University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
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 carring 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, Cæsar? 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 Cæsar'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 Cæsar.

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 Cæsar 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 so 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.