Greenleaf found a carriage for Mrs. Sandford, and accompanied her to a
private boarding-house, where she took lodgings; he then sent the driver
back for her trunks, and, having seen her comfortably provided for,
returned to his own rooms,--but not to remain there. He desired only to
leave a message on his door, explaining his absence. In less than an
hour he was in the railway-train, on his way to Innisfield.
To the musing or drowsy traveller by rail how space and time are
annihilated! He is barely conscious of progress, only when the brakeman
with measured tone shouts the name of the station; he looks up from his
paper or rouses from his doze, looks out at the cheerless prospect, and
then settles himself for another thirty miles. Time passes as unobserved
as the meadows or bushy pastures that flit by the jarring window at
his ear. But with Greenleaf, the reader will believe, the case was far
different. He had never noticed before how slowly the locomotives really
moved. At each station where wood and water were to be taken, it seemed
to him the delay was interminable. His eager desire shot along the track
like electricity; and when at last he reached the place where he was to
leave the train, he had gone through a year of ordinary hopes and fears.
He mounted the stage-box and took his seat beside the buffalo-clad,
coarse-bearded, and grim driver. The road lay through a hilly country,
with many romantic views on either hand. It was late in the season to
see the full glories of autumn; but the trees were not yet bare, and in
many places the contrasts of color were exquisite. For once the driver
found his match; he had a passenger as taciturn as himself. For the
first few miles not a word was spoken, saving a few brief threats to the
horses; but at last Jehu could hold out no longer; his reputation was
in danger, if he allowed any one to be more silent than himself, and he
cautiously commenced a skirmish.
"From Boston?"
A nod was the only reply.
"Belong about here?"
"No," with a shake of the head.
"Ben up here afore, though, I guess?"
"Yes."
"Thought I remembered. Year or so ago?"
"Yes."
"Had a great white cotton umbrill, a box like a shoe-kit, and suthin'
like a pair o' clo'es-frames?"
Greenleaf could but smile at the description of his easel and artist's
outfit; still he contented himself with a brief assent.
"Keeps tight as the bark to a white-oak," muttered Jehu to himself.
"Guess I'll try him on t'other side, seein' he's so offish."
Then aloud,--
"Knowed Square Lee, I b'lieve?"
"Yes," thundered Greenleaf, looking furiously at the questioner.
The glance frightened Jehu's soul from the red-curtained windows, where
it had been peeping out, back to its hiding-place, wherever that might
be.
"Well, yer needn't bite a feller's head off," muttered he, in the same
undertone as before. "And if ye want to keep to yerself, shet up yer
darned oyster-shell, and see how much you make by it. Not more'n four
and sixpence, I guess. Maybe you'll come back 'bout's wise as ye come."
Thenceforward, Buffalo-coat was grim; his admonitions to the horses were
a trifle more emphatic; once he whistled a fragment of a minor stave,
but spoke not a word till the coach reached the tavern-door.
"You can drive to Mr. Lee's house," said Greenleaf.
"Want to go where he is?" replied Jehu, with a sardonic grin. "Wal, I'm
goin' past the meetin'us, and I'll set ye down at the graveyard."
"What do you mean?" asked Greenleaf, between anger and terror, at this
brutal jest.
"Why, he's dead, you know, and ben layin' up there on the side-hill a
fortnight."
"Take me to the house, nevertheless."
"Lee's house? 'Siah Stebbins, the lame shoemaker, he's jest moved
into't. Miss Stebbins, she can't 'commodate ye, most likely; got too
many children; a'n't over an' above neat, nuther."
"Where is Miss Lee,--Alice,--his daughter?"
"Wal, can't say;--gone off, I b'lieve."
"She has relatives here, has she not?"
"Guess not; never heerd of any."
With a heavy heart, Greenleaf alighted at the tavern. Mr. Lee _dead_!
Alice left alone without friends, and now gone! The thought stunned,
overpowered him. While he had been treading the paths of dalliance,
forgetful of his obligations, the poor girl had passed through the great
trial of her life, the loss of her only parent and protector,--had met
the awful hour alone. Hardly conscious of what he did, he went to the
churchyard and sought for a new-made grave. The whole scene was pictured
to his imagination with startling vividness. He saw the fond father on
his death-bed, leaving the orphan to the kindness of strangers to his
blood,--the daughter weeping, disconsolate, the solitary mourner at the
funeral,--the desolate house,--the well-meant, but painful sympathy of
the villagers. He, meanwhile, who should have cheered and sustained her,
was afar off, neglectful, recreant to his vows. Could he ever forgive
himself? What would he not give for one word from the dumb lips, for one
look from the eyes now closed forever?
But regrets were useless; his first duty was to the living; he must
hasten to find Alice. But how, where? It occurred to him that the
village lawyer was probably administrator of the estate, and could tell
him where Alice was. He went, therefore, to the lawyer's office. It was
shut, and a placard informed him that Mr. Blank was attending court
at the county-seat. The lawyer's housekeeper said that "Alice was to
Boston, with some relation or other,--a Mr. Monroe, she believed his
name was, but couldn't say for sartin. The Square could tell; but
he--wouldn't be back for three or four days."
Leaving his card, with a request that Mr. Blank would communicate to him
Alice's address, Greenleaf hired a conveyance to the railway. He could
not remain in Innisfield an hour; it was a tomb, and the air stifled
him. On his way, he had ample opportunity to consider what a slender cue
he had to find the girl; for he thought of the long column of Monroes in
the "Directory"; and, besides, he did not feel sure that the housekeeper
had correctly remembered the name, even.
We leave the repentant lover to follow on the track of Alice, assured
that he will receive sufficient punishment for his folly in the remorse
and anxiety he must feel.
It is quite time that our neglected heroine should appear upon the
stage. Gentle Alice, orphaned, deserted, lonely; it is not from any
distrust as to her talents, her manners, or her figure, that she
has been made to wait so long for the callboy. The curtain rises. A
fair-haired girl of medium height, light of frame, with a face in whose
sad beauty is blended the least perceptible trace of womanly resolution.
She has borne the heaviest sorrow; for when she followed her father to
the grave she buried the last object of her love. The long, inexcusable
silence of Greenleaf had been explained to her; she now believed him
faithless, and had (not without a pang) striven to uproot his memory
from her heart. Courageous, but with more than the delicacy of her sex,
strong only in innocence and great-heartedness, mature in character and
feeling, but with fresh and tender sensibility, she appeals to all manly
and womanly sympathy.
When the last ties that bound her to her native village were broken, she
accepted the hearty invitation of her cousin, Walter Monroe, and went
with him to Boston. The house at once became a home to her. Mrs.
Monroe received her as though she had been a daughter. Such a pretty,
motherless child,--so loving, so sincere! How could the kind woman
repress the impulse to fold her to her bosom? Not even her anxiety to
retain undivided possession of her son's heart restrained her. So Alice
lived, quiet, affectionate, but undemonstrative, as was natural after
the trials she had passed. Insensibly she became "the angel in the
house"; mother and son felt drawn to her by an irresistible attraction.
By every delicate kindness, by attention to every wish and whim, by
glances full of admiration and tenderness, both showed the power which
her beauty and goodness exerted. And, truly, she was worthy of the
homage. The younger men who saw her were set aflame at once, or sighed
afar in despair; while the elderly felt an unaccountable desire to pat
her golden head, pinch her softly-rounded cheek, and call her such
pet-names as their fatherly character and gray hair allowed.
Fate had not yet done its worst; there were other troubles in store for
the orphan. She knew little of her kinsman's circumstances, but supposed
him to be at least beyond the reach of want. But not many days passed
before the failure of Sandford deprived him of his little patrimony, and
the suspension of Mr. Lindsay left him without employment. That evening,
when Walter came home, she unwillingly heard the conversation between
him and his mother in an adjoining room; and then she knew that her
kind friends were destitute. Her resolution was at once formed. With
as cheerful an air as she could assume, she took her place at the
tea-table, and in the conversation afterwards strove to hide her
desolate heart-sickness. On going to her room, she packed her simple
wardrobe, not without many tears, and then, with only indifferent
success, tried to compose her scattered senses in sleep.
Next morning she strove to appear calm and cheerful, but a close
scrutiny might have detected the effort,--a deeper sorrow, perhaps,
about the heavy eyelids, and certainly a firmer pressure of the
sometimes tremulous lips. But Walter was too much occupied with the
conflict of his own feelings to observe her closely. While his mother
was engaged in her housewifely duties, he took Alice's hand, and for
the first time spoke of his losses, but expressed himself confident of
obtaining a new situation, and begged her to dismiss any apprehensions
from her mind. She turned her face that he might not see the springing
tears. He went on:--
"The sharpest pang I feel, Alice, is in the thought, that, with the loss
of my little fortune, and with my present gloomy prospects, I cannot say
to you what I would,--I cannot tell you what is nearest my heart. Since
you came here, our sombre house has grown bright. As I have looked at
you, I have dared to promise myself a happiness which before I had never
conceived possible."
He hesitated.
"Don't, dear Walter! I beg of you, don't venture upon that subject!"
"Why? is it painful to you?"
"Inexpressibly! You are generous and good. I love and honor you as my
cousin, my friend, my protector. Do not think of a nearer relationship."
Walter stood irresolute.
"Some other time, dear Alice," he faltered out. "I don't wish to pain
you, and I have no courage to-day."
"Let me be frank, Cousin Walter. Under other circumstances, I would
not anticipate the words I saw trembling on your lips. But even if the
memory of my poor father were not so fresh, I could not hear you."
She hid her face as she went on. "I have received a wound from the
faithlessness of one lover which never will heal. I could not repay your
love. I have no heart to give you."
Thus far she had controlled her feelings, when, kissing his hand with
sudden fervor, she burst into tears, and hastily left the room.
She waited till Walter went out; then she wrote a brief note and placed
it on the library-table at his favorite corner, and, after bidding Mrs.
Monroe good morning, went out as though for a walk. Frequently she
looked back with tearful eyes at the home she felt constrained to leave;
but gathering her strength, she turned away and plunged into the current
that set down Washington Street.
Brave Heart! alone in a great city, whose people were too much engrossed
with their own distresses and apprehensions to give heed to the
sufferings of others! Alone among strangers, she must seek a home and
the means of support. Who would receive an unknown, friendless girl? Who,
in the terrible palsy of trade, would furnish her employment?