever I may be, I shall remember you,
enshrining your memory in my heart, together with Nina, whom I so
much wish I had loved earlier, and so have saved us both from
pain. And now go--go back to Collingwood, and keep your vow to
Richard. He is one of God's noblest works, an almost perfect man.
You will learn to love him. You will be happy. Do not write to me
till it is over, then send your cards, and I shall know 'tis done.
Farewell, my sister--farewell forever."
Without a word of reply Edith moved away, nor cast a backward
glance at the faint, sick man, who leaned his burning forehead
against the gleaming marble; while drop after drop of perspiration
fell upon the ground, but brought him no relief. He heard the
carriage wheels as they rolled from the door, and the sound seemed
grinding his life to atoms, for by that token he knew that Edith
was gone--that to him there was nothing left save the little mound
at his feet and the memory of his broken lily who slept beneath
it. How he wanted her now--wanted his childish Nina--his fair
girl-wife, to comfort him. But it could not be, Nina was dead--her
sweet, bird-like voice was hushed; it would never meet his
listening ear again, and for him there was nothing left, save the
wailing wind to whisper sadly to him as she was wont to do, "Poor
Arthur boy, poor Arthur boy."