SUNNYBANK.
"Berry soon, Miss, an' we're thar. We turns the corner yonder, we
drives 'cross the plain, down a hill, up anoder, an' then we's
mighty nigh a mile from the spot."
Such was the answer made by Tom, the Bernard coachman to Edith's
repeated inquiries, "Are we almost there."
For three successive days the Bernard carriage had been to
Tallahassee in quest of the expected guest, whose coming was
watched for so eagerly at Sunnybank, and who, as the bright
October afternoon was drawing to its close, looked eagerly out at
a huge old house which stood not very far distant with the setting
sun shining on the roof and illuminating all the upper windows. A
nearer approach showed it to be a large, square, wooden building,
divided in the centre by a wide, airy hall, and surrounded on
three sides by a verandah, the whole bearing a more modern look
than most of the country houses in Florida, for Mr. Bernard had
possessed considerable taste, and during his life had aimed at
fitting up his residence somewhat after the northern fashion. To
Edith there was something familiar about that old building, with
its handsome grounds, and she said aloud,
"I've surely dreamed of Sunnybank."
"Berry likely, Miss," answered Tom, thinking the remark addressed
to him, inasmuch as Edith's head protruded from the window.
"Dreams is mighty onsartin. Git 'long, you Bill, none o'yer lazy
carlicues, case don't yer mind thar's Mars'r Arthur on the
v'randy, squinting to see if I's fotched 'em," and removing his
old straw hat, Tom swung it three times around his head, that
being the signal he was to give if Edith were in the carriage.
With an increased flush upon his brow, Arthur St. Claire hastened
down, pausing at an inner room while he bent over and whispered to
a young girl reclining on her pillow,
"Nina, darling, Miggie's come."
There was a low cry of unutterable delight, and Nina Bernard
raised herself upon her elbow, looking wistfully toward the door
through which Arthur had disappeared.
"Be quiet, la petite Nina," said a short, thick woman, who sat by
the bed, apparently officiating in the capacity of nurse; then, as
the carriage stopped at the gate, she glided to the window,
muttering to herself, "Charmant charmant, magnifique," as she
caught a full view of the eager, sparkling face, turned toward the
young man hastening down the walk. Then, with that native
politeness natural to her country, she moved away so as not to
witness the interview.
"Arthur!"
"Edith!"
That was all they said, for Richard and Nina stood between them, a
powerful preventive to the expression of the great joy throbbing
in the heart of each, as hand grasped hand, and eye sought eye,
fearfully, tremblingly, lest too much should be betrayed.
"Miggie, Miggie, be quick," came from the room where Nina was now
standing up in bed, her white night dress hanging loosely about
her forehead and neck.
It needed but this to break the spell which bound the two without,
and dropping Edith's hand, Arthur conducted her to the house,
meeting in the hall with Nina, who, in spite of Mrs. Lamotte had
jumped from her bed and skipping across the floor, flung herself
into Edith's arms, sobbing frantically,
"You did come, precious Miggie, to see sick Nina, didn't you, and
you'll stay forever and ever, won't you, my own sweet Miggie, and
Arthur's too? Oh, joy, joy, Nina's so happy to-night."
The voice grew very faint, the white lips ceased their pressure of
kisses upon Edith's--the golden head began to droop, and Arthur
took the fainting girl in his arms, carrying her back to her bed,
where he laid her gently down, himself caring for her until she
began to revive.
Meanwhile Edith was introduced to Mrs. Lamotte, a French woman,
who once was Nina's nurse, and who had come to Sunnybank a few
weeks before. Any one at all interested in Nina was sure of a
place in Edith's affections, and she readily took Mrs. Lamotte's
proffered hand, but she was not prepared for the peculiarly
curious gaze fastened upon her, as Mrs. Lamotte waved off Teeny,
the black girl, and taking her traveling bag and shawl, said to
her,
"This way, s'il vous plait, Mademoiselle Marguerite. Pardonnez
moi," she added quickly, as she met Edith's questioning glance,
"Mademoiselle Miggie, as la petite Nina calls you."
Once in Edith's room, Mrs. Lamotte did not seem in haste to leave
it, but continued talking in both English and French to Edith, who
more than once, as the tones fell upon her ear, turned quickly to
see if it were not some one she had met before.
"Je m'en irai," Mrs. Lamotte said at last, as she saw that her
presence was annoying Edith; and as the latter offered no
remonstrance, she left the room, and Edith was alone with her
confused thoughts.
Where was she? What room was this, with the deep window seats, and
that wide-mouthed fire-place? Who was this woman that puzzled her
so? Edith kept asking herself these questions, but could find for
them no satisfactory answer. Struggle as she might, she felt more
like a child returned to its home than like a stranger in a
strange land. Even the soft south wind, stealing through the open
casement, and fanning her feverish cheek, had something familiar
in its breath, as if it had stolen in upon her thus aforetime; and
when across the fields, she heard the negroes' song as they came
homeward from their toil, she laid her head upon the window sill,
and wept for the something which swept over her, something so
sweet, so sad, and yet so indescribable.
Fearing lest the Frenchwoman should return, she made a hasty
toilet, and then stole down to Nina, who, wholly exhausted with
the violence of her emotions at meeting Edith, lay perfectly still
upon her pillow, scarcely whiter than her own childish face, round
which a ray of the setting sun was shining, encircling it with a
halo of glorious beauty, and making her look like an angel of
purity and love. She did not attempt to speak as Edith came in,
but her eyes smiled a welcome, and her thin, wasted fingers
pointed to where Edith was to sit upon the bed beside her. Arthur
sat on the other side, holding one of Nina's hands, and the other
was given to Edith, who pressed it to her lips, while her tears
dropped upon it like rain. The sight of them disturbed the sick
girl, and shaking her wealth of curls which, since Edith saw them,
had grown thick and long, she whispered,
"Don't, Miggie; tears are not for Nina; she's so glad, for she is
almost home. She'll go down to the river brink with your arms and
Arthur boy's around her. Precious Miggie, nice Arthur. Nina is
happy to-night."
Such were the disjointed sentences she kept whispering, while her
eyes turned from Edith to Arthur and from Arthur back to Edith,
resting longer there, and the expression of the face told of the
unutterable joy within. Softly the twilight shadows stole into the
room, and the servants glided in and out, casting furtive and
wondering glances at Edith, who saw nothing save the clear blue
eyes shining upon her, even through the gathering darkness, and
telling her of the love which could not be expressed.
As it grew darker Nina drew the two hands she clasped together--
Arthur's and Edith's--laid them one above the other upon her
bosom, pressed her own upon them, and when, at last, the candles
were brought in and placed upon the table, Edith saw that the
weary lids had closed and Nina was asleep. Every effort, however,
which she made to disengage her hand from its rather embarrassing
position, threatened to arouse the sleeper, and for nearly half an
hour she sat there with her hand beneath Arthur's, but she dared
not look at him, and with her face turned away, she answered his
questions concerning Shannondale and its inhabitants.
After a time Mrs. Lamotte came in and asked if mademoiselle would
like to retire. Edith would far rather have gone to her room
alone, but Mrs. Lamotte seemed bent upon hovering near her, and as
there was no alternative she followed her up the stairs and into
the chamber, where she had lain aside her things. To her great
relief her companion did not stay longer than necessary, and ere
the entire household was still, Edith was dreaming of Collingwood
and Richard.
The next morning was bright, balmy, and beautiful, and at an early
hour Edith arose and went down to Nina, who heard her step in the
hall, and called to her to come.
"Darling Miggie, I dreamed you were gone," she said, "and, I cried
so hard that it woke Arthur up. He sleeps here every night, on
that wide lounge," and she pointed toward a corner, "I've grown so
silly that I won't let any body else take care of me but Arthur
boy--he does it so nice and lifts me so carefully. Hasn't he grown
pale and thin?"
Edith hardly knew, for she had not ventured to look fully at him,
but she assumed that he had, and Nina continued: "He's a darling
boy, and Nina loves him now."
"How is your head this morning," Edith asked, and Nina replied,
"It's better. It keeps growing better, some days it's clear as a
bell, but I don't like it so well, for I know then that you ain't
Miggie,--not the real Miggie who was sent home in mother's coffin.
We have a new burying ground, one father selected long ago, the
sweetest spot you ever saw, and they are moving the bodies there
now. They are going to take up my last mother, and the little bit
of Miggie to-day, and Marie is so flurried."
Arthur's step was now heard in the hall, and this it was which so
excited Edith that she failed to catch the word Marie, or to
understand that it was Mrs. Lamotte who was worried about the
removal of the bodies. In a moment Arthur appeared, bringing a
delicate bouquet for Nina, and a world of sunshine to Edith. He
was changed, Edith saw as she looked at him now, and yet she liked
his face better than before. He seemed to her like one over whom
the fire had passed, purifying as it burned, and leaving a better
metal than it had found. He was wholly self-possessed this
morning, greeting her as if the scene in the Deering woods had
never been enacted, and she could hardly believe that they were
the same, the Arthur of one year ago, and the Arthur of to-day;
the quiet, elegant young man, who, with more than womanly
tenderness, pushed Nina's curls back under her lace cap, kissed
her forehead, and then asked Edith if she did not look like a
little nun with her hair so plain.
Nina liked to be caressed, and she smiled upon him a smile so full
of trusting faith and love, that Edith's eyes filled with tears,
and her rebellious heart went out toward Arthur as it had never
done before, inasmuch as she felt that he was now far more worthy
of her.
Very rapidly the morning passed away, and it was after three
o'clock P.M., when, as Arthur sat with Edith upon the cool piazza,
one of the negroes came running up, the perspiration starting from
every pore, and himself almost frantic with excitement.
"What is it, Caesar?" Arthur asked. "What has happened to you?"
"Nothing to me, Mars'r," returned the negro; "but sumfin mighty
curis happen over dar," and he pointed in the direction where his
comrades were busy removing the family dead to a spot selected by
Mr. Bernard years before as one more suitable than the present
location. "You see, we was histin' de box of the young Miss and de
chile, when Bill let go his holt, and I kinder let my hands slip
off, when, Lor' bless you, the box busted open, an' we seen the
coffin spang in the face. Says Bill, says he--he's allus a
reasonin', you know--an', says he, 'that's a mighty narrer coffin
for two;' and wid that, Mr. Berry, the overseer, Miss," turning to
Edith, "He walked up, and findin' de screws rattlin' and loose,
just turned back de top piece, an', as true as Caesar's standin'
here, there wasn't no chile thar; nothin' 'tall but the Miss, an'
she didn't look no how; never should have guessed them heap of
bones had ever been Miss Petry."
Edith started from her chair and was about to speak when a hand
was laid upon her wrist, and turning, she saw Mrs. Lamotte
standing behind her, and apparently more excited than herself.
"Come with me," she said, leading the unresisting Edith away, and
leaving Arthur to follow Caesar.
Of all the household at Sunnybank no one had been so much
interested in the removal of the bodies as Mrs. Lamotte, and yet
her interest was all centered upon the grave of Miggie Bernard's
mother. When that was disturbed, she was watching from her window,
and when the accident occurred which revealed the fraud of years,
she hurried down and, with a cat-like tread, glided behind Edith's
chair where she stood while Caesar told his story.
It would be impossible to describe Edith's feeling as she followed
the strange woman up to her own room, sitting down just where Mrs.
Lamotte bade her sit, and watching nervously the restless rolling
of the eyes, which had no terror for her now, particularly after
their owner said to her in French,
"Do you know me, Edith Hastings, Eloise Temple, Marguerite
Bernard? Have we never met before?"
Like the rushing of some mighty, pent up flood the past swept over
her then, almost bearing her senses down with the headlong tide;
link after link was joined, until the chain of evidence was
complete, and with a scream of joy Edith went forward to the arms
unfolded to receive her.
"Marie, Marie!" she cried, "How is it? When was it? Where was it?
Am I anybody or not, tell me?"
Then question followed question go rapidly that Marie, with all
her voluble French and broken English, was hardly able to keep up.
But the whole was told at last; everything was clear to Edith as
the daylight, and tottering to the bed, she asked to be alone,
while she wept and prayed over this great joy, which had come so
suddenly upon her.
"Nina, Nina. I thank thee, oh, my Father, for sweet, precious
Nina."
That was all she could say, as with her face in the pillows, she
lay until the sun went down, and night fell a second time on
Sunnybank.
"No one shall tell her but myself," she thought as she descended
to Nina's room, where Arthur was telling of the discovery they had
made--a discovery for which he could not account, and about which
the negroes, congregated together in knots, were talking, each
offering his or her own theory with regard to the matter, and
never once thinking to question Mrs. Lamotte, who, they knew, had
been with Mrs. Bernard when she died.
"Oh, Miggie!" Nina cried. "HAVE you heard? do you know? Little
Miggie isn't there where we thought she was. She's gone. Nobody's
there but my other mother."
"Yes, I know," Edith answered, and laying her hand on Arthur's she
said, "Please, Mr. St Claire, go away awhile. I must see Nina
alone. Don't let anybody disturb us, will you? Go to Mrs.
Lamotte. Ask her what I mean. She can tell you. She told me."
Thus importuned, Arthur left the room, and Edith was alone with
Nina.