University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
LAST DAYS.

“Aunt Hannah will stay with me to-night,” Nina said
to Arthur the next day, referring to an old negress who
had taken care of her when a child; and Arthur yielded
to her request the more willingly, because of his own
weariness.

Accordingly old Hannah was installed watcher in the
sick room, receiving orders that her patient should not on
any account be permitted to talk more than was absolutely
necessary. Nina heard this injunction of Arthur and
a smile of cunning flitted across her face as she thought
how she would turn it to her own advantage, in case
Hannah refused to comply with her request, which she
made as soon as they were left alone.

Hannah must first prop her up in bed, she said, and then
give her her port-folio, paper, pen and ink. As she expected,

the negress objected at once, bidding her be still, but
Nina declared her intention of talking as fast and as
loudly as she could, until her wish was gratified. Then
Hannah threatened calling Arthur, whereupon the willful
little lady rejoined, “I'll scream like murder, if you do,
and burst every single blood-vessel I've got, so bring me
the paper, please, or shall I get it myself,” and she made
a motion as if she would leap upon the floor, while poor
old Hannah, regretting the task she had undertaken, was
compelled to submit and bring the writing materials as
desired.

“Now you go to sleep,” Nina said coaxingly, and as
old Hannah found but little difficulty in obeying the command,
Nina was left to herself, while she wrote that long,
long message, a portion of which we give below.

Then followed the entire story of the marriage performed
by Richard, of the grief which followed, of Arthur's
gradually growing love of Edith, of the scene of
the Deering woods, of the incidents connected with
Edith's sickness, her anguish at parting with Arthur, her
love for him still, her struggles to do right, and her determination
to keep her engagement even though she
died in doing it.

All this was told in Nina's own peculiar style; and
then came her closing appeal that Richard himself should
break the bonds and set poor Miggie free.

The night was nearly worn away, ere the letter was
finished; and Nina's eyes flashed with unwonted fire as
laughing aloud at the Arthur added to her name, she laid
it away beneath her pillow and then tried herself to sleep.
But this last was impossible, and when the morning broke
she was so much worse that the old nurse trembled lest
her master should censure her severely for having yielded
to her young mistress's whim. Mild and gentle as he
seemed, Arthur could, if necessary, be very stern, and
knowing this, old Hannah concluded at last that if Nina
did not betray herself she would not, and when Arthur
came, expressing his surprise at the change, and asking
for its cause, she told glibly “how restless and onquiet
Miss Nina done been flirtin' round till the blood all got in
her head and she was dreadful.”

“You should have called me,” Arthur said, sitting down
by Nina, whose feverish hands he clasped, while he
asked, “Is my little girl's head very bad this morning?”

Nina merely nodded, for she really was too weak to
talk, and Arthur watched her uneasily, wondering why it
was that her eyes were fixed so constantly upon the door,
as if expecting some one. When breakfast was announced
she insisted that both he and Edith should leave her, and,
the moment they were gone, she asked for Victor, who
came at once, half guessing why he was sent for.

“Under my pillow,” she whispered, as he bent over her,
and in an instant the letter, of whose existence neither
Arthur nor Edith suspected, was safe in Victor's pocket.

Nina had accomplished her object, and she became
unusually quiet. Richard would get the letter — Richard
would do right, she knew, and the conviction brought to
her a deep peace, which nothing ever after disturbed.
She did not speak of him again, and her last days were
thus pleasanter to Edith, who, from the sweet companionship
held with her gentle sister, learned in part what Nina
Bernard was, ere the darkness of which she had written

to Richard crept into her brain. Fair and beautiful as
the white pond lily, she faded rapidly, until Arthur carried
her no longer to the window, holding her in his arms while
she looked out upon the yard and garden where she used
to play — but she lay all day upon her bed holding Edith's
hands, and talking to her of that past still so dim and
vague to the latter. Marie, too, often joined them, repeating
to Edith many incidents of interest connected with
both her parents, but speaking most of the queenly Petrea,
whom Edith so strongly resembled. Nina, too, remembered
her well, and Edith was never weary of hearing her
tell of the “beautiful new mamma,” who kissed her so
tenderly that night when she first came home, calling her
la petite enfant, and placing in her arms a darling little
sister, with eyes just like the stars!

Very precious to Edith was the memory of those days,
when she watched the dying Nina, who, as death drew
near, clung closer and closer to her sister, refusing to let
her go.

“I want you with me,” she said, one afternoon, when
the late autumn rain was beating against the windowpane,
and the clouds hung leaden and dull in the Southern
sky. “I want you and Arthur, both, to lead me down
to the very edge of the river, and not let go my hands
until the big waves wash me away, for Nina's a wee bit
of a girl, and she'll be afraid to launch out alone upon the
rushing stream. I wish you'd go too, Miggie,—go over
Jordan with me. Why does God make me go alone?”

“You will not go alone, my darling!” and Edith's voice
was choked with tears as she told the listening Nina of
one whose arm would surely hold her up, so that the waters
should not overflow.

“It's the Saviour you mean,” and Nina spoke reverently.
“I loved Him years ago before the buzzing came, but
I've been so bad since then, that I'm afraid that He'll cast
me off. Will He, think? When I tell him I am little

Nina Bernard come from Sunnybank, will He say, `Go
'way old crazy Nina, that tore poor Arthur boy's hair?”

“No, no, oh, no,” and Edith sobbed impetuously as she
essayed to comfort the bewildered girl, whose mind grasped
but faintly the realities of eternity.

“And you'll stand on the bank till I am clear across,”
she said, when Edith had ceased speaking, “You and
Arthur stand where I can see you if I should look back.
And, Miggie, I have a presentiment that Nina'll go to
night, but I don't want any body here except you and
Arthur. I remember when grandma died the negroes
howled so dismally, and they didn't love her one bit either.
They used to make mouths at her, and hide her teeth.
But they do love me, and their screeches will get my
head all in a twist. I'd rather they wouldn't know till
morning; then when they ask for me Arthur'll tell them
sorry like that Nina's dead; Nina's gone into the daylight,
and left a world of love to them who have been so kind
to her. Don't let them crowd up around me, or make too
much ado. It isn't worth the while, for I'm of no account,
and you'll be good to them Miggie — good to the poor
ignorant blacks. They are your's after me, and I love
them a heap. Don't let them be sold, will you?”

Here Nina paused, too much exhausted to talk longer,
and when about dark Arthur came in, he found her asleep
with Edith at her side, while upon her face and about
her nose there was a sharp, pinched look he had never
seen before. Intuitively, however, he knew that look
was the harbinger of death, and when Edith told him
what Nina had said, he felt that ere the morning came his
broken lily would be gone.

Slowly the evening wore on, and one by one the family
retired, leaving Arthur and Edith alone with the pale
sleeper whose slumbers ended not until near the midnight
hour; silently, sadly, Arthur and Edith watched her, she
on one side, he upon the other, neither speaking for the

sorrow which lay so heavy at their hearts. She was very
beautiful as she lay there so motionless, and Arthur felt
his heart clinging more and more to his fair, childish wife,
while his conscience smote him cruelly for any wrong he
might have done to her. She was going from him now
so fast, and as the clock struck twelve the soft blue eyes
unclosed and smiled up in his face with an expression
which, better than words could do, told that she bore no
malice toward him, nothing but trusting faith and confiding
love. He had been kind to her, most kind, and she
told him so again, for she seemed to know how dear to
him such testimonial would be when she was gone.

“The clouds are weeping for Nina,” she said, as she
heard the rain still beating against the window. “Will it
make the river deeper, think? I hear its roar in the distance.
It's just beginning to heave in sight, and I dread
it so much. 'Twill be lonesome crossing this dismal, rainy
night. Oh, Arthur — boy, Arthur — boy, let me stay with
you. Can't you keep me? Can't you hide me somewhere?
you, Miggie? I won't be in the way. It's so icy,
and the river is so deep. Save me, do!” and she stretched
out her hands to Arthur as if imploring him to hold her
back from the rushing stream bearing down so fast upon
her.

Forcing down his own great grief, Arthur took her in
his arms and hugging her fondly to him, sought to comfort
her by whispering of the blessed Saviour who would
carry her in His bosom beyond the swelling flood, and
Nina, as she listened, grew calm and still, while something
like the glory of the better land shone upon her face as
she repeated after him, “There'll be no night, no darkness
there, no headache, no pain, — nor buzzing either?”
she suddenly asked. “Say, will there be any buzzing
brains in Heaven?”

Arthur shook his head, and she continued, “That will
he so nice, and Dr. Griswold will be so glad when he

knows Nina is not crazy. He's gone before, I reckon,
to take care of me, — gone where there's nothing but
daylight, glorious, grand; kiss me again, Arthur boy.
'Tis sweet to die upon your bosom with Miggie standing
near, and when you both are happy in each other's love,
don't quite forget little Nina, — Nina out under the flowers,
will you? She's done a heap of naughtiness, I know;
but she's sorry, Arthur, she is so sorry that she ever bit
your arm or tore your hair! Poor hair! Pretty brown
hair! Bad Nina made the white threads come,” and her
childish hands caressed the thick brown locks mingling
with her sunny curls, as Arthur bent over her, answering
only with his tears, which fell in torrents.

“Don't, darling, don't,” he said, at last. “The bad has
all been on my side, and I would that you should once
more say I am forgiven.”

Nina gazed wonderingly at him a moment, then made
a motion that he should lay her back upon the pillow.

“Now put your head down here, right on my neck —
so.”

He complied with her request, and placing both her
hands upon the bowed head of the young man, Nina
whispered,

“May the Good Shepherd, whose lamb Nina hopes to
be, keep my Arthur boy, and bless him a hundred fold for
all he's been to me, and if he has wronged me, which I
don't believe, but if he has, will God please forgive him
as fully, as freely as Nina does — the best Arthur boy that
ever lived. I'll tell God all about it, and how I pestered
you, and how good you were, my Arthur boy — Nina's
Arthur first and Miggie's after me. Now put your arms
around me again,” she said, as she finished the blessing
which brought such peace to Arthur. “Put them around
me tight, for the river is almost here. Don't you hear its
splashing? Miggie, Miggie,” she cried, shivering as with
an ague chill, “hold my hand with all your might, but don't

let me pull you in. I'm going down the bank. My feet
are in the water, and it's so freezing cold. I'm sinking,
too, and the big waves roll over me. Oh, Arthur, you
said it would not hurt,” and the dim eyes flashed upon the
weeping man a most reproachful glance, as if he had deceived
her, while the feet were drawn shudderingly up,
as if they had, indeed, touched the chill tide of death, and
shrank affrighted from it. Edith could only sob wildly,
as she grasped the clammy hand stretched toward her,
but Arthur, more composed, whispered to the dying girl,

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow
of death, I will fear no evil, for thou, Lord, art with me;
thy staff and thy rod, they comfort me.”

“Look away to the shore,” he continued, as Nina ceased
to struggle, and lay still on his bosom. “Look away to
the glorious city — my darling is almost there.”

“Yes, yes, I do, I am,” came faintly up, and then with
a glad cry of joy, which rang in their ears for many a day
and night, Nina said,

“You may lay me down, my Arthur boy, and take your
arm away. There's a stronger one than your's around me
now. The arm that Miggie told me of, and it will not
let me down. I'm going over so easy, easy, in a cradle-like,
and Dr. Griswold's there waiting for clipped-winged
birdie. He looks so glad, so happy. It is very nice to
die; but stand upon the bank, Arthur and Miggie. Wait
till I'm across.”

They thought she had left them, when softly, sweetly,
as if it were a note of heavenly music sent back to them
from the other world, there floated on the air the words,

“Climb up the bank, I'm most across. I do not see
you now. Mother — and Miggie's mother — and Dr. Griswold
have waded out to meet me. The darkness is passed,
the daylight has dawned; Miggie precious, and darling
Arthur boy, good-bye, for Nina's gone, good-bye.”

The white lips never moved again, the waxen hands lay

lifelessly in Arthur's, the damp, bright hair lay half-uncurled
upon the pillow, the blue eyes were closed, the aching
head was still, the “twisted brain” had ceased to “buzz,”
the Darkness for her was over, and Nina had gone out into
the Daylight.