University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
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
homœopathic 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 wont 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 attering
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 he 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 he 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 he 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, and
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 redoubled 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
adien 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 Chistmas 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!”