Part 41 (1/2)
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 she weeping heavily, while the wild thought swept over him, ”Is it right that I should fiend her away?
” but over her 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:
”G.o.d 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 G.o.d will give you strength to do this if you ask it of him aright I shall not forgot 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 G.o.d's n.o.blest 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.”
CHAPTER x.x.xIII.
HOME.
Oh, what a change it was from sunny Florida to England, just how both Edith and Victor s.h.i.+vered, arrived at the last stage of their journey, they looked out upon the snow-clad hills and leafless trees which fitted out by bare and brown against the winter sky.
West Shannondale! the brakeman shouted, and Edith drew her furs around her, for in a few moments more their own station would be reached.
”The river is frozen; it must be very cold,” said Victor, pointing to the blue-black stream; skimmered over with a thin coat of ice.
”Yes, very, very cold,” and Edith felt the meaning of the word in more senses than one.
Why wasn't she glad to be home again? Why did her thoughts cling so to distant Sunnybank, or her heart die within her as waymark after waymark told her Collingwood was near? Alas! she was not a loving, eager bride elect, returning to the arms of her beloved, but a shrinking, hopeless, desolate woman, going back to meet the destiny she dared not avoid. The change was all in herself, for the day was no colder, the clouds no greyer, the setting sun no paler than New England wintry days and clouds and suns are wont to be. Collingwood was just the same, and its ma.s.sive walls rose as proudly amid the dark evergreens around it as they had done in times gone by, when to the little orphan it seemed a second Paradise. Away to the right lay Gra.s.sy Spring, the twilight shadows gathering around it, piles of snow resting on its roof, and a thin wreath of smoke curling from a single chimney in the rear.
All this Edith saw as in the village omnibus she was driven toward home, Richard was not expecting them until the morrow, and thus no new fires were kindled, no welcoming lights hung out, and the house was unusually gloomy and dark. During Edith's absence Richard had staid mostly in the library, and there he was sitting now, with his hands folded together in that peculiarly helpless way which characterized all his motions. He heard the sound of wheels, the banging of trunks, and then his ear caught a footstep it knew full well, a slow, shuffling tread, but Edith's still, and out into the silent hall he groped his way, watching there until she came.
How he hugged her to his bosom--never heeding that she gave him back but one answering kiss, a cold, a frozen thing, which would not thaw even after it touched his lips, so full of life and warmth. Poor, deluded man! he fancied that the tears he felt upon his face were tears of joy at being home again; but alas! alas!
they were tears wrung out by a feeling of dreary home-sickness--a longing to be somewhere else--to have some other one than Richard chafing her cold hands and calling her pet names. He looked older, too, than he used to do, and Edith thought of what he once had said about her seeing the work of decay go on in him while she yet was young and vigorous. Still her voice was natural as she answered his many questions and greeted Mrs. Matson who came in to see her as soon as she heard of her arrival.
”In mourning!” the latter exclaimed as with womanly curiosity she inspected Edith's dress.
Richard started, and putting his hand to Edith's neck, felt that her collar was of c.r.a.pe, and a shadow pa.s.sed over his face. He liked to think of her as a bright plumaged bird, not as sombre- hued and wearing the habiliments which come only from some grave.
”Was it necessary that my darling should carry her love for a stranger quite so far as this?” he asked. ”Need you have dressed in black?”
Without meaning it, his tone implied reproach, and it cut Edith cruelly, making her wish that she had told him all, when she wrote that she was coming home.
”Oh, Richard,” she cried, ”don't chide me for these outward tokens of sorrow. Nina, dear, darling Nina, was my sister--my fathers child. Temple was only a name he a.s.sumed to avoid arrest, so it all got wrong. Everything is wrong,” and Edith sobbed impetuously, while Richard essayed to comfort her.
The dress of black was not displeasing to him now, and he pa.s.sed his hands caressingly over its heavy folds as if to ask forgiveness for having said aught against it.
Gradually Edith grew calm, and after she had met the servants, and the supper she could not taste was over, she repeated to Richard the story she had heard from Marie, who had stopped for a time in New York to visit her sister.