NINA AND MIGGIE.
It would be impossible to describe Edith's feelings as she rode
toward home. She knew Arthur had not told her the whole, and that
the part omitted was the most important of all. What could it be?
She thought of a thousand different things, but dismissed them one
after another from her mind as too preposterous to be cherished
for a moment. The terrible reality never once occurred to her,
else her heart had not beaten as lightly as it did, in spite of
the strange story she had heard. She was glad that she had met
with Nina--glad that every obstacle to their future intercourse
was removed--and while she censured Arthur much she pitied him the
more and scolded herself heartily for feeling so comfortable and
satisfied because he had ceased to love the unfortunate Nina.
"I can't blame him for not wishing to be talked about," she said.
"Shannondale IS a horribly gossipping place, and people would have
surmised everything; but the sooner they know it now the sooner it
will die away. Let me think. Who will be likely to spread the news
most industriously?"
Suddenly remembering Mrs. Eliakim Rogers, the busiest gossip in
town, she turned Bedouin in the direction of the low brown house,
standing at a little distance from the road, and was soon seated
in Mrs. Eliakim's kitchen, her ostensible errand being to inquire
about some plain sewing the good lady was doing for her, while her
real object was to communicate as much of Arthur's story as she
thought proper. Incidentally she spoke of Mr. St. Claire, and when
the widow asked "What under the sun possessed him to live as he
did," she replied by telling of NINA, his ward, who, she said, had
recently come to Grassy Spring from the Asylum, adding a few items
as to how Arthur chanced to be her guardian, talking as if she had
known of it all the time, and saying she did not wonder that a
young man like him should shrink from having it generally
understood that he had a crazy girl upon his hands. He was very
kind to her indeed, and no brother could treat his sister more
tenderly than he treated Nina.
To every thing she said, Mrs. Eliakim smilingly assented, drawing
her own conclusions the while and feeling vastly relieved when, at
last, her visitor departed, leaving her at liberty to don her
green calash and start for the neighbors with this precious morsel
of gossip. Turning back, Edith saw her hurrying across the fields,
and knew it would not be long ere all Shannondale were talking of
Arthur's ward.
Arrived at home she found the dinner waiting for her, and when
asked by Richard what had kept her she replied by repeating to him
in substance what she had already told Mrs. Eliakim Rogers. There
was this difference however, between the two stories--the one told
to Richard was longer and contained more of the particulars. She
did not, however, tell him of Arthur's love for Nina, or of the
neglected wife, the mother of little Miggie, though why she
withheld that part of the story she could not tell. She felt a
strange interest in that young mother dying alone in the noisome
city, and in the little child buried upon her bosom, but she had
far rather talk of Nina and her marvellous beauty, feeling sure
that she had at least one interested auditor, Victor, who was
perfectly delighted to have the mystery of Grassy Spring
unravelled, though he felt a little disappointed that it should
amount to nothing more than a crazy girl, to whom Mr. St. Claire
was guardian.
This feeling of Victor was in a great measure shared by the
villagers, and, indeed, after a day or two of talking and
wondering, the general opinion seemed to be that Arthur had
magnified the evil and been altogether too much afraid of Madam
Rumor, who was inclined to be rather lenient toward him,
particularly as Edith Hastings took pains to tell how kind he was
to Nina, who gave him oftentimes so much trouble. The tide of
popular feeling was in his favor, and the sympathy which many
openly expressed for him was like a dagger to the young man, who
knew he did not deserve it. Still he was relieved of a great
burden, and was far happier than he had been before, and even
signified to Grace his willingness to mingle in society and see
company at his own house. The consequence of this was throngs of
visitors at Grassy Spring, said visitors always asking for Mr. St.
Claire, but caring really to see Nina, who shrank from their
advances, and hiding herself in her room refused at last to go
down unless Miggie were there.
MIGGIE had purposely absented herself from Grassy Spring more than
two whole weeks, and when Richard asked the cause of it she
answered that she did not know, and, indeed, she could not to
herself define the reason of her staying so long from a place
where she wished so much to be, unless it were that she had not
quite recovered from the shock it gave her to know that Arthur had
once been engaged, even though he had wearied of the engagement.
It seemed to her that he had built between them a barrier which
she determined he should be the first to cross. So she studiously
avoided him, and thus unconsciously plunged him deeper and deeper
into the mire, where he was already foundering. Her apparent
indifference only increased the ardor of his affection, and though
he struggled against it as against a deadly sin, he could not
overcome it, and at last urged on by Nina, who begged so hard for
Miggie, he resolved upon going to Collingwood and taking Nina with
him.
It was a warm, pleasant afternoon in May, and Nina had never
looked more beautiful than when seated in the open carriage, and
on her way to Collingwood, talking incessantly of Miggie, whom she
espied long before they reached the house. It was a most joyful
meeting between the two young girls, Nina clinging to Edith as if
fearful of losing her again, if by chance she should release her
hold.
Arthur did not tell Edith how much he had missed her, but Nina
did, and when she saw the color deepen on Edith's cheeks she
added, "You love him, don't you, Miggie?"
"I love every body, I hope," returned the blushing Edith, as she
led her guests into the room where Richard was sitting.
At sight of the blind man Nina started, and clasping her hands
together, stood regarding him fixedly, while a look of perplexity
deepened upon her face.
"Speak to her, Edith," whispered Arthur, but ere Edith could
comply with his request, Nina's lips parted and she said, "YOU DID
DO IT, DIDN'T YOU?"
"Whose voice was that?" and Richard started forward.
It's Nina, Mr. Harrington; pretty Nina Bernard; and Edith came to
the rescue.
"She has a sweet, familiar voice," said Richard, "Come to me,
little one, will you?"
He evidently thought her a child, for in her statement Edith had
not mentioned her age, and Richard had somehow received the
impression that she was very young. It suited Nina to be thus
addressed, and she went readily to Richard, who pressed her soft,
warm hands, and then telling her playfully that he wished to know
how she looked, passed his own hand slowly over her face and hair,
caressing the latter and twining one of the curls around his
fingers; then, winding his arm about her slender waist, he asked
how old she was.
"FIFTEEN YEARS AND A HALF," was her prompt reply.'
Richard never thought of doubting her word. She was very slight
indeed. "A little morsel," he called her, and as neither Arthur
nor Edith corrected the mistake, he was suffered to think of Nina
Bernard as one, who, were she rational, would be a mere school-
girl yet.
She puzzled him greatly, and more than once he started at some
peculiar intonation of her voice.
"Little Snowdrop," he said, at last, "it seems to me I have known
you all my life. Look at me, and say if we have met before?"
Edith was too intent upon Nina's answer to notice Arthur, and she
failed to see the spasm of pain and fear which passed over his
face, leaving it paler than its wont. Bending over Nina he waited
like Edith while she scanned Richard curiously, and then replied,
"Never, UNLESS YOU ARE THE ONE THAT DID IT--are you?"
"Did what?" asked Richard, and while Nina hesitated, Arthur
replied, "She has a fancy that somebody made her crazy."
"Not I, oh, no, not I, poor little dove. I did not do it, sure,"
and Richard smoothed the yellow curls resting on his knee.
"Who was it, then?" persisted Nina. "He was tall, like you, and
dark and handsome, wasn't he Arthur? You know--you were there?"
and she turned appealingly to the young man, whose heart beat so
loudly as to be plainly audible to himself.
"It was Charlie Hudson, perhaps," suggested Edith, and Arthur
mentally blessed her for a remark which turned the channel of
Nina's thoughts, and set her to telling Richard how Charlie cried
when he saw her through the iron bars, wearing that queer-looking
gown.
"I danced for him with all my might," she said, "and sang so loud,
for I thought it would make him laugh as it did the folks around
me, but he only cried the harder. What made him?" and she looked
up wistfully in Richard's face. "YOU are crying, too!" she
exclaimed. "Everybody cries where I am. Why do they? I wish they
wouldn't. I'm good to-day--there, please don't, Mr. Big-man, THAT
DID DO IT,"? and raising her waxen hand she brushed away the tear
trembling on Richard's long eyelashes.
Edith now sought to divert her by asking if she were fond of
music, and would like to hear her play,
"Nina'll play," returned the little maiden, and going to the piano
she dashed off a wild, impassioned, mixed-up impromptu, resembling
now the soft notes of the lute or the plaintive sob of the winter
wind, and then swelling into a full, rich, harmonious melody,
which made the blood chill in Edith's veins, and caused both
Richard and Arthur to hold their breath.
This music ceased, and rising from the stool Nina expressed a
desire to go home, insisting that Edith should go with her and
stay all night.
"I want to sleep with my arms around your neck just like you used
to do," she said; and when Arthur, too, joined in the request,
Edith answered that she would if Richard were willing.
"And sleep with a lunatic,--is it quite safe?" he asked.
"Perfectly so," returned Arthur, adding that the house was large
enough, and Edith could act her own pleasure with regard to
sleeping apartments.
"Then it's settled that I may go," chimed in Edith, quite as much
delighted at the prospect of a long evening with Arthur, as with
the idea of seeing more of Nina.
She knew she was leaving Richard very lonely, but she promised to
be home early on the morrow, and bidding good-bye, followed Arthur
and Nina to the carriage.
Nina was delighted to have Edith with her, and after their arrival
at Grassy Spring, danced and skipped about the house like a gay
butterfly, pausing every few moments to wind her arms around the
neck of her guest, whom she kissed repeatedly, calling her always
MIGGIE, and telling her how much she loved her.
"Don't you want to see YOU as you used to be?" she asked suddenly.
"If you do, come up,--come to my room. She may?" and she turned
toward Arthur, who answered, "certainly, I will go myself," and
the three soon stood at the door of the DEN.
It was Edith's first visit there, and a feeling of awe came over
her as she crossed the threshold of the mysterious room. Then a
cry of joyful surprise burst from her lips as she saw how pleasant
it was in there, and how tastefully the chamber was fitted up. Not
another apartment in the house could compare with it, and Edith
felt that she could be happy there all her life, were it not for
the iron lattice, which gave it somewhat the appearance of a
prison.
"Here you are," cried Nina, dragging her across the floor to the
portrait of the little child which had so interested her during
Arthur's absence. "This is she--this is you,--this is Miggie," and
Nina jumped up and down, while Edith gazed again upon the sweet
baby face she had once seen in the drawing-room.
"There is a slight resemblance between you," said Arthur, glancing
from one to the other, "Had she lived, her eyes must have been
like yours; but look, this was Nina's father."
Edith did not answer him. Indeed, she scarcely knew what he was
saying, for a nameless fascination chained her to the spot, a
feeling as if she were beholding her other self, as if she had
leaped backward many years, and was seated again upon the nursery
floor like the child before her. Like gleams of lightning,
confused memories of the past came rushing over her only to pass
away, leaving her in deeper darkness. One thought, however, like a
blinding flash caused her brain to reel, while she grasped
Arthur's arm, exclaiming, "Are you sure the baby died--sure she
was buried with her mother?"
"Yes, perfectly sure," was Arthur's reply, and with the sensation
of disappointment, Edith turned at last from Miggie to the
contemplation of the father; the Mr. Bernard whom she was not
greatly disposed to like.
He was a portly, handsome man, but his face showed traces of early
debauchery and later dissipation. Still, Edith was far more
interested in him than in the portrait of Nina's mother, the
light-haired, blue-eyed woman, so much like the daughter that the
one could easily be recognized from it a resemblance to the other.
"Where is the second Mrs. Bernard's picture?" she asked, and
Arthur answered, "It was never taken, but Phillis declares YOU are
like her, and this accounts for Nina's pertinacity in calling you
Miggie."
The pictures were by this time duly examined, and then Nina, still
playing the part of hostess, showed to Edith every thing of the
least interest until she came to the door, leading into the large
square closet.
"Open it, please," she whispered to Arthur. "Let Miggie see where
Nina stays when she tears."
Arthur unlocked the door, and Edith stepped with a shudder into
the solitary cell which had witnessed more than one wild revel,
and echoed to more than one delirious shriek.
"Is it necessary?" she asked, and Arthur replied: "We think so;
otherwise she would demolish every thing within her reach, and
throw herself from the window it may be."
"THAT'S SO," said Nina, nodding approvingly. "When I'm bad, I have
to tear. It cures my head, and I'm so strong then, that it takes
Phillis and Arthur both to put that gown on me. I can't tear
that," and she pointed to a loose sacque-like garment, made of the
heaviest possible material, and hanging upon a nail near the door
of the cell.
"Have you been shut up since you came here?" Edith inquired, and
Nina rejoined. "Once; didn't you hear me scream?" Phillis tried to
make me quit, but I told her I wouldn't unless they'd let you
come. I saw you on the walk, you know. I'm better with you,
Miggie; a heap better since you made me cry. It took a world of
hardness and pain away, and my head has not ached a single time
since then. I'm most well; ain't I, Arthur."
"Miss Hastings certainly has a wonderful influence over you,"
returned Arthur, and as the evening wore away, Edith began to
think so, too.
Even the servants commented upon the change in Nina, who appeared
so natural and lady-like, that once there darted across Arthur's
mind the question, "what if her reason SHOULD be restored! I will
do right, Heaven helping me," he moaned mentally, for well he knew
that Nina sane would require of him far different treatment from
what Nina crazy did. It was late that night when they parted, he
to his lonely room where for hours he paced the floor with
feverish disquiet, while Edith went from choice with Nina to the
DEN, determined to share her single bed, and smiling at her own
foolishness when once a shadow of fear crept into her heart. How
could she be afraid of the gentle creature, who, in her snowy
night dress, with her golden hair falling about her face and neck,
looked like some beautiful angel flitting about the room,
pretending to arrange this and that, casting half bashful glances
at Edith, who was longer in disrobing and at last, as if summoning
all her courage for the act, stepping behind the thin lace window
curtains, which she drew around her, saying softly, "don't look at
me, Miggie, will you, 'cause I'm going to pray."
Instantly the brush which Edith held was stayed amid her raven
hair, and the hot tears rained over her face as she listened to
that prayer, that God would keep Nina from TEARING any more, and
not let Arthur cry, but make it all come right some time with him
and Miggie, too. Then followed that simple petition, "now I lay me
down to sleep," learned at the mother's knee by so many thousand
children whose graves like hillocks in the church-yard lie, and
when she arose and came from behind the gauzy screen where she
fancied she had been hidden from view, Edith was not wrong in
thinking that something like the glory of Heaven shone upon her
pure white brow. All dread of her was gone, and when Sophy came
in, offering to sleep upon the floor as was her usual custom, she
promptly declined, for she would rather be alone with Nina.
Edith had never been intimate with any girl of her own age, and to
her it was a happiness entirely new, she nestling down in the
narrow bed with a loved companion whose arms wound themselves
caressingly around her neck, and whose lips touched hers many
times, whispering, "Bless you, Miggie, bless you, precious sister,
you can't begin to guess how much I love you. Neither can I tell
you. Why, it would take me till morning."
It became rather tiresome after a time being kept awake, and
fearing lest she WOULD talk till morning, Edith said to her,
"I shall go home if you are not more quiet."
There was something in Edith's voice which prompted the crazy girl
to obey, and with one more assurance of love she turned to her
pillow, and Edith knew by her soft, regular breathing, that her
troubles were forgotten.
"I hardly think you'll care to repeat the experiment again,"
Arthur said to Edith next morning, when he met her at the table,
and saw that she looked rather weary. "Nina, I fear, was
troublesome, as Sophy tells me she often is."
Edith denied Nina's having troubled her much. Still she felt that
she preferred her own cozy bed-chamber to Nina's larger, handsomer
room, and would not promise to spend another night at Grassy
Spring, although she expressed her willingness to resume her
drawing lessons, and suggested that Nina, too, should become a
pupil. Arthur would much rather have had Edith all to himself, for
he knew that Nina's presence would be a restraint upon him, but it
was right, and he consented as the only means of having Edith back
again in her old place, fancying that when he had her there it
would be the same as before. But he was mistaken, for when the
lessons were resumed, he found there was something between them,--
something which absorbed Edith's mind, and was to him a constant
warning and rebuke. Did he bend so near Edith at her task, that
his brown locks touched her blacker braids, a shower of golden
curls was sure to mingle with the twain, as Nina also bent her
down to see what he was looking at. Did the hand which sometimes
guided Edith's pencil ever retain the fingers longer than
necessary, a pair of deep blue eyes looked into his, not
reproachfully, for Nina could not fathom the meaning of what she
saw, but with an expression of childlike trust and confidence far
more potent than frowns and jealous tears would have been. Nina
was in Arthur's way, but not in Edith's, and half the pleasure she
experienced now in going to Grassy Spring, was derived from the
fact that she thus saw more of Nina than she would otherwise have
done. It was a rare and beautiful sight, the perfect love existing
between these two young girls, Edith seeming the elder, inasmuch
as she was the taller and more self-reliant of the two. As a
mother watches over and loves her maimed infant, so did Edith
guard and cherish Nina, possessing over her so much power that a
single look from her black eyes was sufficient to quiet at once
the little lady, who, under the daily influence of her society
visibly improved both in health and spirits.