University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
ARTHUR AND NINA.

It was rather late in the evening when Arthur returned,
looking more than usually pale and weary, and still there
was about him an air of playful pleasantry, such as there
used to be, when Edith first knew him. During the long
ride to Tallahassee, Victor, either from accident or design,
touched upon the expected marriage of his master, and
although Arthur would not ask a single question, he was
a deeply-interested auditor, and listened intently, while
Victor told him much which had transpired between himself
and Edith, saying that unless some influence stronger
than any he or Grace could exert were thrown around
her, she would keep her vow to Richard, even though she
died in keeping it.

“Girls like Edith Hastings do not die easily,” was Arthur's
only comment, and Victor half wished he had kept
his own counsel and never attempted to meddle in a love
affair.

But if Arthur said nothing, he thought the more, and
the warfare within was not the less severe, because his
face was so unruffled and his manner so composed.
Thought, intense and almost bewildering, was busy at
work, and ere the day was done, he had resolved that he
would help Edith if all else forsook her. He would not
throw one single obstacle across her pathway. He would
make the sacrifice easier for her, even if to do it, he suffered
her to think that his own love had waned. Nothing
could more effectually cure her, and believing that she
might be happy with Richard if she did not love another,
he determined to measure every word and act so as to
impress her with the conviction that though she was dear

to him as a sister and friend, he had struggled with his
affection for her and overcome it. It would be a living
death to do this, he knew — to act so contrary to what he
felt, but it was meet that he should suffer, and when at
last he was left alone — when both were lost to him forever
— Edith and his child-wife Nina, he would go away
across the sea, and lose, if possible, in foreign lands, all
remembrance of the past. And this it was that made
him seem so cheerful when he came in that night, calling
Edith “little sister,” winding his arm around Nina, kissing
her white face, asking if she had missed him any, if
she were glad to have him back, and how she and Miggie
had busied themselves during the day.

“We talked of you, Arthur, and of Richard,” Nina said.
“Miggie has promised to marry him! Did you know
it?”

“Yes, I know it,” was Arthur's reply; “and there is no
person in the world to whom I would sooner give her than
to Richard, for I know he will leave nothing undone to
make her happy.”

There was no tremor in Arthur's voice, and Nina little
guessed how much it cost him thus to speak, with Edith
sitting near. Looking up into his face with a startled, perplexed
expression, she said, “I did not expect this, Arthur
boy. I thought you loved Miggie.”

“Nina, please don't,” and Edith spoke entreatingly, but
Nina answered pettishly, “I ain't going to please, for
everything has got upside down. It's all going wrong, and
it won't make a speck of difference, as I see, whether I
die or not.”

“I think I'd try to live then,” Arthur said, laughingly,
while Edith hailed the appearance of Marie as something
which would put a restraint upon Nina.

It had been arranged that Edith should take Arthur's
place in the sick room that night, but Nina suddenly
changed her mind, insisting that Arthur should sleep there
as usual.

“There's a heap of things I must tell you,” she whispered
to him; “and my head is clearer when it's darker and the
candles are on the stand.”

So Edith retired to her own room, and after a time Arthur
was alone with Nina. He was very tired, but at her
request he sat down beside her, where she could look into
his face and see, as she said, if he answered her for true.
At first it was of herself she spoke — herself, as she used
to be.

“I remember so well,” she said “when you called me
your Florida rose, and asked for one of my curls. That
was long ago, and there have been years of darkness since,
but the clouds are breaking now — daylight is coming up,
or rather Nina is going out into the daylight, where there
is no more buzzing, no more headache. Will I be crazy in
Heaven, think?”

“No, darling, no,” and Arthur changed his seat from
the chair to the bed, where he could be nearer to the little
girl, who continued,

“I've thought these many weeks how good you've been
to me — how happy you have made my last days, while I
have been so bad to you, but you musn't remember it
against me, Arthur boy, when I'm dead and there isn't any
naughty Nina anywhere, neither at the Asylum, nor Grassy
Spring, nor here in bed, nothing but a teenty grave, out in
the yard, with the flowers growing on it, I say you must
not remember the wicked things I've done, for it wasn't
the Nina who talks to you now. It was the buzzing Nina
who tore your hair, and scratched your face, and bit your
arm. Oh, Arthur, Nina's so sorry now; but you musn't
lay it up against me.”

“No, my darling, God forbid that I, who have wronged
you so terribly, should remember aught against you,” and
Arthur kissed the slender hands which had done him so
much mischief.

They were harmless now, those little waxen hands, and
they caressed Arthur's face and hair as Nina went on.

“Arthur boy, there's one question I must ask you, now
there's nobody to hear, and you will tell me truly. Do
you love me any — love me differently from what you did
when I was in the Asylum, and if the buzzing all was gone,
and never could come back, would you really make me
your wife just as other husbands do — would you let me
sit upon your knee, and not wish it was some one else, and
in the night when you woke up and felt me close to you
would you be glad thinking it was Nina? And when you
had been on a great long journey, and were coming home,
would the smoke from the chimney look handsomer to you
because you knew it was Nina waiting for you by the
hearth-stone, and keeping up the fire? Don't tell me a
falsehood, for I'll forgive you, if you answer no.”

“Yes, Nina, yes. I would gladly take you as my wife
if it could be. My broken lily is very precious to me
now, far more so than she used to be. The right love for
her began to grow the moment I confessed she was my
wife, and when she's gone, Arthur will be so lonely.”

“Will you, Arthur boy? Will you, as true as you live
and breathe, miss poor, buzzing Nina? Oh, I'm so glad, so
glad,” and the great tears dimmed the brightness of the
blue eyes, which looked up so confidingly at Arthur. I,
too, have loved you a heap; not exactly as I loved Charlie
Hudson, I reckon, but the knowing you are my husband,
makes Nina feel kind of nice, and I want you to love me
some — miss me some — mourn for me some, and then,
Arthur, Nina wants you to marry Miggie. There is no
buzzing; no twist in her head. It will rest as quietly on
your bosom where mine has never lain, not as hers will,
I mean, and you both will be so happy at last — happy in
knowing that Nina has gone out into the eternal daylight,
where she would rather be. You'll do it, Arthur; she
must not marry Richard, and you must speak to her quick,
before she goes home, so as to stop it, for New Year's is
the time. Will you, Arthur?”

There was an instant of silence in the room — Nina
waiting for Arthur to speak, and Arthur mustering all his
strength to answer her as he felt he must.

“My darling,” laying his face down upon her neck
among her yellow curls, “I shall never call another by the
dear name I call you now, my wife.”

“Oh, Arthur,” and Nina's cheeks flushed with indignant
surprise, that he, too, should prove refractory. Everything
indeed, was getting upside down. “Why not?” she asked.
“Don't you love Miggie?”

“Yes, very, very dearly! but it is too much to hope
that she will ever be mine. I do not deserve it. You
ask me my forgiveness, Nina. Alas! alas! I have tenfold
more need of yours. It did not matter that we both
wearied of our marriage vows, made when we were children
— did not matter that you are crazy — I had no right
to love another.

“But you have paid for it all a thousand times!” interrupted
Nina. You are a better Arthur than you were
before, and Nina never could see the wrong in your preferring
beautiful, sensible Miggie, to crazy, scratching, biting,
teasing Nina, even if Richard had said over a few
words, of which neither of us understood the meaning, or
what it involved, this taking for better or worse. It surely
cannot be wrong to marry Miggie when I'm gone, and
you will, Arthur, you will!”

“No, Nina, no! I should be adding sin to sin did I seek
to change her decision, and so wrong the noble Richard.
His is the first, best claim. I will not interfere. Miggie
must keep her word uninfluenced by me. I shall not raise
my voice against it.”

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!” Nina cried, clasping her hands
together; “Miggie does not love him, and you surely know
the misery of a marriage without love. It must not be!
It shall not be! You can save Miggie, and you must!”

Every word was fainter than the preceding, and, when the

last was uttered, Nina's head dropped from Arthur's shoulder
to the pillow, and he saw a pinkish stream issuing from
her lips. A small blood vessel had been ruptured, and
Arthur, who knew the danger, laid his hand upon her
mouth as he saw her about to speak, bidding her be quiet
if she would not die at once.

Death, however long and even anxiously expected is unwelcome
at the last, and Nina shrank from its near approach,
laying very still, while Arthur summoned aid. Only
once she spoke, and then she whispered, “Miggie,” thus
intimating that she would have her called. In much alarm
Edith came, trembling when she saw the fearful change
which had passed over Nina, whose blue eyes followed
her movements intently, turning often from her to Arthur
as if they fain would utter what was in her mind. But
not then was Nina St. Claire to die. Many days and nights
were yet appointed her, and Arthur and Edith watched
her with the tenderest care; only these two, for so Nina
would have it. Holding their hands in hers she would
gaze from one to the other with a wistful, pleading look,
which, far better than words, told what she would say,
were it permitted her to speak, but in the deep brown
eyes of Arthur, she read always the same answer, while
Edith's would often fill with tears as she glanced timidly
at the apparently cold, silent man, who, she verily believed,
had ceased to love her.

But Nina knew better. Clouded as was her reason, she
penetrated the mask he wore, and saw where the turbulent
waters surged around him, while with an iron will
and a brave heart he contended with the angry waves,
and so outrode the storm. And as she watched them day
after day, the purpose grew strong within her that if it
were possible the marriage of Edith and Richard should
be prevented, and as soon as she was able to talk she
broached the subject to them both.

“Stay, Miggie,” she said to Edith, who was stealing

from the room. “Hear me this once. You are together
now, you and Arthur.”

“Nina,” said the latter, pitying Edith's agitation, “You
will spare us both much pain if you never allude again to
what under other circumstances might have been.”

“But I must,” cried Nina. “Oh, Arthur, why won't
you go to Richard and tell him all about it?”

“Because it would be wrong,” was Arthur's answer, and
then Nina turned to Edith, “Why won't you, Miggie?”

“Because I have solemnly promised that I would not,”
was her reply.

And Nina rejoined, “Then I shall write. He loved little
Snow Drop. He'll heed what she says when she speaks
from the grave. I'll send him a letter.”

“Who'll take it or read it to him if you do?” Arthur
asked, and the troubled eyes of blue turned anxiously to
Edith.

“Miggie, sister, won't you?”

Edith shook her head, not very decidedly, it is true, still
it was a negative shake, and Nina said, “Arthur boy, will
you?”

“No, Nina, no.”

His answer was determined, and poor, discouraged Nina
sobbed aloud, “Who will, who will?”

In the adjoining room there was a rustling sound — a
coming footstep, and Victor Dupres appeared in the door.
He had been an unwilling hearer of that conversation,
and when Nina cried “who will?” he started up, and
coming into the room as if by accident, advanced to the
beside and asked in his accustomed friendly way, “How
is Nina to-night?” Then bending over her so that no
one should hear, he whispered softly, “Don't tell them,
but I'll read that letter to Richard!”

Nina understood him and held his hand a moment
while she looked the thanks she dared not speak.

“Nina must not talk any more” Arthur said, as Victor

walked away, “she is wearing out too fast,” and with
motherly tenderness he smoothed her tumbled pillow —
pushed back behind her ears the tangled curls — kissed
her forehead, and then went out into the deepening night,
whose cool damp air was soothing to his burning brow,
and whose sheltering mantle would tell no tales of his
white face or of the cry which came heaving up from
where the turbulent waters lay, “if it be possible let
this temptation pass from me, or give me strength to resist
it.”

His prayer was heard — the turmoil ceased at last —
the waters all were stilled, and Arthur went back to Nina,
a calm, quiet man, ready and willing to meet whatever
the future might bring.