University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
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.

The 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 its 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 churchyard
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, the
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.