University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
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 slener
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, “Thar'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, and 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, said, 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 go 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 the
weeping Edith, while the wild thought swept over him,
“Is it right that I should send her away?” but only for
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 forget 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.”