HUGH AND ALICE.
Three weeks had passed away since that memorable ride. Mr. Liston after
paying to the proper recipients the money due for Mosside, had returned
to Boston, leaving the neighborhood to gossip of Alice’s generosity, and
to wonder how much she was worth. It was a secret yet that Lulu and
Muggins were hers, but the story of Rocket was known, and numerous were
the surmises as to what would be the result of her familiar intercourse
with Hugh. Already was the effect of her presence visible in his
gentleness of manner, his care to observe all the little points of
etiquette never practiced by him before, and his attention to his own
personal appearance. His trousers were no longer worn inside his boots,
or his soft hat jammed into every conceivable shape, while Ellen
Tiffton, who came often to Spring Bank, and was supposed to be good
authority, pronounced him almost as stylish looking as any man in
Woodford.
It is strange how much dress and a little care as to its adjustment can
do for one. It certainly did wonders for Hugh, who knew how much he was
improved, and to whose influence he owed it, just as he knew of the
mighty love he bore this gentle girl, working so great a good at Spring
Bank.
To Hugh, Alice was every thing, and sometimes the thought crossed his
mind that possibly he might win her for himself, but it was repudiated
as soon as formed, for it could not be, he said, that one like Alice
Johnson should ever care for him; and so, between hope and a kind of
blissful despair, Hugh lived on until the evening of the day when Adah
left Spring Bank for Terrace Hill. She had intended going immediately
after the sale at Mosside, but Willie had been ailing ever since, and
that had detained her. But now she was really gone; Hugh had accompanied
her to Frankfort, seeing her safely off, and spending the entire day in
town, so that it was rather late when he returned to Spring Bank. Being
unusually fatigued Mrs. Worthington had already retired and as Alice was
not in sight, Hugh sat down alone by the parlor fire.
He was sorry Adah was gone and he missed her sadly, but it was not so
much of her he was thinking as of Alice. During the last few days she
had puzzled him greatly. Her manner had been unusually kind, her voice
unusually soft and low when she addressed him, while several times he
had met her eyes fixed upon him with an expression he could not fathom,
and which had made his heart beat high as hope whispered of what might
perhaps be, in spite of all his fears. Poor Hugh! he never dreamed that
Alice’s real feelings towards him during those few days were those of
pity, as she saw how silent and moody he grew, and attributed it to his
grief at parting with Adah. She was of course very dear to him, she
supposed, and Alice’s kind heart went out toward him with a strong
desire to comfort him, to tell him how she, as far as possible, would
fill Adah’s place. Had she dreamed of his real feelings, she never would
have done what she did, but she was wholly unconscious of it, and so
when, late that night, she returned to the parlor in quest of something
she had left, and found him sitting there alone, she paused a moment on
the threshold, wondering if she had better join him or go away. His back
was toward her, and he did not hear her light step, so intently was he
gazing into the burning grate, and trying to frame the words he should
say if ever he dared tell Alice Johnson of his love.
There was much girlish playfulness in Alice’s nature, and gliding across
the carpet, she clasped both her hands before his eyes, and exclaimed—
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Hugh started as suddenly as if some apparition had appeared before him,
and blushing guiltily, clasped and held upon his face the little soft,
warm hands which did not tremble, but lay still beneath his own. It was
Providence which sent her there, he thought; Providence indicating that
he might speak, and he would.
“I am glad you have come. I wish to talk with you,” he said, drawing her
down into a chair beside him, and placing his arm lightly across its
back. “What sent you here, Alice? I supposed you had retired,” he
continued, bending upon her a look which made her slightly
uncomfortable.
But she soon recovered, and answered laughingly—
“I came for my scissors, and finding you here alone, thought I would
startle you, but you have not told me yet of what you were thinking.”
“Of the present, past and future,” he replied; then letting his hand
drop from the back of the chair upon her shoulder, he continued, “May I
talk freely with you? May I tell you of myself, what I was, what I am,
what I hope to be?”
His hand upon her shoulder made Alice a little uneasy but he had put it
there in such a quiet, matter of course way, that he might think her
prudish if she objected. Still her cheeks burned, and her voice was not
quite steady, as, rising from her seat, she said,
“I like a stool better than this chair. I’ll bring it and sit at your
feet. There, now I am ready;” and seating herself at a safe distance
from him, Alice waited for him to commence.
But Hugh was in no hurry then; that little act of hers had chilled him
somewhat. Perhaps she did not like his arm around her, perhaps she never
would, and that was the saddest thought of all. She had never looked to
him as she did to-night, sitting there beside him with the firelight
falling upon her bright fair hair curling so gracefully about her
forehead and neck.
On the high mantel a large mirror was standing, and glancing towards it,
Hugh caught the reflection of both their figures, and with his usual
depreciation of himself; felt the contrast bitterly. This beautiful
young girl could not care for him; it were folly to think of it, and he
sat for a moment silent, forgetting that Alice was waiting for him to
speak. She grew tired of waiting at last, and turning her eyes upon him,
said gently,
“You seem unhappy about something. Is it because Adah has gone? I am
sorry, too; but, Hugh, I will do what I can to fill her place. I will be
the sister you need so much. Don’t look so wretched; it makes me feel
badly to see you.”
Alice’s sympathy was getting the better of her again, and she moved her
stool nearer to Hugh, while she involuntarily laid her hand upon his
knee. That decided him; and while his heart throbbed almost to bursting,
he began by saying,
“I am in rather a gloomy mood to-night, I’ll admit. I do feel Adah’s
leaving us very much; but that is not all. I have wished to talk with
you a long time—wished to tell you how I feel. May I, Alice?—may I open
to you my whole heart, and show you what is there?”
For a moment Alice felt a thrill of fear—a dread of what the opening of
his heart to her might disclose. Then she remembered Golden Hair, whose
name she had never heard him breathe, save as it passed his delirious
lips. It was of her he would talk; he would tell her of that hidden love
whose existence she felt sure was not known at Spring Bank. Alice would
rather not have had this confidence, for the deep love-life of such as,
Hugh Worthington seemed to her a sacred thing; but he looked so white,
so care-worn, so much as if it would be a relief, that Alice answered at
last:
“Yes, Hugh, you may tell, and I will listen.”
She moved her stool still nearer to him, beginning now to feel anxious
herself to hear of one whose very memory had influenced Hugh for good.
So sure was Alice that it was Golden Hair of whom he would talk, that
when, by way of a commencement, he said to her, “Can you guess what I
would tell you?” she answered involuntarily:
“I guess it is of somebody you have loved, or do love still.”
There was no tremor in her voice, no flush in her cheek, no drooping of
the long lashes to cover her confusion; and yet deluded Hugh believed
she knew his secret, and alas! believed his love reciprocated; else why
should she thus encourage him to go on! It was the happiest moment Hugh
had ever known, and for a time he could not speak, as he thought how
strange it was that a joy so perfect as this should come to be his lot.
Poor, poor Hugh!
He began at last by telling Alice of his early boyhood, uncheered by a
single word of sympathy save as it came from dear Aunt Eunice, who alone
understood the wayward boy whom people thought so bad.
“Then mother and Ad came to Spring Bank, and that opened to me a new
era. In my odd way, I loved my mother so much—but _Ad_—say, Alice, is it
wicked in me if I can’t love Ad?”
“She is your sister,” was Alice’s reply; and Hugh rejoined:
“Yes—my sister. I’m sorry for it, even if it’s wicked to be sorry. I
tried to do my best with her—tried to be as gentle as I could; but she
did not understand me. She gave me back only scorn and bitter words,
until my heart closed up against her, and I harshly judged all others by
her—all but one”; and Hugh’s voice grew very low and tender in its tone,
while Alice felt that now he was nearing the Golden Hair.
“Away off in New England there was a pure white blossom growing, a
blossom so pure, so fair, that very few were worthy even so much as to
look upon it, as day by day it unfolded some new beauty. There was
nothing to support this flower but a single parent stalk, which snapped
asunder one day, and Blossom was left alone. It was a strange idea,
transplanting it to another soil; for the atmosphere of Spring Bank was
not suited to such as she. But she came, and, as by magic, the whole
atmosphere was changed—changed at least to one—the bad, wayward Hugh,
who dared to love this fair young girl with a love stronger than his
life. For her he would do anything, and beneath her influence he did
improve rapidly. He was conscious of it himself—conscious of a greater
degree of self-respect—a desire to be what she would like to have him.
“She was very, very beautiful; more so than anything Hugh had ever
looked upon. Her face was like an angel’s face, and her hair—much like
yours, Alice;” and he laid his hand on the bright head, now bent down,
so that he could not see that face so like an angel’s.
The little hand, too, had slidden from his knee, and, fast-locked within
the other, was buried in Alice’s lap, as she listened with throbbing
heart to the story Hugh was telling.
“In all the world there was nothing so dear to Hugh as this young girl.
He thought of her by day and dreamed of her by night, seeing always in
the darkness her face, with its eyes of blue bending over him—hearing
the music of her voice, like the falling of distant water, and even
feeling the soft touch of her hands as he fancied them laid upon his
brow. She was good, too, as beautiful; and it was this very goodness
which won on Hugh so fast, making him pray often that he might be worthy
of her—for, Alice, he came at last to dream that he could win her; she
was so kind to him—she spoke to him so softly and, by a thousand little
acts, endeared herself to him more and more.
“Heaven forgive her if she misled him all this while; but she did not.
It were worse than death to think she did—to know I’ve told her this in
vain—have offered her my heart only to have it thrust back upon me as
something she does not want. Speak, Alice! in mercy, speak! Can it be
that I’m mistaken?”
Something in her manner had wrung out this cry of fear and now, bending
over her as she sat with her face buried in her lap he waited for her
answer. It had come like a thunderbolt to Alice, that she, and not
Golden Hair, was the subject of his story—she the fair blossom growing
among the New England hills. She did not guess that they were one and
the same, for Hugh would not have her swayed ever so slightly by
gratitude.
Alice saw how she had led him on, and her white lips quivered with pain,
for, alas! she did not love him as he should be loved, and she could not
deceive him, though every fibre of her heart bled and ached for him.
Lifting up her head at last she exclaimed,
“You don’t mean me, Hugh? Oh, you don’t mean me?”
“Yes, darling,” and he clasped in his own the hand raised imploringly
toward him. “Yes, darling, I mean you. I love you and you must be mine.
I shall die without you. You can mould me at your will. You can teach me
the narrow way I want to find, Alice, more than you guess. We will walk
it hand in hand, yours the stronger one at first, mine the stronger
last, when I’ve been taught by you. Will you, Alice, will you be my
wife, my darling, my idol? I know I have no money, just as I know you do
not care for that. You will not prize me less for daring to ask you, an
heiress, to be mine. I have no money, no position, but I have willing
hands and a loving heart, which will answer in their stead. Will you be
my wife?”
Alice had never before heard a voice so earnest, so full of meaning, as
the one now pleading with her to be what she could not be, and a pang
keener than any she had ever felt, or believed it possible for her to
feel, shot through her heart as the dread conviction was forced upon her
that she was to blame for all this. She had misled him, unwittingly, it
is true, but that did not help him now; the harm, the wrong were just
the same, and they loomed up before her in all their appalling
magnitude. What could she do to atone? Alas! there was nothing except to
be what he asked, and that she could not do. She could not be Hugh’s
wife. She would as soon have married her brother, if she had one. But
she must do something, and sliding from her stool she sank upon her
knees—her proper attitude—upon her knees before Hugh, whom she had
wronged so terribly, and burying her face in Hugh’s own hands, she
sobbed,
“Oh, Hugh, Hugh, you don’t know what you ask. I love you dearly, but
only as my brother—believe me, Hugh, only as a brother. I wanted one so
much—one of my own, I mean; but God denied that wish, and gave me you
instead. I did not like you at first—that is, before I saw you. I was
sorry you were here, but I got over that. I pitied first, and then I
came to like or love you so much, but only as my brother; and if I let
you see that love, it was because it is my nature to caress those whom I
love—because I thought you understood that ’twas only as my brother. I
cannot be your wife. I—oh, Hugh, forgive me for making you so unhappy.
I’m sorry I ever came here, but I cannot go away. I’ve learned to love
my Kentucky home. Let me stay just the same. Let me really be what I
thought I was, your sister. You will not send me away?”
She looked up at him now, but quickly turned away, for the expression of
his white, haggard face was more than she could bear, and she knew there
was a pain, keener than any she had felt, a pang which must be terrible,
to crush a strong man as Hugh was crushed.
“Forgive me, Hugh,” she said, as he did not speak, but sat gazing at her
in a kind of stunned bewilderment. “You would not have me for your wife,
if I did not love you?”
“Never, Alice, never!” he answered; “but it is not any easier to bear. I
don’t know why I asked you, why I dared hope that you could think of me.
I might have known you could not. Nobody does. I cannot win their love.
I don’t know how.”
He put her gently from him, and arose to leave the room, but something
mastered his will, and brought him back again to where she knelt, her
face upon his chair, as she silently prayed to know just what was right.
Something she had said about his sending her away rang in his ears, and
he felt that the knowing she was gone would be the bitterest dreg in all
the bitter cup, so he said to her, entreatingly—
“Alice, I know you cannot be my wife—I do not expect it now, but I want
you here all the same. Promise that you will stay, at least until my
rival claims you.”
Alice neither looked up nor moved, only sobbed piteously, and this more
than aught else helped Hugh to choke down his own sorrow for the sake of
comforting her. The sight of her distress moved him greatly, for he knew
it was grief that she had so cruelly misled him.
“Alice, darling,” he said again, this time as a mother would soothe her
child. “It hurts me more to see you thus than your refusal did. I am not
wholly selfish in my love. I’d rather you should be happy than to be
happy myself. I would not for the world take to my bosom an unwilling
wife. I should be jealous even of my own caresses, jealous lest the very
act disgusted her more and more. You did not mean to deceive me. It was
I that deceived myself. I forgive you fully, and ask you to forget that
to-night has ever been. It cut me sorely at first, Alice, to hear you
tell me so, but I shall get over it; the wound will heal.”
He said this falteringly, for the wound bled and throbbed at every pore,
but he would comfort her. She should not know how much he suffered. “The
wound will heal. Even now I am feeling better, can almost see my way
through the darkness.”
Poor Hugh! He mentally asked forgiveness for that falsehood told for
her. He could _not_ see his way through,—his brain was giddy, and his
soul sick with that dull dreadful pain which is so hard to be borne, but
he could hide his misery, for her sake, and he would.
“Please, don’t cry,” he said, stooping over her, and lifting her
tenderly up. “I shall get over it. A man can bear better than a woman,
and even if I should not, I would rather have loved and lost you, than
not to have known and loved you at all. The memory of what might have
been will keep me from much sin. There, darling, let me wipe the tears
away, let me hear you say you are better.”
“Oh, Hugh, don’t, you break my heart. I’d rather you should scorn or
even hate me for the sorrow I have brought. Such unselfish kindness will
kill me,” Alice sobbed, for never had she been so touched as by this
insight into the real character of the man she had refused.
He would not hold her long in his arms, though it were bliss to do so,
and putting her gently in the chair, he leaned his own poor sick head
upon the mantel, while Alice watched him with streaming eyes and an
aching heart which even then half longed to give itself into his
keeping. She did not love him with a wife-like love, she knew but she
might in time, and she pitied him so much. And Hugh had need for pity.
He had tried to quiet her; had said it was no matter, that he should get
over it, that he need not care, but the agony it cost him to say all
this was visible in every feature, and Alice looked at him with
wondering awe as he stood there silently battling with the blow he would
not permit to smite him down.
At last it was Alice’s turn to speak, hers the task to comfort. The
prayer she had inwardly breathed for guidance to act aright had not been
unheard, and with a strange calmness she arose, and laying her hand on
Hugh’s arm, bade him be seated, while she told him what she had to say.
He obeyed her, sinking into the offered chair, and then standing before
him, she began,
“You do not wish me to go away, you say. I have no desire to go, except
it should be better for you. Even though I may not be your wife, I can,
perhaps, minister to your happiness; and, Hugh, we will forget to-night,
and be to each other what we were before, brother and sister. There must
be no particular perceptible change of manner, lest others should
suspect what has passed between us. Do you agree to this?”
He bowed his head, and Alice drew a step nearer to him, hesitating a
moment ere she continued.
“You speak of a rival. But believe me, Hugh, you have none, there is not
a man in the wide world whom I like as much as I do you, and Hugh——” the
little hand pressed more closely on Hugh’s shoulder, while Alice’s
breath came heavily, “And, Hugh, it may be, that in time I can
conscientiously give you a different answer from what I did to-night. I
may love you as your wife should love you; and—and, if I do, I’ll tell
you so at the proper time.”
There was a gleam of sunshine now to illumine the thick darkness, and,
in the first moments of his joy Hugh wound his arm around the slight
form, and tried to bring it nearer to him. But Alice stepped back and
answered,
“No, Hugh, that would be wrong. It may be I shall never come to love you
save as I love you now, but I’ll try—I will try,” and unmindful of her
charge to him Alice parted the damp curls clustering around his
forehead, and looked into his face with an expression which made his
heart bound and throb with the sudden hope, that even now she loved him
better than she supposed.
It was growing very late, and the clock in the adjoining room struck one
ere Alice bade Hugh good night, saying to him,
“No one must know of this. We’ll be just the same to each other as we
have been.”
“Yes, just the same, if that can be,” Hugh answered, and so they parted,
Alice to her room, where, in the solitude, she could pray for that
guidance without which she was nothing, and Hugh to his, where he, too,
prayed, this night with a greater earnestness than ever he had done
before—not for Golden Hair to come back, as of old, but that he might be
led into the path she trod, and so be worthy of her, should the glad
time ever come when she might be his.
Hugh had not yet learned the faith which asks for good, that God shall
be glorified rather than our own desires fulfilled; but he who prays,
ever so imperfectly, is better for it, because the very act of praying
implies a faith in somebody to hear; and so soothed into comparative
quiet by the petition offered, Hugh fell into a quiet slumber, and slept
on undisturbed until Muggins came to wake him.