Part 24 (2/2)
”He sent me,” and Nina crouched down at Edith's feet, like a frightened spaniel. ”Arthur is coming, too, and going to do right.
He said he was, bending right over me last night, and when I woke this morning there was a great tear on my face. 'Twasn't mine, Miggie. It was too big for that. It was Arthur's.”
”How came he in your room?” Edith asked, a little sharply, and Nina replied,
”I was in the library. We both staid there all night. It wasn't in my room, though Arthur has a right, Miggie. IT NEVER WAS SCRATCHED OUT!”
Edith was puzzled, and was about to question Nina as to her meaning, when another step was heard, a manly, heavy tread, precluding all possibility of a mistake this time. Arthur St.
Claire had come!
”It's quite pleasant since yesterday,” he said, trying to force a smile, but it was a sickly effort, and only made more ghastly and wan his pallid features, over which ages seemed to have pa.s.sed since the previous day, leaving them scarred, and battered, and worn.
Edith had never noticed so great a change in so short a time, for there was scarcely a vestige left of the once handsome, merry- hearted Arthur in the stooping, haggard man, who stood before her, with blood-shot eyes, and an humble, deprecating manner, as if imploring her forgiveness for the pain he had come to inflict.
Nothing could prevent it now. Her matchless beauty was naught to him. He did not even see it. He thought of her only as a being for whose sake he would gladly die the most torturing death that human ingenuity could devise, if by this means, he could rescue her unscathed from the fire he had kindled around her. But this could not be; he had fallen, dragging her down with him, and now he must restore her even though it broke her heart just as his was broken.
He had felt the fibres snapping, one by one; knew his life blood was oozing out, drop by drop, and this it was which made him hesitate so long. It was painful for him to speak, his throat was so parched and dry, his tongue so heavy and thick.
”What is it, Arthur?” Edith said at last, as Nina, uttering a cry of fear, hid her face in the gra.s.s to shut out Arthur from her sight, ”Tell me, what is it?”
Seating himself upon a log near by, and clasping his hands together with a gesture of abject misery, Arthur replied.
”Edith, I am not worthy to look into your face; unless you take your eyes from mine--oh, take them away, or I cannot tell you what I must.”
Had her very life depended upon it, Edith could not have removed her eyes from his. An undefinable fear was curdling her blood--a fear augmented by the position of her two companions--Nina, with her head upon the gra.s.s, and that strange, white-faced being on the log. Could THAT be Arthur St. Claire, or was she laboring under some horrible delusion? No, the lips moved; it was Arthur, and leaning forward she listened to what he was saying,
”Edith, when yesterday I was with you, some words which I uttered and which were wrung from me, I know not how, gave you reason to believe that I was then asking you to become my wife, while something in your manner told me that to such asking you would not answer no. The temptation then to take you to my arms, defying earth and heaven, was a terrible one, and for a time I wavered, I forgot everything but my love for you; but that is past and I come now to the hardest part of all, the deliberate surrender of one dearer than life itself. Edith, do you remember the obstacle, the hindrance which I always said existed to my marrying any one?”
She did not answer; only the eyes grew larger as they watched him; and he continued,
”I made myself forgot it for a time, but Heaven was kinder far than I deserved, and will not suffer me longer. Edith, you CANNOT be my wife.”
She made a movement as if she would go to him, but his swaying arms kept her off, and he went on;
”There IS an obstacle, Edith--a mighty obstacle, I could trample it down if I would, and there is none to question the act; but, Edith, I dare not do you this wrong.”
His voice was more natural now, and Nina, lifting up her head, crept closely to him, whispering softly, ”Good boy, you will do right.”
His long, white fingers threaded her sunny hair, and this was all the token he gave that he was conscious of her presence.
”Don't you know now, Edith, what it is which stands between us?”
he asked; and Edith answered, ”It is Nina, but how I do not understand.”
Arthur groaned a sharp, bitter groan, and rocking to and fro replied, ”Must I tell you? Won't you ever guess until I do? Oh, Edith, Edith--put the past and present together--remember the picture found in my room when you were a little girl, the picture of Nina Bernard; think of all that has happened; my dread to meet with Richard, though that you possibly did not know; my foolish fear, lest you should know of Nina; her clinging devotion to me; my brotherly care for her; Richard's story of the one single marriage ceremony he ever performed, where the bride's curls were like these,” and he lifted Nina's golden ringlets. ”You hear me, don't you?”
He knew she did, for her bosom was heaving with choking sobs as if her soul were parting from the body; her breath came heavily from between her quivering lips, and her eyes were riveted upon him like coals of living fire. Yes, he knew she heard, and he only questioned her to give himself another moment ere he cut asunder the last chord and sent her drifting out upon the dark sea of despair.
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