University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
ARTHUR'S STORY.

“I must commence at the beginning,” he said, “and
tell you first of Nina's father — Ernest Bernard, of Florida.
I was a lad of fourteen when I met him in Richmond,
Virginia, which you know was my former home.
He was spending a few weeks there, and dined one day
with my guardian, with whom I was then living. I did
not fancy him at all. He seemed even to me, a boy, like
a bad, unprincipled man, and I afterward learned that
such had been his former character, though at the time I
knew him he had reformed in a great measure. He was
very kind indeed to me, and as I became better acquainted
with him my prejudices gradually wore away, until at
last I liked him very much, and used to listen with delight
to the stories he told of his Florida home, and of his
little, golden-haired Nina, always finishing his remarks
concerning her with, `But you can't have her, boy. Nobody
can marry Nina. Had little Miggie lived you might,
perhaps, have been my son-in-law, but you can't as 'tis, for
Nina will never marry.”'

“No, Nina can never marry;” and the golden curls
shook decidedly, as the Nina in question repeated the
words, “Miggie can marry Arthur, but not Nina, no —
no!”

Edith blushed painfully, and averted her eyes, while
Arthur continued:

“During Mr. Bernard's stay in Richmond he was attacked

with that loathsome disease the small pox, and
deserted by all his friends, was in a most deplorable
condition, when I, who had had the varioloid, begged and
obtained permission to nurse him, which I did as well as
I was able, staying by him until the danger was over.
How far I was instrumental to his recovery I cannot say.
He professed to think I saved his life, and was profuse in
his protestations of gratitude. He was very impulsive,
and conceived for me a friendship which ended only with
his death. At all events he proved as much by the great
trust eventually reposed in me,” and he nodded toward
Nina, who having tired of the buttons and the chain, was
busy now with the bunch of keys she had purloined from
his pocket.

“I was in delicate health,” said Arthur, “and as the
cold weather was coming on, he insisted upon taking me
home with him, and I accordingly accompanied him to
Florida — to Sunny-bank, his country seat. It was a
grand old place, shaded by magnolias and surrounded by
a profusion of vines and flowering shrubs, but the most
beautiful flower of all was Nina, then eleven years of
age.”

Nina knew that he was praising her — that Edith sanctioned
the praise, and with the same feeling the little child
experiences when told that it is good, she smiled upon
Arthur, who, smoothing her round white cheek, went on:

“My sweet Florida rose, I called her, and many a romping
frolic we had together during the winter months, and
many a serious talk, too, we had of her second mother;
her own she did not remember, and of her sister Miggie,
whose grave we often visited, strewing it with flowers
and watering it with tears, for Nina's affection for her lost
sister was so touching that I often wept with her over
Miggie's grave.”

“Miggie isn't dead,” said Nina. “She's here, ain't you
Miggie?” and she nestled closer to Edith, who was growing

strangely interested in that old house, shaded with
magnolias, and in the grave of that little child.

“I came home in the spring,” said Arthur, going on
with the story Nina had interrupted, “but I kept up a
boyish correspondence with Nina, though my affection for
her gradually weakened. After becoming a pupil in Geneva
Academy, I was exceedingly ambitious, and to stand
first in my class occupied more of my thoughts than Nina
Bernard. Still, when immediately after I entered Geneva
College as a sophomore, I learned that her father intended
sending her to the seminary in that village, I was glad,
and when I saw her again all my old affection for her
returned with ten-fold vigor, and the ardor of my passion
was greatly increased from the fact that other youths of
my age worshipped her too, toasting the Florida rose, and
quoting her on all occasions. Griswold was one of these.
Dr. Griswold. How deep his feelings were, I cannot tell.
I only know that he has never married, and he is three
years older than myself. We were room-mates in college,
and when he saw that Nina's preference was for me, he
acted the part of a noble, disinterested friend. Few know
Griswold as he is.”

Arthur paused, and Edith fancied he was living over
the past when Nina was not as she was now, but alas, he
was thinking what to tell her next. Up to this point he
had narrated the facts just as they had occurred, but he
could do so no longer. He must leave out now — evade,
go round the truth, and it was hard for him to do so.

“We were engaged,” he began at last. “I was eighteen,
she fifteen. But she looked quite as old as she does
now. Indeed, she was almost as far in advance of her
years as she is now behind them. Still we had no idea
of marriage until I had been graduated, although Nina's
confidential friend, who was quite romantic, suggested
that we should run away. But from this I shrank as a
most foolish act, which, if divulged, would result in my

being expelled, and this disgrace I could not endure. In
order, however, to make the matter sure, I wrote to her
father, asking for his daughter when I became of age.
Very impatiently I waited for his answer, which, when it
came, was a positive refusal, yet couched in language so
kind that none save a fool would have been angry.

“`Nina could not marry,' he said, `and I must break
the engagement at once. Sometime he would tell me
why, but not then — not till I was older.”'

“Accompanying this was a note to Nina, in which he
used rather severer terms, forbidding her to think of marriage,
and telling her he was coming immediately to take
her to Europe, whither he had long contemplated going.”

There was another pause, and a long blank was made
in the story, which Arthur at last resumed, as follows:

“He came for her sooner than we anticipated, following
close upon the receipt of his letter, and in spite of
Nina's tears took her with him to New York, from
whence early in May they started for Europe. That was
nine years ago next month, and during the vacation following
I came to Shannondale and saw you, Edith, while
you saw Nina's picture.”

Nina was apparently listening now, and turning to him
she said, “Tell her about the night when I stepped on
your back and so got out of the window.”

Arthur's face was crimson, but he answered laughingly
“I fear Miggie will not think us very dignified, if I tell
her of all our stolen interviews and the means used to
procure them.”

Taking a new toy from his pocket he gave it to Nina,
who, while examining it, forgot that night, and he went
on.

“I come now to the saddest part of my story. Nina
and I continued to write, for her father did not forbid
that, stipulating, however, that he should see the letters
which passed between us. He had placed her in a school

at Paris, where she remained until after I was graduated
and of age. Edith,” and Arthur's voice trembled, “I
was too much a boy to know the nature of my feelings
toward Nina when we were engaged, and as the time
wore on my love began to wane.”

Edith's heart beat more naturally now than it had before
since the narrative commenced, but she could not forbear
from saying to him, reproachfully, “Oh, Arthur.”

“It was wrong, I know,” he replied, “and I struggled
against it with all my strength, particularly when I heard
that she was coming home. Griswold knew everything,
and he suggested that a sight of her might awaken the
olden feeling, and with a feverish anxiety I waited in Boston
for the steamer which I supposed was to bring her
home. After many delays she came in a sailing vessel,
but came alone. Her father had died upon the voyage
and been buried in the sea, leaving her with no friend
save a Mr. Hudson, whose acquaintance they had made
in Paris.”

At the mention of Mr. Hudson the toy dropped from
Nina's fingers and the blue eyes flashed up into Edith's
face with a more rational expression than she had heretofore
observed in them.

“What is it, darling?” she asked, as she saw there was
something Nina would say.

The lip quivered like that of a grieved child, while
Nina answered softly, “I did love Charlie better than
Arthur, and it was so wicked.”

“Yes,” rejoined Arthur quickly, “Nina's love for me
had died away, and centered itself upon another. Charlie
Hudson had sought her for his wife, and while confessing
her love for him she insisted that she could not be his,
because she was bound to me. This, however, did not
prevent his seeking an interview with her father, who told
him frankly the terrible impediment to Nina's marriage with
any one. It was a crushing blow to young Hudson, but

he still clung to her with all a brother's devotion, soothing
her grief upon the sea, and caring for her tenderly until
Boston was reached, and he placed her in my hands, together
with a letter, which her father wrote a few days
before he died.”

“He's married now,” interrupted Nina. “Charlie's
married, but he came to see me once, down at the old
Asylum, and I saw him through the grates, for I was shut
up in a tantrum. He cried, Miggie, just as Arthur does
sometimes, and called me poor lost Nina. He held an
angel in his arms with blue eyes like mine, and he said
she was his child and Margaret's! Her name was Nina,
too. Wasn't it nice?” And she smiled upon Edith, who
involuntarily groaned as she thought how dreadful it must
have been for Mr. Hudson to gaze through iron bars upon
the wreck of his early love.

“Poor man,” she sighed, turning to Arthur. “Is he
happy with his Margaret!”

“He seems to be,” said Arthur. “People can outlive
their first affection, you know. He resides in New York
now, and is to all appearance a prosperous, happy man.
The curse has fallen alone on me, who alone deserve it.”

He spoke bitterly, and for a moment sat apparently
thinking; then, resuming his story, said,

“I did not open Mr. Bernard's letter until we reached
the Revere House, and I was alone in my room. Then I
broke the seal and read, while my blood curdled within
my veins and every hair pricked at its roots. The old
man knew he was about to die, and confessed to me in
part his manifold transgressions, particularly his inhuman
treatment of his last wife, the mother of little Miggie,
but as this cannot, of course, be interesting to you, I will
not repeat it.”

“Oh, do,” exclaimed Edith, feeling somehow that anything
concerning the mother of Miggie Bernard would
interest her.

“Well, then,” returned Arthur, “he did not tell me
all the circumstances of his marriage. I only know that
she was a foreigner and very beautiful — a governess, too,
I think in some German family, and that he married her
under an assumed name.”

“An assumed name!” Edith cried. “Why was that,
pray?”

“I hardly know,” returned Arthur, “but believe he
became in some way implicated in a fight or gambling
brawl in Paris, and being threatened with arrest took
another name than his own, and fled to Germany or Switzerland,
where he found his wife. They were married
privately, and after two or three years he brought her to
his Florida home, where his proud mother and maiden
sister affected to despise her because of her poverty.
He was at that time given to drinking, and almost every
day became beastly intoxicated, abusing his young wife
so shamefully that her life became intolerable, and at last
when he was once absent from home for a few weeks, the
resolved upon going back to Europe, and leaving him
forever. This plan she confided to a maid servant who
had accompanied her from England, a resolute, determined
woman, who arranged the whole so skillfully that no one
suspected their designs until they were far on their way
to New York. The old mother, who was then living,
would not suffer them to be pursued, and more than a
week went by ere Mr. Bernard learned what had occurred.
He followed them of course. He was man enough for
that, but falling in with some of his boon companions,
almost as soon as he reached the city, he drank so deeply
that for several days he was unable to search for them, and
in that time both his wife and Miggie died.”

“Oh, Mr. St. Claire,” and Edith's eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, both of them died,” he continued. “Mrs. Bernard's
health was greatly undermined by sorrow, and when
a prevailing epidemic fastened itself upon her, it found an

easy prey. The waiting-maid wrote immediately to
Florida, and her letter was sent back to Mr Bernard, who,
having become sobered, hastened at once to find her
place of abode. She was a very intelligent woman for
one of her class, and had taken the precaution to have
the remains of her late mistress and child deposited in
such a manner that they could easily be removed if Mr.
Bernard should so desire it. He did desire it, and the
bodies were taken undisturbed to Florida, where they now
rest quietly, side by side with the proud mother and sister,
since deceased. After this Mr. Bernard became a
changed and better man, weeping often over the fate of
his young girl-wife and his infant daughter, whom he
greatly loved. Other troubles he had, too, secret troubles
which he confided to me in the letter brought by Mr.
Hudson. After assuring me of his esteem and telling me
how much he should prefer me for his son-in-law to Charlie
Hudson, he added that in justice to us both he must
now speak of the horrible cloud hanging over his beautiful
Nina, and which was sure at last to envelop her in
darkness. You can guess it, Edith. You have guessed
it already — hereditary insanity — reaching far back into
the past, and with each successive generation developing
itself earlier and in a more violent form. He knew nothing
of it when he married Nina's mother, a famous New
Orleans belle, for her father purposely kept it from him,
hoping thus to get her off his hands ere the malady manifested
itself.

“In her case it came on with the birth of Nina, and
from that day to her death she was a raving, disgusting
maniac, as her mother and grandmother had been before
her. This was exceedingly mortifying to the proud Bernards,
negroes and all, and the utmost care was taken of
Nina, who, nevertheless, was too much like her mother
to hope for escape. There was the same peculiar look
in the eye — the same restless, nervous motions, and from

her babyhood up he knew his child was doomed to chains
straight jackets and narrow cells, while the man who
married her was doomed to a still more horrible fate.
These were his very words, and my heart stopped its
beating as I read, while I involuntarily thanked Heaven,
who had changed her feelings towards me. She told me
with many tears that she had ceased to love me, and asked
to be released from the fulfillment of her vow. I
knew then she would one day be just what she is, and did
not think it my duty to insist. But I did not forsake her,
though my affection for her then was more like a brother's
than a lover's. In his will, which was duly made
and witnessed, Mr. Bernard appointed me the guardian
of his child, empowering me to do for her as if she were
my sister, and bidding me when the calamity should overtake
her, care for her to the last.

“`They don't usually survive long,' he wrote, and he
made me his next heir after Nina's death. It was a great
charge for one just twenty-two, a young, helpless girl
and an immense fortune to look after; but Griswold,
my tried friend, came to my aid, and pointed out means
by which a large portion of the Bernard estate could be
turned into money, and thus save me much trouble. I
followed his advice, and the old homestead is all the landed
property there is for me to attend to now, and as this
is under the supervision of a competent overseer, it
gives me no uneasiness. I suggested to Nina that she
should accompany me to Florida soon after her arrival
in Boston, but she preferred remaining for a time in some
boarding school, and I made arrangements for her to be
received as a boarder in Charlestown Seminary, leaving
her there while I went South to transact business incumbent
upon me as her guardian.

“How it happened I never knew, but by some accident
her father's letter to me became mixed up with her papers,
and while I was gone she read it, learning for the

first time what the mystery was which hung over her
mother's fate, and also of the doom awaiting her. She
fainted, it was said, and during the illness which followed
raved in frantic fury, suffering no one to approach her save
Griswold, who, being at that time a physician in the Lunatic
Asylum at Worcester, hastened to her side, acquiring
over her a singular power. It is strange that in her
fits of violence she never speaks of me, nor yet of Charlie
Hudson. Indeed, the past seems all a blank to her, save
as she refers to it incidentally as she has to-day.”

“But did she stay crazy?” asked Edith.

“Not wholly so,” returned Arthur, “but from that
time her reason began to fail, until now she is hopelessly
insane, and has not known a rational moment for more
than three years.”

“Nor been home in all that time?” said Edith, while
Arthur replied,

“She would not go. She seemed to shrink from meeting
her former friends; and at last, acting upon Griswold's
advice, I placed her in the Asylum, going myself hither
and thither like a feather tossed about by the gale. Griswold
was my ballast, my polar star, and when he said to
me, buy a house and have a home, I answered that I
would; and when he told me of Grassy Spring, bidding
me purchase it, I did so, although I dreaded coming to
this neighborhood of all others. I had carefully kept
everything from Grace, who, while hearing that I was in
some way interested in a Florida estate, knew none of
the particulars, and I became morbidly jealous lest she or
any one else should hear of Nina's misfortune, or what
she was to me.

“It was a favorite idea of Griswold's that Nina might
be benefitted by a change of place, and when I first came
here I knew that she, too, would follow me in due time.
She has hitherto been subject to violent attacks of frenzy,
during which nothing within her reach was safe; and,

knowing this, Griswold advised me to prepare a room,
where, at such times, she could be kept by herself, for the
sight of people always made her worse. The Den, with
the large closet adjoining, was the result of this suggestion,
and as I have a great dread of neighborhood gossip,
I resolved to say nothing of her until compelled to do so
by her presence in the house. I fancied that Mrs. Johnson
was a discreet woman, and my purpose was to tell
her of Nina as soon as I was fairly settled; but she abused
her trust by letting Grace into the room. You refused
to enter, and my respect for you from that moment was
unbounded.”

She looked at him in much surprise, and he added,

“You wonder, I suppose, how I know this. I was
here at the time, was in the next room when you came
into the library to wait for Grace. I watched you through
the glass door, wondering who you were, until my cousin
appeared and I overheard the whole.”

“And that is why you chose me instead of Grace to
take charge of your keys,” interrupted Edith, beginning
to comprehend what had heretofore been strange to her.
“But, Mr. St. Claire, I don't understand it at all — don't
see why there was any need for so much secrecy. Supposing
you did dread neighborhood gossip, you could not
help being chosen Nina's guardian. She could not help
being crazy. Why not have told at once that there was
such a person under your charge? Wouldn't it have
been better? It was no disgrace to you that you have
kept the father's trust, and cared for his poor child,” and
she glanced lovingly at the pretty face nestled against
her arm, for Nina had fallen asleep.

Arthur did not answer immediately, and when he did,
his voice trembled with emotion.

“It would have been better,” he said; “but when she
first became insane, I shrank from having it generally
known, and the longer I hugged the secret the harder I

found it to divulge the whole. It would look queerly, I
thought, for a young man like me to be tramelled with a
crazy girl. Nobody would believe she was my ward, and
nothing more, and I became a sort of monomaniac upon
the subject. Had I never loved her — ” he paused, and
leaned his head upon his hands, while Edith, bending
upon him a most searching look, startled him with the
words, “Mr. St. Claire, you have not told me all. There
is something behind, something mightier than pride or a
dread of gossip.

“Yes, Edith, there is something behind, but I can't
tell you what it is, you of all others.”

He was pacing the floor hurriedly now, but stopped
suddenly, and standing before Edith, said: “Edith Hastings,
you are somewhat to blame in this matter. Before
I knew you I only shrank from having people talk of my
matters sooner than was absolutely necessary. But after
you became my pupil, the desire that you should never
see Nina as she is, grew into a species of madness, and I
have bent every energy to keeping you apart. I did not
listen to reason, which told me you must know of it
sooner or later, but plunged deeper and deeper into a
labyrinth of attempted concealment. When I found it
necessary to dismiss Mrs. Johnson, if I would keep my
affairs to myself, I thought of the old family servants at
Sunnybank. I knew they loved and pitied Nina, and
were very sensitive with regard to her misfortune. It
touches Phillis's pride to think her young mistress is
crazy, and as hers is the ruling mind, she keeps the others
in subjection, though old Judy came near disclosing the
whole to you at one time, I believe. You know her sad
story now, but you do not know how like an iron weight
it hangs upon me, crushing me to the earth, wearing my
life away, and making me old before my time. See here,”
and lifting his brown locks, he showed her many a line of
silver. “If I loved Nina Bernard, my burden would be
easier to bear.”

“Oh, Mr. St. Claire,” interrupted Edith, “You surely
do love her. You cannot help loving her, and she so
beautiful, so innocent.”

“Yes,” he answered, “as a brother loves an unfortunate
sister. I feel towards her, I think, as a mother does
towards a helpless child, a tender pity which prompts me
to bear with her even when she tries me almost beyond
endurance. She is not always as mild as you see her now,
though her frenzied moods do not occur as frequently as
they did. She loves me, I think, as an infant loves its
mother, and is better when I am with her. At all events,
since coming to Grassy Spring, she has been unusually
quiet, until within the last two weeks, when a nervous
fever has confined her to her room and made her somewhat
unmanagable. Griswold said she would be better
here, and though I had not much faith in the experiment,
I see now that he was right. Griswold is always right,
and had I followed his advice years ago, much of my
trouble might have been averted. Edith, never conceal a
single act, if you wish to be happy. A little fault, if
covered up, grows into a mountain; and the longer it is
hidden, the harder it is to be confessed. This is my
experience. There was a false step at first, and it lies too
far back in the past to be remedied now. No one knows
of it but myself, Griswold, Nina, and my God. Yes,
there is one more whose memory might be refreshed, but
I now have no fear of him.”

Edith did not ask who this other was, neither did she
dream that Richard Harrington was in any way connected
with the mystery. She thought of him, however,
wondering if she might tell him of Nina, and asking if
she could.

Arthur's face was very white, as he replied, “Tell him
if you like, or any one else. It is needless to keep it longer,
but, Edith, you'll come again, won't you? come to
see Nina if nothing more. I am glad you have seen her,
provided you do not desert me wholly.”

“Of course I shall not,” she said, as she laid the golden
head of the sleeping girl upon the cushion of the sofa,
preparatory to leaving, “I'll come again, and forgive you,
too, for anything you may have done, except a wrong to
her; and she carefully kissed the poor, crazy Nina.

Then, offering her hand to Arthur she tried to bid him
good-bye as of old, but he missed something in her manner,
and with feelings sadly depressed he watched her
from the window, as, assisted by Ike, she mounted her
pony and galloped swiftly away.

“She's lost to me forever, and there's nothing worth
living for now,” he said, just as a little hand pressed his
arm, and a sweet childish voice murmured, “Yes, there
is, Arthur. Live for Nina, poor Nina,” and the snowy
fingers, which, for a moment, had rested lightly on his
arm, began to play with the buttons of his coat, while the
soft blue eyes looked pleadingly into his.

“Yes, darling; he said, caressing her flowing curls, and
pushing them back from her forehead, “I will live for you,
hereafter. I will love no one else.”

“No one but Miggie. You may love her. You must
love her, Arthur. She's so beautiful, so grand, why has
she gone from Nina, I want her here, want her all the
time;” and Nina's mood began to change.

Tears filled her eyes, and burying her face in Arthur's
bosom she begged him to go after Miggie, to bring her
back and keep her there always, threatening that if he
did'nt “Nina would be bad.”

Tenderly, but firmly, as a parent soothes a refractory
child, did Arthur soothe the excitable Nina, telling her
Miggie should come again, or if she did not, they'd go up
and see her.