Darkness and Daylight by Mary J. Holmes (books to read to be successful TXT) 📕

“You did come, precious Miggie, to see sick Nina, didn’t you, and you’ll stay forever and ever, won’t you, my own sweet Miggie, and Arthur’s too? Oh, joy, joy, Nina’s so happy to-night.”

The voice grew very faint, the white lips ceased their pressure of kisses upon Edith’s—the golden head began to droop, and Arthur took the fainting girl in his arms, carrying her back to her bed, where he laid her gently down, himself caring for her until she began to revive.

Meanwhile Edith was introduced to Mrs. Lamotte, a French woman, who once was Nina’s nurse, and who had come to Sunnybank a few weeks before. Any one at all interested in Nina was sure of a place in Edith’s affections, and she readily took Mrs. Lamotte’s proffered hand, but she was not prepared for the peculiarly curious gaze fastened upon her, as Mrs. Lamotte waved off Teeny, the black girl, and taking her traveling bag and shawl, said to her,

“This way, s’il vous plait, Mademoiselle Marguerite. Pardonnez moi,” she added quickly, as she met Edith’s questioning glance, “Mademoiselle Miggie, as la petite Nina calls you.”

Once in Edith’s room, Mrs. Lamotte did not seem in haste to leave it, but continued talking in both English and French to Edith, who more than once, as the tones fell upon her ear, turned quickly to see if it were not some one she had met before.

“Je m’en irai,” Mrs. Lamotte said at last, as she saw that her presence was annoying Edith; and as the latter offered no remonstrance, she left the room, and Edith was alone with her confused thoughts.

Where was she? What room was this, with the deep window seats, and that wide-mouthed fire-place? Who was this woman that puzzled her so? Edith kept asking herself these questions, but could find for them no satisfactory answer. Struggle as she might, she felt more like a child returned to its home than like a stranger in a strange land. Even the soft south wind, stealing through the open casement, and fanning her feverish cheek, had something familiar in its breath, as if it had stolen in upon her thus aforetime; and when across the fields, she heard the negroes’ song as they came homeward from their toil, she laid her head upon the window sill, and wept for the something which swept over her, something so sweet, so sad, and yet so indescribable.

Fearing lest the Frenchwoman should return, she made a hasty toilet, and then stole down to Nina, who, wholly exhausted with the violence of her emotions at meeting Edith, lay perfectly still upon her pillow, scarcely whiter than her own childish face, round which a ray of the setting sun was shining, encircling it with a halo of glorious beauty, and making her look like an angel of purity and love. She did not attempt to speak as Edith came in, but her eyes smiled a welcome, and her thin, wasted fingers pointed to where Edith was to sit upon the bed beside her. Arthur sat on the other side, holding one of Nina’s hands, and the other was given to Edith, who pressed it to her lips, while her tears dropped upon it like rain. The sight of them disturbed the sick girl, and shaking her wealth of curls which, since Edith saw them, had grown thick and long, she whispered,

“Don’t, Miggie; tears are not for Nina; she’s so glad, for she is almost home. She’ll go down to the river brink with your arms and Arthur boy’s around her. Precious Miggie, nice Arthur. Nina is happy to-night.”

Such were the disjointed sentences she kept whispering, while her eyes turned from Edith to Arthur and from Arthur back to Edith, resting longer there, and the expression of the face told of the unutterable joy within. Softly the twilight shadows stole into the room, and the servants glided in and out, casting furtive and wondering glances at Edith, who saw nothing save the clear blue eyes shining upon her, even through the gathering darkness, and telling her of the love which could not be expressed.

As it grew darker Nina drew the two hands she clasped together— Arthur’s and Edith’s—laid them one above the other upon her bosom, pressed her own upon them, and when, at last, the candles were brought in and placed upon the table, Edith saw that the weary lids had closed and Nina was asleep. Every effort, however, which she made to disengage her hand from its rather embarrassing position, threatened to arouse the sleeper, and for nearly half an hour she sat there with her hand beneath Arthur’s, but she dared not look at him, and with her face turned away, she answered his questions concerning Shannondale and its inhabitants.

After a time Mrs. Lamotte came in and asked if mademoiselle would like to retire. Edith would far rather have gone to her room alone, but Mrs. Lamotte seemed bent upon hovering near her, and as there was no alternative she followed her up the stairs and into the chamber, where she had lain aside her things. To her great relief her companion did not stay longer than necessary, and ere the entire household was still, Edith was dreaming of Collingwood and Richard.

The next morning was bright, balmy, and beautiful, and at an early hour Edith arose and went down to Nina, who heard her step in the hall, and called to her to come.

“Darling Miggie, I dreamed you were gone,” she said, “and, I cried so hard that it woke Arthur up. He sleeps here every night, on that wide lounge,” and she pointed toward a corner, “I’ve grown so silly that I won’t let any body else take care of me but Arthur boy—he does it so nice and lifts me so carefully. Hasn’t he grown pale and thin?”

Edith hardly knew, for she had not ventured to look fully at him, but she assumed that he had, and Nina continued: “He’s a darling boy, and Nina loves him now.”

“How is your head this morning,” Edith asked, and Nina replied, “It’s better. It keeps growing better, some days it’s clear as a bell, but I don’t like it so well, for I know then that you ain’t Miggie,—not the real Miggie who was sent home in mother’s coffin. We have a new burying ground, one father selected long ago, the sweetest spot you ever saw, and they are moving the bodies there now. They are going to take up my last mother, and the little bit of Miggie to-day, and Marie is so flurried.”

Arthur’s step was now heard in the hall, and this it was which so excited Edith that she failed to catch the word Marie, or to understand that it was Mrs. Lamotte who was worried about the removal of the bodies. In a moment Arthur appeared, bringing a delicate bouquet for Nina, and a world of sunshine to Edith. He was changed, Edith saw as she looked at him now, and yet she liked his face better than before. He seemed to her like one over whom the fire had passed, purifying as it burned, and leaving a better metal than it had found. He was wholly self-possessed this morning, greeting her as if the scene in the Deering woods had never been enacted, and she could hardly believe that they were the same, the Arthur of one year ago, and the Arthur of to-day; the quiet, elegant young man, who, with more than womanly tenderness, pushed Nina’s curls back under her lace cap, kissed her forehead, and then asked Edith if she did not look like a little nun with her hair so plain.

Nina liked to be caressed, and she smiled upon him a smile so full of trusting faith and love, that Edith’s eyes filled with tears, and her rebellious heart went out toward Arthur as it had never done before, inasmuch as she felt that he was now far more worthy of her.

Very rapidly the morning passed away, and it was after three o’clock P.M., when, as Arthur sat with Edith upon the cool piazza, one of the negroes came running up, the perspiration starting from every pore, and himself almost frantic with excitement.

“What is it, Caesar?” Arthur asked. “What has happened to you?”

“Nothing to me, Mars’r,” returned the negro; “but sumfin mighty curis happen over dar,” and he pointed in the direction where his comrades were busy removing the family dead to a spot selected by Mr. Bernard years before as one more suitable than the present location. “You see, we was histin’ de box of the young Miss and de chile, when Bill let go his holt, and I kinder let my hands slip off, when, Lor’ bless you, the box busted open, an’ we seen the coffin spang in the face. Says Bill, says he—he’s allus a reasonin’, you know—an’, says he, ‘that’s a mighty narrer coffin for two;’ and wid that, Mr. Berry, the overseer, Miss,” turning to Edith, “He walked up, and findin’ de screws rattlin’ and loose, just turned back de top piece, an’, as true as Caesar’s standin’ here, there wasn’t no chile thar; nothin’ ‘tall but the Miss, an’ she didn’t look no how; never should have guessed them heap of bones had ever been Miss Petry.”

Edith started from her chair and was about to speak when a hand was laid upon her wrist, and turning, she saw Mrs. Lamotte standing behind her, and apparently more excited than herself.

“Come with me,” she said, leading the unresisting Edith away, and leaving Arthur to follow Caesar.

Of all the household at Sunnybank no one had been so much interested in the removal of the bodies as Mrs. Lamotte, and yet her interest was all centered upon the grave of Miggie Bernard’s mother. When that was disturbed, she was watching from her window, and when the accident occurred which revealed the fraud of years, she hurried down and, with a cat-like tread, glided behind Edith’s chair where she stood while Caesar told his story.

It would be impossible to describe Edith’s feeling as she followed the strange woman up to her own room, sitting down just where Mrs. Lamotte bade her sit, and watching nervously the restless rolling of the eyes, which had no terror for her now, particularly after their owner said to her in French,

“Do you know me, Edith Hastings, Eloise Temple, Marguerite Bernard? Have we never met before?”

Like the rushing of some mighty, pent up flood the past swept over her then, almost bearing her senses down with the headlong tide; link after link was joined, until the chain of evidence was complete, and with a scream of joy Edith went forward to the arms unfolded to receive her.

“Marie, Marie!” she cried, “How is it? When was it? Where was it? Am I anybody or not, tell me?”

Then question followed question go rapidly that Marie, with all her voluble French and broken English, was hardly able to keep up. But the whole was told at last; everything was clear to Edith as the daylight, and tottering to the bed, she asked to be alone, while she wept and prayed over this great joy, which had come so suddenly upon her.

“Nina, Nina. I thank thee, oh, my Father, for sweet, precious Nina.”

That was all she could say, as with her face in the pillows, she lay until the sun went down, and night fell a second time on Sunnybank.

“No one shall tell her but myself,” she thought as she descended to Nina’s room, where