University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
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' 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, recognized 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 you 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,

“You 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 every one 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 as 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
know 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. “I heard
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 peeked, thinking may be
he'd got 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 any where, 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.