Chapter XIII: Nina’s Sacrifice

“Let me sit up with you to-night, Miss Nina,” said Kitty.

Miss Drusilla had already retired, but Kitty lingered by the fire, where Nina, wrapped in a pink cashmere dressing-gown, lay back in a great white-draped easy-chair, and stared into the leaping flame within the steel bars of the grate.

She shook her golden head decidedly at faithful Kitty’s appeal.

“No, I shall not need you,” she said.

“But it seems so lonesome-like for you, and you aren’t well, I’m sure,” urged the girl.

“I will ring if I need you. Now go, please. I would rather be alone.”

Thus summarily dismissed, Kitty had no resource but to go, yet the girl’s heart ached to leave her there solitary and forlorn, with her golden head bowed sadly on her jewelled hand.

“A strange home-coming for the master of a house,” she thought. “Oh, I wonder what it is that has come between Mr. Strangemore and my sweet young mistress, and made them both so unhappy.”

Nina sat very still, gazing sadly into the fire, her sweet lips quivering, her young heart throbbing with pain and shame. She would have given all the wealth her father had left her to have recalled her mad and jealous outbreak that night.

“What must he think of me? Why did he wish to see me? To upbraid me, perhaps, for my discourtesy to his charming and beloved guest. Ah, heaven, I do not think I can ever, ever, meet him again! I have too bitterly humiliated myself by my folly of to-night,” she moaned, aloud.

The door opened and shut softly, unheeded by the girl absorbed in her own sad and gloomy reflections. A _petite_ form clothed in soft, rich blue, glided across the floor, and stood beside Nina’s chair.

“Mrs. Strangemore--Nina!”

With what a cooing, melodious murmur the words fell upon Nina’s ears. She looked up with a start.

“Mrs. St. Alban,” she exclaimed, haughtily, “Why this unwelcome intrusion?”

The great blue eyes lifted to Nina’s flashing dark ones, filled with quick tears.

“Oh, do not speak to me so harshly, so coldly,” implored Sibyl. “You cannot guess what I suffer, Mrs. Strangemore, or you would forgive me for seeking your presence thus by stealth, to exculpate myself in your eyes from all the cruel aspersions you cast upon me to-night. Oh, you beautiful, fortunate child, you have wronged me bitterly. You cannot in justice refuse to hear my defense!”

They stood looking at each other, the unloved wife and the triumphant rival, in silence a moment after Sibyl’s artful appeal, then Nina answered, slowly:

“What defense can you make? I saw you myself with your head upon my husband’s breast.”

“But it was his fault not mine,” said Sibyl, quickly, “Oh, Nina, my child, you must listen to me while I confess all! You took Talbot from me five years ago! We were engaged to be married and your mother thrust that unwelcome marriage upon him and ruined both our lives. Out of pique I married another, but I never loved him, for my heart was broken by Talbot’s loss. When Mr. St. Alban died and left me a rich widow two years ago I went to Europe. I--I met Talbot in London. He was about to go home to you, dear Nina.”

A sob, and the tiny lace handkerchief fluttered up to her wet eyes with a waft of perfume. Nina stood before her cold, pale, statue-like, listening in silence.

“Indeed, indeed, it was not my fault that he lingered and lingered, putting off his return from day to day,” sighed Sibyl. “I will not deny that I loved him still, but I would not have kept him from his wife, oh, no, no, no! But, poor fellow, he was mad for love of me, and I could not drive him away. Oh, you cold-hearted child, do not look at me so scornfully. We loved each other so dearly, and we had been so cruelly parted, was it any wonder that we liked to be together, or that Talbot raved against the child his mother had forced him to marry for the sake of sordid money?”

She saw the beautiful face before her grow crimson with shame and anger, and laughed within herself.

“Ah, that was a trump card,” she thought, cruelly, and she continued in her soft, sad, regretful tones:

“Ah, we were perfectly wild with joy in these first days of my freedom. We dreamed happy, impossible dreams of freedom for Talbot, too--freedom that should give him back to me as in the days before he forged those fetters he hated so madly!”

The flush of shame on the lovely face before her grew deeper. A low moan of pain escaped Nina’s lips.

“Oh, how cruel you are! Why do you tell me these dreadful things?--me, his wife?” she exclaimed, reproachfully.

“To defend myself,” Sibyl answered, pitilessly. “You said crueler things to me down stairs to-night, and yet I had done nothing wrong. I loved Talbot, that was all my sin. I loved him, and when I was saying a last farewell to all my hopes I laid my head upon his breast and wept, that was all!”

“Your hopes?” Nina echoed, uncomprehendingly.

“Yes, my hopes,” Sibyl answered, watching the lovely shame stricken face before her with keen eyes. “Before Talbot came home to you he told me that he meant to procure a divorce from you that he might marry me!”

“Oh, God!” Nina cried, and reeled backward into her chair like one death-smitten.

“Do not take it so hard, Nina,” said the smooth, musical voice. “I have more to tell you yet.”

“No more for sweet pity’s sake!” cried the agonized girl.

“I must for in this lies my whole defense,” Sibyl answered, sadly. “You think very hard of Talbot now, but you will retract your opinion when you hear that when he came home and saw you he repented his promise to me!”

A faint gleam of hope flashed into Nina’s eyes.

“He repented,” she murmured to herself.

“Yes,” Sibyl answered, sobbingly. “He told me that we must say an eternal farewell to our love and our hopes. He had found out that you loved him devotedly, and he was so sure that you would contest a divorce that he was afraid to ask your consent. He said that you were his wife and that we must sacrifice ourselves on the altar of your happiness. We kissed and parted for an eternal farewell! Oh, Nina, Nina,” she fell on her knees with a sudden theatrical semi-tragic air, “You cannot have the heart to be angry with us any longer when you know that we are so unhappy, and that we are parted forever for your sake. Forgive me, dear, for the unconscious wrong I did you in winning Talbot’s heart, and promise me that you will not hate me any longer for the poor reason that he belonged to me before an adverse fate gave him to you!”

The passionate torrent of words ceased, and Nina lifted her hand and pointed to the door.

“Go, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “I cannot bear your presence any longer.”

Sibyl rose, sullenly.

“Nina, you must have a heart of stone,” she cried, upbraidingly. “After the way I have humbled myself to you, you have not one single word of sympathy for the grief that you alone have caused me! You are not one bit sorry for poor Talbot and me!”

“I am sorry for you both--sorrier still for myself,” said Nina, drearily. “But what are you waiting for, Mrs. St. Alban? Do you want me to promise you that Talbot shall have a divorce?”

“Ah, you will not do it. _He_ said so,” Sibyl answered, hopelessly. “He said you were so desperately fond of him you would not give him up. Don’t think I blame you, Nina. I know how you feel by my own experience.”

“Hush, I have heard enough,” Nina answered, bitterly. “Go back to your room, Mrs. St. Alban. Talbot shall have his freedom. You shall have him for your husband soon. I promise you that I shall not be in your way long. I will keep my promise to the dead. I will try to secure his happiness!”

“You generous darling! I thought you would be willing to do what was right,” Sibyl began effusively; but Nina immediately turned her back upon her, so, having gained what she came for, she concluded to leave without further ceremony.

She glided toward the door, and as she came near it, she saw a large, square, white envelope lying upon the floor, as if it had been pushed beneath the door by a cautious hand. An instant suspicion darted into her crafty mind. In a moment she had slyly secured it, and pushed it inside the corsage of her dress. Nina heard the door close upon her, and drew a sigh of relief, unconscious that she carried with her a letter from Talbot Strangemore, that, had she only received it, would have changed the current of her life so far that this story of her sorrows need never have been written.

* * * * *

Later in the night a little dark-robed figure glided out from the grand portals of Selwyn Heights, and took its way along the sea-shore. It was Nina Strangemore, alone and empty-handed, for on the strange journey she was desperately resolved upon, they who venture forth carry nothing with them.