THE SISTERS.
Oh, how Edith yearned to take that sweet young creature to her
bosom, and concentrate in one wild, passionate hug the love of so
many wasted years; but Nina must not be unduly startled if she
would make her comprehend what she had to tell, and conquering her
own agitation with a wondrous effort she sat down upon the bed,
and said,
"How is my darling? Is her head all in a twist?"
Nina smiled, a rational, knowing smile, and answered,
"There wasn't the least bit of a twist in it till Arthur told me
about that in the graveyard, and then it began to thump so loud,
but with you sitting here, I'm better. You do me so much good,
Miggie. Your eyes keep me quiet. Where do you suppose she is--the
other Miggie; and how did she get out of the coffin?"
"Nina," said Edith, "can you understand me if I tell you a story
about a little girl who resembled your sister Miggie?"
Nina liked stories and though she would rather have talked of the
real Miggie, she expressed a willingness to listen, and by the dim
candle light Edith saw that the blue eyes, fixed so intently upon
her, still retained the comparatively rational expression she had
observed when she first came in. Moving a little nearer to her,
she began,
"A great many years ago, nearly eighteen, we will say, a beautiful
little girl, eight years old, I guess, with curls like yours,
waited one night in just such a house as this, for her father, who
had been long in Europe, and who was to bring her a new mother,
and a dear baby sister, two years old or thereabouts."
"Didn't I wear my blue dress, trimmed with white?" Nina asked
suddenly, her mind seeming to have followed Edith's, and grasped
the meaning of what she heard.
"I dare say you did," Edith answered; "at all events this little
girl was very beautiful as she waited in the twilight for the
travellers."
"Call the little girl Nina, please, I'll get at it better then,"
was the next interruption; and with a smile, Edith said,
"Nina, then, waited till they came--her father, her new mother
Petrea, and--"
"Beautiful Petrea," Nina exclaimed, "la belle Petrea, black hair
like yours, Miggie, and voice like the soft notes of the piano.
She taught me a heap of tunes which I never have forgotten, but
tell me more of the black-eyed baby, Nina's precious sister. I did
hug and squeeze her so--'la jolie enfant,' Marie called her."
Nina seemed to have taken the story away from Edith, who, when she
ceased speaking, again went on:
"Eloise Marguerite was the baby sister's name; Eloise, for a proud
aunt, who, after they came home, would not suffer them to call her
so, and she was known as Marguerite, which Nina shortened into
Miggie, Nina darling," and Edith spoke sadly now. "Was your father
always kind to Petrea?"
There was a look in Nina's face like a scared bird, and raising
her hands to her head, she said,
"Go away, old buzzing. Let Nina think what it was they used to do-
-pa and grandma and aunt Eloise. I know now; grandma and auntie
were proud of the Bernard blood, they said, and they called Petrea
vulgar, and baby sister a brat; and pa--oh, Miggie, I reckon he
was naughty to the new mother. He had a buzz in his head most
every night, not like mine, but a buzz that he got at the dinner
and the side-board, where they kept the bottles, and he struck
her, I saw him, and Marie, she was here, too, she stepped between
them, and called him a drunken, deceitful beast, and a heap more
in French. Then one morning when he was gone to New Orleans, and
would come home pretty soon, mother and Marie and Miggie went a
visiting to Tallahassee, or somewhere, and they never came back
again, though pa went after them as soon as he got home. Why
didn't they, Miggie?"
"Petrea was very unhappy here," Edith answered. "Mr. Bernard
abused her, as did his haughty mother, and once when he was gone
Petrea said she would go to Tallahassee to see a lady who had
visited her at Sunnybank. So she went with Marie, and Miggie, then
three years old, but did not stop in Tallahassee. They ran away to
New York, where Marie's sister lived. Here Petrea was taken sick
and died, making Marie promise that Miggie should never go back to
her bad father and his proud family. And Marie, who hated them
bitterly, all but Nina, kept her word. She wrote to Sunnybank that
both were dead, and the letter was forwarded by your grandmother
to Mr. Bernard, who had gone after his wife, but who lay drunk
many days at a hotel. The letter sobered him, and as it contained
Marie's address, he found her at last, crying bitterly for little
Miggie, up stairs asleep, but he thought her in the coffin with
her mother. Marie said so and he believed her, bringing the bodies
back to Sunnybank, and burying them beneath the magnolias."
"And built a great marble there with both their names cut on it,"
chimed in Nina, fearful lest any part of the story should be
omitted.
"Yes," returned Edith, "he raised a costly monument to their
memory; but don't you wish to know what became of Miggie?"
"Yes, yes, oh, yes, go on," was Nina's answer; and Edith
continued,
"Marie was too poor to take care of Miggie, and she put her in the
Asylum."
"The Asylum!" Nina fairly screamed. "Nina's baby sister in the
nasty old Asylum. No, no, it ain't. I won't, I shan't listen to
the naughty story," and the excited girl covered her head with a
pillow.
But Edith removed it gently, and with a few loving words quieted
the little lady, who said again, "Go on."
"It was the Orphan Asylum, where Nina's sister was put, but they
didn't call her Miggie. Her dying mother gave her another name
lest the father should some time find her, and there in that great
noisy city Miggie lived five or six long years, gradually
forgetting everything in the past, everything but Marie's name and
the airs her mother used to sing. Miggie had a taste for music,
and she retained the plaintive strains sung to her as lullabys."
"I know them, too," Nina said, beginning to hum one, while Edith
continued,
"After a time Marie went back to France. She did not mean to stay
long, but she was attacked with a lingering, painful sickness, and
could not return to Miggie, whom a beautiful lady took at last as
her waiting-maid. Then Arthur came--Arthur, a boy--and she saw
Nina's picture."
"The one in the locket! Nina asked, and Edith answered, "Yes,
'twas in a locket, and it puzzled Miggie till she spoke the name,
but thought it was Arthur who told her."
"Wait, wait," cried Nina, suddenly striking her forehead a heavy
blow; "I'm getting all mixed up, and something flashes across my
brain like lightning. I reckon it's a streak of sense. It feels
like it."
Nina was right. It was "a streak of sense," and when Edith again
resumed her story the crazy girl was very calm and quiet.
"After a time this Miggie went to live with a blind man--with
Richard," and Edith's hands closed tightly around the snowy
fingers, which crept so quickly toward her. "She grew to be a
woman. She met this golden-haired Nina, but did not know her,
though Nina called her Miggie always, because she looked like
Petrea, and the sound to Miggie was very sweet, like music heard
long ago. They loved each other dearly, and to Miggie there was
nothing in the whole world so beautiful, so precious, as poor
little crazy Nina, Arthur's Nina, Dr. Griswold's Nina, 'Snow-
Drop,' Richard called her. You remember Richard, darling?"
"Yes, yes, I remember everything," and Nina's chest began to
heave, her chin to quiver, her white lips, too, but still she shed
no tear, and the dry, blue eyes seemed piercing Edith's very soul
as the latter continued, rapidly, "Nina came home to Florida; she
sent for Miggie, and Miggie came, finding Marie who told her all--
told her where the baby was--and the real Miggie fell on her face,
thanking the good Father for giving her the sweetest, dearest
sister a mortal ever had. Do you understand me, darling? Do you
know now who I am--know who Miggie is?"
Edith's voice began to falter, and when she had finished she sat
gazing at the fairy form, which trembled and writhed a moment as
if in fearful convulsions, then the struggling ceased, the
features became composed, and raising herself in bed Nina crept
closer and closer to Edith, her lips quivering as if she fain
would speak but had not the power. Slowly the little hands were
raised and met together around Edith's neck; nearer and nearer the
white face came to the dark glowing one, until breath met breath,
lip met lip, golden tresses mixed with raven braids, and with a
cry which made the very rafters ring and went echoing far out into
the darkness, Nina said, "You are--that--that--ba-baby--the one we
thought was dead. You are my--my--Nina's--oh, Miggie, say it for
me or Nina'll choke to death. She can't think what the right word
is--the word that means MIGGIE," and poor exhausted Nina fell back
upon the pillow, while Edith, bending over her, whispered in her
ear, "Miggie means SISTER, darling; your SISTER; do you hear?"
"Yes, yes," and again the wild, glad cry went ringing through the
house, as Nina threw herself a second time on Edith's bosom.
"Sister, sister, Nina's sister. Nina's little Miggie once, great,
tall Miggie now,--mine, my own--nobody's sister but mine. Does
Arthur know, Ho, Arthur! come quick! He is coming, don't you hear
him. Arthur, Arthur, Miggie is mine. My precious sister," and Nina
Bernard fell back fainting just as Arthur appeared in the room,
and just as from the yard without there went up from the
congregated blacks, who together with their master and Victor, had
listened to Marie's story, a deafening shout, a loud huzza for
"Miggie Bernard," come back to Sunnybank, and back to those who
generously admitted her claim, and would ere long acknowledge her
as their mistress.
The few particulars which Edith had omitted in her story to Nina
may, perhaps, be better told now than at any other time. Mr.
Bernard, while in Paris, had been implicated in some disgraceful
affair which rendered him liable to arrest, and taking the name of
Temple, by way of avoiding suspicion, he fled to Germany, where he
met and married the beautiful Swedish Petrea, who, being young and
weary of a governess's life, was the more easily charmed with his
wealth and rather gentlemanly address. Because it suited his
peculiar nature to do so, he kept his real name from her until
they reached New York, when, fearful of meeting with some of his
acquaintances there, he confessed the fraud, laughing at it as a
good joke, and pronounced Petrea over nice for saying he had done
wrong.
The year which followed their arrival at Sunnybank was a year of
wretchedness and pining home-sickness on the part of both mistress
and maid, until at last the former, with her love for her husband
changed to hate, determined to leave him; and in his absence,
planned the visit to Tallahassee, going instead to New York, where
she died at the house of Mrs. Jamieson, Marie's sister. Even to
the last, the dread of her hated husband prevailed, and she made
Marie swear that her child should not go back to him.
"She will be happier to be poor," she said, "and I would rather
far that not a cent of the Bernard property should ever come into
her possession than that she should return to Sunnybank; but
sometime, Marie, when she is older, you may tell her my sad story,
and if he has become a better man, tell her who she is, and of the
bright-haired Nina. They will love each other, I am sure, for Nina
possesses nothing in common with her father, and lest she should
think ill of me for having married him, tell her how young, how
inexperienced I was, and how he deceived me, withholding even his
real name."
This was the point on which Petrea dwelt the most, shrinking, with
a kind of pride, from having it generally known, and persisting in
calling herself Temple to Mrs. Jamieson, who supposed this to be
her real name, inasmuch as Marie had called her so on the occasion
of her first visit after landing in New York the year previous,
and before the deception had been confessed.
"Don't undeceive her," Petrea said to Marie, who did her
mistress's bidding; and as Mrs. Jamieson was sick when Mr. Bernard
came, she did not see him, and was thus effectually kept in
ignorance that Edith's real name was Marguerite Bernard, else she
had divulged it to Richard, when in after years he came inquiring
for her parentage.
The rest the reader knows, except indeed, how Marie came to
Sunnybank a second time, and why she had so long neglected Edith.
She was with her mistress in Germany when Richard saved the child
from drowning. She never forgot him, and when from her sister she
learned that Edith was with him, she felt that interference on her
part was unnecessary. So even after recovering from her illness
she deferred returning to America, marrying, at last, and living
in an humble way in Paris, where she more than once saw Mr.
Bernard in the streets, when he was there with Nina. So many years
had elapsed since his first visit that he had no fears of arrest,
and openly appeared in public, recognised by none save Marie, who
never could forget him. Her husband's sudden death determined her
upon coming to America and looking up her child. The vessel in
which she sailed was bound for New Orleans, and, with a desire to
visit Sunnybank once more, she first wended her way thither,
expecting to find it inhabited by strangers; for, from an American
paper, which accidentally fell into her hands, she had heard of
Mr. Bernard's decease, and later still had heard from one who was
Nina's waiting maid while in Paris, that she, too, was dead. How
this information was obtained she did not know, but believing it
to be authentic, she supposed strangers, of course, were now the
tenants of Sunnybank; and anticipated much pleasure in restoring
to the so-called Edith Hastings her rightful heritage. Great then
was her surprise to find Nina living, and when she heard that
Edith was soon expected in Florida, she determined to await her
coming.
This was the story she told to Edith and also to the negroes, many
of whom remembered their unfortunate young mistress and her
beautiful baby Miggie still; but for the missing body they might
have doubted Marie's word, but that was proof conclusive, and
their loud hurrahs for Miss Miggie Bernard were repeated until
Nina came back to consciousness, smiling as she heard the cry and
remembered what it meant.
"Go to them--let them see you, darling," she said; and, with
Arthur as her escort, Edith went out into the midst of the sable
group, who crowded around her, with blessings, prayers, tears and
howlings indescribable, while many a hard, black hand grasped
hers, as negro after negro called her "mistress," adding some word
of praise, which showed how proud they were of this beautiful,
queenly scion of the Bernard stock, which they had feared would
perish with Nina. Now they would be kept together--they would not
be scattered to the four winds, and one old negro fell on his
knees, kissing Edith's dress, and crying,
"Cato bresses yon for lettin' his bones rot on de ole plantation."
Edith was perplexed, for to her the discovery had only brought
sweet images of sistership with Nina. Money and lands formed no
part of her thoughts, and turning to Arthur she asked what it all
meant.
Arthur did not reply at once, for he knew he held that which would
effectually take away all right from Edith. After Nina, he was Mr.
Bernard's chosen heir, but not for an instant did he waver in the
course he should pursue, and when the interview was ended with the
negroes, and Edith was again with Nina, he excused himself for a
moment, but soon returned, bearing in his hand Mr. Bernard's will,
which he bade Edith read.
And she did read it, feeling intuitively as if her father from the
grave were speaking to her, the injured Petrea's child, and
virtually casting her aside.
The tears gathered slowly in her eyes, dropping one by one upon
the paper, which without a word she handed back to Arthur.
"What is it, Arthur boy?" Nina asked. "What is it that makes
Miggie cry?"
Arthur doubted whether either of the girls would understand him if
he entered into an explanation involving many technical terms, but
he would do the best he could, and sitting down by Nina, he held
her upon his bosom, while he said, "Does my little girl remember
the time when I met her in Boston, years ago, and Charlie Hudson
brought me papers from her father?"
"Yes," answered Nina; "there was one that had in it something
about straight jackets, and when I read it, I hit my head against
the bureau. It's never been quite right since. Is this the letter
that made Miggie cry?"
"No," returned Arthur. "This is your father's will, made when he
thought there was no Miggie. In it, I am, his heir after you, and
Miggie hasn't a cent."
"You may have mine, Miggie. Nina'll give you hers, she will," and
the little maiden made a movement toward Edith, while Arthur
continued,
"Yon can't, darling. It's mine after you;" and this he said, not
to inflict fresh pain on Edith, but to try Nina, and hear what she
would say.
There was a perplexed, troubled look in her eyes, and then,
drawing his head close to her, she whispered,
"Couldn't you scratch it out, just as Richard did, only he didn't.
That's a good boy. He will, Miggie," and she nodded toward Edith,
while Arthur rejoined,
"Would it please my child-wife very much to have me scratch it
out?"
He had never called her thus before Edith until now, and he stole
a glance at her to witness the effect. For an instant she was
white as marble; then the hot blood seemed bursting from the small
round spot where it had settled in her cheeks, and involuntarily
she extended her hand toward him in token of her approval. She
could not have reassured him better than by this simple act, and
still retaining her hand, he went on,
"When I came to Florida, after Mr. Bernard's death, my first step
was to have the will proved, and consequently this sheet is now of
very little consequence; but as you both will, undoubtedly,
breathe more freely if every vestige of this writing is removed. I
will destroy it at once, and, as soon as possible, take the legal
steps for reinstating Edith."
Then releasing Edith's hand, Arthur took the candle from the
stand, and said to Nina,
"Have you strength to hold it?"
"Yes, yes," she cried, grasping it eagerly, while, with a hand far
steadier than hers, Arthur held the parchment in the flame,
watching as the scorched, brown flakes dropped upon the floor, nor
sending a single regret after the immense fortune he was giving
up.
It was done at last. The will lay crisped and blackened upon the
carpet; Edith, in her own estimation was reinstated in her rights,
and then, as if demanding something for the sacrifice, Arthur
turned playfully to her, and winding his arm around her said,
"Kiss me once as a sister, for such you are, and once for giving
you back your inheritance."
The kisses Arthur craved were given, and need we say returned!
Alas, those kisses! How they burned on Edith's lips, making her so
happy--and how they blistered on Arthur's heart, making him doubt
the propriety of having given or received them. His was the braver
spirit now. He had buffeted the billow with a mightier struggle
than Edith had ever known. Around his head a blacker, fiercer
storm had blown than any she had ever felt, and from out that
tumultuous sea of despair he had come a firmer, a better man, with
strength to bear the burden imposed upon him. Were it not so he
would never have sent for Edith Hastings--never have perilled his
soul by putting himself a second time under her daily influence.
But he felt that there was that within him which would make him
choose the right, make him cling to Nina, and so he wrote to
Edith, meeting her when she came as friend meets friend, and
continually thanking Heaven which enabled him to hide from
everyone the festered wound, which at the sound of her familiar
voice smarted and burned, and throbbed until his soul was sick and
faint with pain.
The discovery of Edith's parentage filled him with joy--joy for
Nina, and joy because an opportunity was thus afforded him of
doing an act unselfish to the last degree, for never for a single
moment did the thought force itself upon him that possibly Edith
might yet be his, and so the property come back to him again. He
had given her up, surrendered her entirely, and Richard's
interests were as safe with him as his gold and silver could have
been. Much he wished he knew exactly the nature of her feelings
toward her betrothed, but he would not so much as question Victor,
who, while noticing his calmness and self-possession, marvelled
greatly, wondering the while if it were possible that Arthur's
love were really all bestowed on Nina. It would seem so, from the
constancy with which he hung over her pillow, doing for her the
thousand tender offices, which none but a devoted husband could
do, never complaining, never tiring even when she taxed his good
nature to its utmost limit, growing sometimes so unreasonable and
peevish that even Edith wondered at his forbearance.
It was a whim of Edith's not to write to Richard of her newly-
found relationship. She would rather tell it to him herself, she
said, and in her first letter, she merely mentioned the incidents
of her journey, saying she reached Sunnybank in safety, that Nina
was no better, that Mr. St. Claire was very kind, and Victor very
homesick, while she should enjoy herself quite well, were it not
that she knew he was so lonely without her. And this was the
letter for which Richard waited so anxiously, feeling when it came
almost as if he had not had any, and still exonerating his singing
bird from blame, by saying that she could not write lovingly to
him so long us she knew that Mrs. Matson must be the interpreter
between them.
It was an odd-looking missive which he sent back and Edith's heart
ached to its very core as she saw the uneven handwriting, which
went up and down, the lines running into and over each other, now
diagonally, now at right angles, and again darting off in an
opposite direction as he held his pencil a moment in his fingers
and then began again. Still she managed to decipher it, and did
not lose a single word of the message intended for Nina.
"Tell little Snowdrop the blind man sends her his blessing and his
love, thinking of her often as he sits here alone these gloomy
autumn nights, no Edith, no Nina, nothing but lonesome darkness.
Tell her that he prays she may get well again, or if she does not,
that she may be one of the bright angels which make the fields of
Jordan so beautiful and fair"
This letter Edith took to Nina one day, when Arthur and Victor had
gone to Tallahassee, and Mrs. Lamotte was too busy with her own
matters to interrupt them. Nina had not heard of the engagement,
for Arthur could not tell her, and Edith shrank from the task as
from something disagreeable. Still she had a strong desire for
Nina to know how irrevocably she was bound to another, hoping thus
to prevent the unpleasant allusions frequently made to herself and
Arthur. The excitement of finding a sister in Miggie, had in a
measure overturned Nina's reason again, and for many days after
the disclosure she was more than usually wild, talking at random
of the most absurd things, but never for a moment losing sight of
the fact that Edith was her sister. This seemed to be the one
single clear point from which her confused ideas radiated, and the
love she bore her sister was strong enough to clear away the
tangled web of thought and bring her at last to a calmer, more
natural state of mind. There were hours in which no one would
suspect her of insanity, save that as she talked childish, and
even meaningless expressions were mingled with what she said,
showing that the woof of her intellect was defective still, and in
such a condition as this Edith found her that day when, with
Richard's letter in her hand, she seated herself upon the foot of
the bed and said, "I heard from Richard last night. You remember
him, darling?"
"Yes, he made me Arthur's wife; but I wish he hadn't for then you
would not look so white and sorry."
"Never mind that," returned Edith, "but listen to the message he
sent his little Snowdrop," and she read what Richard had written
to Nina.
"I wish I could be one of those bright angels," Nina said,
mournfully, when Edith finished reading; "but, Miggie, Nina's so
bad. I can think about it this morning, for the buzzing in my head
is very faint, and I don't get things much twisted, I reckon. I've
been bad to Arthur a heap of times, and he was never anything but
kind to me. I never saw a frown on his face or heard an impatient
word, only that sorry look, and that voice so sad."
"Don't, Nina, don't.
"Even Dr. Griswold was not patient as Arthur. He was quicker like,
and his face would grow so red. He used to shake me hard, and once
he raised his hand, but Arthur caught it quick and said 'No,
Griswold, not that--not strike Nina,' and I was tearing Arthur's
hair out by handfuls, too. That's when I bit him. I told you
once."
"Yes, I know," Edith replied; "but I wish to talk of something
besides Arthur, now. Are you sure you can understand me?"
"Yes, it only buzzed like a honey-bee, right in here," and Nina
touched the top of her head, while Edith continued.
"Did Arthur ever tell you who it was that fell into the Rhine?"
"Yes, Mrs. Atherton wrote, and I cried so hard, but he did not say
your name was Eloise, or I should have guessed you were Miggie,
crazy as I am."
"Possibly Grace did not so write to him," returned Edith; "but let
me tell you of Edith Hastings as she used to be when a child;" and
with the blue eyes of Nina fixed upon her, Edith narrated that
portion of her history already known to the reader, dwelling long
upon Richard's goodness, and thus seeking to prepare her sister
for the last, the most important part of all.
"After Arthur deceived me so," she said," I thought my heart would
never cease to ache, and it never has."
"But it will--it will," cried Nina, raising herself in bed. "When
I'm gone, it will all come right. I pray so every day, though it's
hard to do it sometimes now I know you are my sister. It would be
so nice to live with you and Arthur, and I love you so much. You
can't begin to know," and the impulsive girl fell forward on
Edith's bosom sobbing impetuously, "I love you so much, so much,
that it makes it harder to die; but I must, and when the little
snow-birds come back to the rose bushes beneath the windows of
Grassy Spring a great ways off, the hands that used to feed them
with crumbs will be laid away where they'll never tear Arthur
boy's hair any more. Oh, I wish they never had--I wish they never
had," and sob after sob shook Nina's delicate frame as she gave
vent to her sorrow for the trial she had been to Arthur. Edith
attempted to comfort her by saying, "He has surely forgiven you,
darling; and Nina, please don't talk so much of dying, Arthur and
I both hope you will live yet many years."
"Yes, Arthur does," Nina rejoined quickly, "him praying so one
night when he thought I was asleep--I make believe half of the
time, so as to hear what he says when he kneels down over in that
corner; and once, Miggie, a great while ago, it was nothing but
one dreadful groan, except when he said, 'God help me in this my
darkest hour, and give me strength to drink this cup.' But there
wasn't any cup there for I peaked, thinking maybe he'd go some of
my nasty medicine, and it wasn't dark, either for there were two
candles on the mantel and they shone on Arthur's face, which
looked to me as if it were a thousand years old. Then he
whispered, 'Edith, Edith,' and the sound was so like a wail that I
felt my blood growing cold. Didn't you hear him, Miggie, way off
to the north; didn't you hear him call? God did, and helped him, I
reckon, for he got up and came and bent over me, kissing me so
much, and whispering, 'My wife, my Nina.' It was sweet to be so
kissed, and I fell away to sleep; but Arthur must have knelt
beside me the livelong night, for every time I moved I felt his
hand clasp mine. The next day he told me that Richard saved you
from the river, and his lips quivered as if he feared you were
really lost."
Alas! Nina had come nearer the truth than she supposed, and Edith
involuntarily echoed her oft-repeated words, "Poor Arthur," for
she knew now what had preceded that cry of more than mortal
anguish which Arthur sent to Grace after hearing first of the
engagement.
"Nina" she said, after a moment's silence, "before that time of
which you speak, there came a night of grief to me--a night when I
wished that I might die, because Richard asked me to be his wife--
me, who looked upon him as my father rather than a husband. I
can't tell you what he said to me, but it was very touching, very
sad, and my heart ached so much for the poor blind man."
"But you didn't tell him yes," interrupted Nina. "You couldn't.
You didn't love him. It's wicked to act a lie Miggie--as wicked as
'tis to tell one. Say you told him no; it chokes me just to think
of it."
"Nina," and Edith's voice was low and earnest in its tone, "I
thought about it four whole weeks and at last I went to Richard
and said, 'I will be your wife.' I have never taken it back, I am
engaged to him, and I shall keep my word. Were it not that you
sent for me I should have been his bride ere this. I shall be his
bride on New Year's night."
Edith spoke rapidly, as if anxious to have the task completed, and
when at last it was done, she felt that her strength was leaving
her, so great had been the effort with which she told her story to
Nina. Gradually as she talked Nina had crept away from her, and
sitting upright in bed, stared at her fixedly, her face for once
putting on the mature dignity of her years, and seeming older than
Edith's. Then the clear-minded, rational Nina spoke out, "Miggie
Bernard, were you ten thousand times engaged to Richard, it shall
not be. You must not stain your soul with a perjured vow, and you
would, were this sacrifice to be. Your lips would say 'I love,'
but your heart would belie the words, and God's curse will rest
upon you if you do Richard this cruel wrong. He does not deserve
that you should deal so treacherously with him, and Miggie, I
would far rather you were lying in the grave-yard over yonder,
than to do this great wickedness. You must not, you shall not,"
and in the eyes of violet blue there was an expression beneath
which the stronger eyes of black quailed as they had done once
before, when delirium had set its mark upon them.
It was in vain that Edith persisted in saying she did, or at least
should love Richard as he deserved. Nina was not to be convinced,
and at last, in self-defence, Edith broke out bitterly against
Arthur as the immediate cause of her sufferings. Had he not been
faithless to his marriage vow, and might she not keep hers quite
as well as he kept his.
Nina was very white, and the swollen veins stood out full upon her
forehead as she lay panting on her pillow, but the eyes never for
an instant left Edith's, as she replied, "Arthur was in fault,
Miggie, greatly in fault, but there was much to excuse his error.
He was so young; not as old as you, Miggie, and Sarah Warren urged
us on. I knew afterward why she did it, too. She is dead now, and
I would not speak against her were it not necessary, but, Miggie,
she wanted Dr. Griswold, and she fancied he liked me, so she would
remove me from her path; and she did. She worked upon my love of
the romantic, and Arthur's impulsive nature, until she persuaded
us to run away. While we were on the road, Arthur whispered to me,
'Let's go back,' but I said, 'No,' while Sarah, who overheard him,
sneered at him as cowardly, and we went on. Then father took me
off to Paris, and I dared not tell him, he was so dreadful when he
was angry; and then I loved Charlie Hudson, and loved him the more
because I knew I musn't."
The mature expression was passing rapidly from Nina's face, and
the child-like one returning in its stead as she continued,
"I couldn't bear to think of Arthur, and before I came home I
determined never to live with him as his wife. I didn't know then
about this buzzing in my head, and the first thing I did when
alone with him at the Revere House was to go down on my knees and
beg of him not to make me keep my vow. I told him I loved Charlie
best, and he talked so good to me--said maybe I'd get over it, and
all that. Then he read pa's letter, which told what I would some
time be, and he didn't ask me after that to live with him, but
when he came from Florida and found me so dreadful, he put his
arms around me, loving-like, and cried, while I raved like a fury
and snapped at him like a dog. You see the buzzing was like a
great noisy factory then, and Nina didn't know what she was doing,
she hated him so, and the more he tried to please her the more she
hated him. Then, when I came to my senses enough to think I did
not want our marriage known, I made him promise not to tell, in
Florida or anywhere, so he didn't, and the weary years wore on
with people thinking I was his ward. Dr. Griswold was always kind
and good, but not quite as patient and woman-like as Arthur. It
seemed as if he had a different feeling toward me, and required
more of me, for he was not as gentle when I tore as Arthur was. I
was terribly afraid of him, though, and after a while he did me
good. The buzzing wasn't bigger than a mill-wheel, and it creaked
just as a big wheel does when there is no water to carry it. It
was crying that I wanted. I had not wept in three years, but the
sight of you touched a spring somewhere and the waters poured like
a flood, turning the wheel without that grating noise that used to
drive me mad, and after that I never tore but once. He didn't tell
you, because I asked him not, but I scratched him, struck Phillis,
burned up his best coat, broke the mirror, and oh, you don't know
how I did cut up! Then the pain went away and has never come back
like that. Sometimes I can see that it was wrong for him to love
you and then again I can't, but if it was he has repented so
bitterly of it since. He would not do it now. He needn't have told
you, either, for everybody was dead, and it never would have come
back to me if he hadn't said it in the Deering Woods. Don't you
see?"
"Yes, I see," cried Edith, her tears dropping fast into her lap,
"I see that I tempted him to sin. Oh, Arthur, I am most to blame--
most to blame."
"And you will give up Richard, won't you?" Nina said. "Arthur is
just as good, just as noble, just as true, and better too, it may
be, for he has passed through a fiercer fire than Richard ever
did. Will you give up Richard?"
"I can't," and Edith shook her head. "The chords by which he holds
me are like bands of steel, and cannot be sundered. I promised
solemnly that by no word or deed would I seek to break our
engagement, and I dare not. I should not be happy if I did."
And this was all Nina could wring from her, although she labored
for many hours, sometimes rationally, sometimes otherwise, but
always with an earnest simplicity which showed how pure were her
motives, and how great her love for Edith.