ALICE GREY.
While the events we have narrated were transpiring at Millbank, the New
York train bound for Albany had stopped one summer afternoon at a little
station on the river, and then sped on its way, leaving a track of smoke
and dust behind it. From the platform of the depot a young girl watched
the cars till they passed out of sight, and then, with something like a
sigh, entered the carriage waiting for her. Nobody had come to meet her
but the driver, who touched his hat respectfully, and then busied
himself with the baggage. The girl did not ask him any questions. She
only looked up into his face with a wistful, questioning gaze, which he
seemed to understand; for he shook his head sadly, and said, “Bad again,
and gone.”
Then an expression of deep sorrow flitted over the girl’s face, and her
eyes filled with tears as she stepped into the carriage. The road led
several miles back from the river and up one winding hill after another,
so that the twilight shadows were fading, and the night was shutting in
the beautiful mountain scenery, ere the carriage passed through a broad,
handsome park to the side entrance of a massive brick building, where it
stopped, and the young girl sprang out, and ran hastily up the steps
into the hall. There was no one there to meet her. Nothing but silence
and loneliness, and the moonlight, which fell across the floor, and made
the young girl shiver as she went on to the end of the hall, where a
door opened suddenly, and a slight, straight woman appeared with
iron-grey puffs around her forehead, diamonds in her ears, diamonds on
her soft white hands, and diamonds fastening the lace ruffle, which
finished the neck of her black-satin dress. She was a proud-looking
woman, with a stern, haughty face, which relaxed into something like a
smile when she saw the young girl, who sprang forward with a cry, which
might perhaps have been construed into a cry of joy, if the words which
followed had been different.
“O, auntie,” she said, taking the hand offered her, and putting up her
lips for the kiss so gravely given—“O, auntie, _why_ did father send for
me to come home from the only place where I was ever happy?”
“I don’t know. Your father’s ways are ways of mystery to me,” the lady
said; and then, as if touched with something like pity for the desolate
creature who had been brought from “the only place where she was ever
happy,” to this home where she could not be very happy, the lady drew
her to a couch, and untied the blue ribbons of the hat, and unbuttoned
the gray sack, doing it all with a kind of caressing tenderness which
showed how dear the young girl was to her.
“But did he give you no reason, auntie? What did he say when he told you
I was coming?” the girl asked vehemently, and the lady replied:
“He was away from Beechwood several days, travelling in New England, and
when he came back he told me he had left orders for you to come home at
once. I thought, from what he said, that he saw you in New Haven.”
“I never saw or heard of him till Mr. Baldwin came, and said I was to
leave school for home, and he was to be my escort. It’s very strange
that he should want me home now. Robert told me _she_ was gone again.
Did she get very bad?’”
The voice which asked this question was sad and low, like the voices of
those who talk of their dead; and the voice which answered was low, too,
in its tones.
“Yes, she took to rocking and singing night as well as day, and that,
you know, makes your father nervous sooner than anything else.”
“Did she want to go?”
“No; she begged to stay at first, but went quietly enough at the last.”
“Did she ever mention _me_, auntie? Do you think she missed me and
wanted me?”
“She spoke of you once. She said, ‘If Allie was here, she wouldn’t let
me go.’”
“O, poor, poor darling! O, auntie, it’s terrible, isn’t it?”
Alice was sobbing now, and amid her sobs she asked:
“Was father gentle with her, and kind?”
“Yes, gentler, more patient than I have known him for years. It almost
seemed as if something must have happened to him while he was gone, for
he was very quiet and thoughtful when he came home, and did not order
nearly as many brandy slings, though he smoked all the time.”
“Not in her room!” and the girl looked quickly up.
“No, not in her room,—he spared her that; and when she first began to
rock and sing, he tried his best to quiet her, but he couldn’t. She was
worse than usual.”
“Oh, how dreadful our life is?” Alice said again, while a shiver as if
she were cold ran over her. “I used to envy the girls at school who were
looking forward with such delight to their vacations, when I had nothing
but this for my portion. It is better than I deserve, I know, and it is
wrong for me to murmur; but, auntie, nobody can ever envy me my home!”
Her white fingers were pressed to her eyes, and the tears were streaming
through them, as she sat there weeping so bitterly, the fair young girl
whom Magdalen Lennox had envied for her beauty, her muslin dress, her
mother, her home! Alas! Magdalen, playing, and working, and eating, and
living in the great kitchen at Millbank, had known more of genuine home
happiness in a month than poor Alice Grey had known in her whole life.
And yet Alice’s home presented to the eye a most beautiful and desirable
aspect. There were soft velvet carpets on all the floors, mirrors and
curtains of costly lace in all the rooms, with pictures, and books, and
shells, and rare ornaments from foreign lands; handsome grounds, with
winding walks and terraced banks and patches of flowers, and fountains,
and trees, and rustic seats, and vine-wreathed arbors, and shady nooks,
suggestive of quiet, delicious repose; horses and carriages, and plenty
of servants at command. This was Alice’s home, and it stood upon the
mountain side, overlooking the valley of the Hudson, which could be seen
at intervals winding its way to the sea.
An old Scotch servant, who had been in the family for years, came into
the library where Alice was sitting, and after warmly welcoming her
bonny mistress, told her tea was waiting in the little supper room,
where the table was laid with the prettiest of tea-cloths, and the solid
silver contrasted so brightly with the pure white china. There were
luscious strawberries, fresh from the vines, and sweet, thick cream from
Hannah’s milk-house, and the nice hot tea-cakes which Alice loved, and
her glass of water from her favorite spring under the rock, and Lucy
stood and waited on her with as much deference as if she had been a
queen.
Alice was very tired, and soon after tea was over she asked permission
to retire, and Nannie, her own waiting-maid, went with her up the broad
staircase and through the upper hall to her room, which was over the
library, and had, like that, a bay-window looking off into the distant
valley.
Nannie was all attention, but Alice did not want her that night. She
would rather be alone; and she dismissed the girl, saying to her with a
smile, “I had no good Nannie at school to undress me and put up my
things. We had to wait on ourselves; so you see I have become quite a
little woman, and shall often dispense with your services.”
With her door shut on Nannie, Alice went straight to her window, through
which the moonlight was streaming, and kneeling down with her head upon
the sill, she prayed earnestly for grace to bear the loneliness and
desolation weighing so heavily on her spirits.
Although a child in years, Alice Grey had long since learned at whose
feet to lay her burdens. Her religion was a part of her whole being, and
she made it very beautiful with her loving, consistent life. Her school
companions had dubbed her the little “Puritan,” and sometimes laughed at
her for what they called her straight-laced notions; but there was not
one of them who did not love the gentle Alice Grey, or who would not
have trusted her implicitly, and stood by her against the entire school.
Alice knew that she was apt to murmur too much at the darkness
overshadowing her home, and to forget the many blessings which crowned
her life, and she now asked forgiveness for it, and prayed for a spirit
of thankfulness for all the good Heaven had bestowed upon her. And then
she asked that, if possible, the shadow might be lifted from the life of
one who was at once a terror and an object of her deepest solicitude and
love.
Prayer with Alice was no mere form to be gone through; it was a real
thing,—a communing with a living Presence,—and she grew quiet and calm
under its influence, and sat for a time drinking in the beauty of the
night, and looking far off across the valley to the hills beyond,—the
hills nearer to New Haven,—where she had been so happy. Then, as she
felt strong enough to bear it, she took her lamp, and went noiselessly
down the wide hall and through a green baize door into a narrow passage
which led away from the front part of the building. Before one of the
doors she paused, and felt again the same heart beat she had so many
times experienced when she drew near that door and heard the peculiar
sound which always made her for a moment faint and sick. But that sound
was hushed now, and the room into which Alice finally entered was silent
as the grave; and the moon, which came through the windows in such broad
sheets of silvery light, showed that it was empty of all human life save
that of the young girl who stood looking round, her lip quivering and
her eyes filling with tears as one familiar object after another met her
view.
There was the cradle in the corner, just where it had stood for years,
and the carpet in that spot told of the constant motion which had worn
the threads away; and there, too, was the chair by the window, where
Alice had so often seen a wasted figure sit, and the bed with its snowy
coverings, to which sleep was almost a stranger. Alice knelt by this
bed, and with her hand upon the crib which seemed to bring the absent
one so near to her, she prayed again, and her tears fell like rain upon
the pillows which she kissed for the sake of the feverish, restless head
which had so often lain there.
“Poor darling,” she said, “do you know that Alice is here to-night in
your own room? Do you know that she is praying for you, and loving you,
and pitying you so much?”
Then as the words “if Allie was here I shouldn’t have to go away,”
recurred to her mind, she sobbed, “No, darling, if Allie had been here
you should not have gone, and now that she is here, she’ll bring you
back again ere long, and bear with all your fancies more patiently than
she ever did before.”
There was another kiss upon the pillow as if it had been a living face,
and Alice’s fair hands petted and caressed and smoothed the ruffled
linen, and then she turned away and passed again into the passage and
through the green baize door, back into the broader hall, where the air
seemed purer, and she breathed free again.
The morning succeeding Alice’s return to Beechwood was cool and
beautiful, and the sun shone brightly through the white mist which lay
on the river and curled up the mountain side. Alice was awake early, and
when Nan came to call her she found her dressed and sitting by the open
window, looking out upon the grounds and the park beyond.
“You see I have stolen a march upon you, Nannie,” Alice said; “but you
may unlock that largest trunk, and help me put up my things.”
The trunk was opened, and with Nannie’s assistance Alice hung away all
her pretty dresses, which were useless in this retired neighborhood,
where they saw so few people. The tucked muslin, which Magdalen had
admired in the picture, Nan folded carefully, smoothing out the rich
Valenciennes lace and laying it away in a drawer, to grow yellow and
limp, perhaps, ere it was worn again. Alice’s chief occupation at
Beechwood was to wander through the grounds or climb over the mountains
and hills, with Nan or the house dog Rover as escorts; and so she seldom
wore the dresses which had been the envy of her schoolmates. She cared
little for dress, and when at last she went down to the breakfast room
to meet her stately aunt, she wore a simple blue gingham, and a
white-linen apron, with dainty little pockets all ruffled and fluted and
looking as fresh and pure as she looked herself, with her wavy hair, and
eyes of violet blue.
Her aunt, in her iron-gray puffs, and morning-gown of silvery gray
satin, was very precise and ceremonious, and kissed her graciously, and
then presided at the table with as much formality as if she had been
giving a state dinner. There were strawberries again, and flaky rolls,
and fragrant chocolate, and a nice broiled trout from a brook among the
hills, where Tom had caught it for his young lady, who, with a
schoolgirl’s keen appetite, ate far too fast to please her aunt, who,
nevertheless, would not reprove her that first morning home. Breakfast
being over, Alice, who was expecting her father that day, went to his
room to see that it was in order. It adjoined the apartment where she
had knelt in tears the preceding night, and there was a door between the
two; but, while the other had been somewhat bare of ornament and
handsome furniture, it would seem as if the master of the house had
racked his brain to find rare and costly things with which to deck his
own private room. There were marks of wealth and luxury visible
everywhere, from the heavy tassels which looped the lace curtains of the
alcove where the massive rosewood bedstead stood, to the expensive
pictures on the wall,—French pictures many of them,—showing a taste
which some would call highly cultivated, and others questionable. Alice
detested them, and before one, which she considered the worst, she had
once hung her shawl in token of her disapprobation. She was accustomed
to them now, and she merely gave them a glance, and then moved on to a
pencil sketch, which she had never seen before. It was evidently a
graveyard scene, for there were evergreens and shrubs, and a tall
monument, and near them a little barefoot girl, with a basket of
flowers, which she was laying on the grave. Alice knew it was her
father’s drawing, and she studied it intently, wondering where he got
his idea, and who was the little girl, and whose the grave she was
decorating with flowers. Then she turned from the picture to her
father’s writing-desk, and opened drawer after drawer until she came to
one containing nothing but a faded bouquet of flowers, such as the girl
in the picture might have been putting on the grave, and a little lock
of yellow hair. Pinned about the hair was a paper, which bore the same
date as did that letter which Roger Irving guarded with so much care.
Alice had heard of Roger Irving from Frank, who called him “uncle” when
speaking of him to her. She had him in her mind as quite an elderly man,
with iron-gray hair, perhaps, such as her auntie wore, and she had
thought she would like to see Frank’s paragon of excellence; but she had
no idea how near he was brought to her by that faded bouquet and that
lock of golden hair, which so excited her curiosity.
Her father had always been a mystery to her. That there was something in
his past life which he wished to conceal, she felt sure, just as she was
certain that he was to blame for that shattered wreck which sometimes
made Beechwood a terror and a dread, but to which Alice clung with so
filial devotion. There was very little in common between Alice and her
father. A thorough man of the world, with no regard for anything holy
and good, except as it helped to raise him in the estimation of his
fellows, Mr. Grey could no more understand his gentle daughter, whose
life was so pure and consistent, and so constant a rebuke to him, than
she could sympathize with him in his ways of thinking and acting. There
was a time when in his heart he had said there was no God,—a time when,
without the slightest hesitancy, he would have trampled upon all God’s
divine institutions and set his laws at naught; and the teachings of one
as fascinating and agreeable as Arthur Grey had been productive of more
harm than this life would ever show, for they had reached on even to the
other world, where some of his deluded followers had gone before him.
But as Alice grew into girlhood, with her sweet face and the example of
her holy Christian life, there was a change, and people said that Arthur
Grey was a better man. Outwardly he was, perhaps. He said no longer
there was no God. He _knew_ there was when he looked at his patient,
self-denying daughter, and he knew that Grace alone had made her what
she was. For Alice’s sake he admitted Alice’s God, and, because he knew
it helped him in various ways, he paid all due deference to the forms of
religion, and none were more regular in their attendance at the little
church on the mountain side than he, or paid more liberally to every
religious and charitable object. He believed himself that he had
reformed, and he charged the reform to Alice and the memory of a
golden-haired woman whom he had loved better than he had since loved a
human being, save his daughter Alice. But far greater than his love for
his daughter was his love of self and because it suited him to do it he
took his child from school without the shadow of an excuse to her, and
was now making other arrangements for her without so much as asking how
she would like them. He did not greatly care. If it suited him it must
suit her; and, as the first step toward the accomplishment of his
object, he removed from Beechwood the great trial of his life, and put
it where it could not trouble him, and turned a deaf ear to its
entreaties to be taken back to “home” and “Allie” and the “crib” its
poor arms had rocked so many weary nights. He knew the people with whom
he left his charge were kind and considerate. He had tested them in that
respect; he paid them largely for what they did. “Laura” was better
there than at Beechwood, he believed; at all events he wanted her out of
his way for a time, and so he had unclasped her clinging arms from his
neck and kissed her flushed, tear-stained face, and put her from him,
and locked the door upon her, and gone his way, thinking that when he
served himself he was doing the best thing which Arthur Grey could do.
He was coming home the night after Alice’s arrival, and the carriage
went down to the station to meet him. There was a haze in the sky, and
the moon was not as bright as on the previous night, when Allie rode up
the mountain side; but it was very pleasant and cool, and Mr. Grey
enjoyed his ride, and thought how well he had managed everything, and
was glad he had been so kind and gentle with Laura, and sent her that
basket of fruit, and that pretty little _cradle_, which he found in New
York; and then he thought of Alice, and his heart gave a throb of
pleasure when he saw the gleam of her white dress through the moonlight
as she came out to meet him. There was a questioning look in her eyes,—a
grieved, sorry kind of expression,—which he saw as he led her into the
hall, and he kissed her very tenderly, and, smoothing her chestnut hair,
said in reply to that look:
“I knew you would hate to leave school, Allie; but I am going to take
you to Europe.”
“To Europe? Oh, father!” And Alice gave a scream of joy.
A trip to Europe had been her dream of perfect happiness, and now that
the dream was to be fulfilled, it seemed too good to be true.
“Oh, auntie!” she cried, running up to that stately lady, who, in her
iron-gray puffs and black satin of the previous night, was coming slowly
to meet her brother,—“Auntie, we are going to Europe, all of us! Isn’t
it splendid?”
She was very beautiful in her white dress, with her blue eyes shining so
brightly, and she hung about her father in a caressing way, and played
and sang his favorite songs; and then, when at last he bade her
good-night, she shook her curly head, and, holding fast his hand, went
with him up the stairs to his own room, which she entered with him. She
felt that he did not want her there; but she stayed just the same, and,
seating herself upon his knee, laid her soft, white arms across his
neck, and, looking straight into his eyes, pleaded earnestly for the
poor creature who had been an occupant of the adjoining room.
“Let her go with us, father. I am sure the voyage would do her good.
Don’t leave her there alone.”
But Mr. Grey said “No,” gently at first, then very firmly as Alice grew
more earnest, and, finally, so sternly and decidedly, that Alice gave it
up, with a great gush of tears, and only asked permission to see her
once before she sailed. But to this Mr. Grey answered no, also.
“It would only excite her,” he said; “and the more quiet she is kept,
the better it is for her. I have seen that everything is provided for
her comfort. She is better there than here, or with us across the sea.
We shall be absent several years, perhaps, as I intend putting you at
some good school where you will finish your education.”
He intimated a wish for her to leave him then, and so she bade him
good-night, and left him alone with his thoughts, which were not of the
most agreeable nature. How still it was in the next room!—so still, that
he trembled as he opened the door and went in, where Alice had wept so
bitterly. He did not weep; he never wept; but he was conscious of a
feeling of oppression and pain as he glanced around the quiet, orderly
room, at the chair by the window, the bed in the corner, and the crib
standing near.
“What could have put that idea into her head?” he asked himself, as,
with his hand upon the cradle, he made the motion which poor Laura kept
up so constantly.
Then with a sigh he went back to his own room, and stood a long time
before that picture of the graveyard, which hung upon the wall. There
was a softness now in his eyes and manner,—a softness which increased
when he turned to his chair by the writing-desk, and took from a drawer
the faded flowers and the curl of hair which Alice had found.
“Poor Jessie! I wish I had never crossed her path,” he said, as he put
the curl and flowers away, and thought again of Alice and the little
dark-eyed girl who had designated her “Frank’s Alice Grey.”
“Frank’s, indeed!” he said; “I trust I have effectually stopped any
foolishness of that kind.”
Frank Irving was evidently not a favorite with Mr. Grey, though not a
word was ever said of him to Alice, who, as the days went by, began to
be reconciled to her removal from school, and to interest herself in her
preparations for the trip to Europe. They were to sail the last of
August, and one morning, in October, Magdalen received a letter from
Frank, saying that he had just heard, from one of Miss Dana’s pupils,
that Alice Grey had gone to Italy.