ALICE.
As spring advanced, Alice began to droop, and Sally's quick eye
detected in her infallible signs of decay. But she would not tell it
to Mary, whose life now seemed a comparatively happy one. Mr. and Mrs.
Parker were kind to her,--the pleasant-looking woman and the girl with
crooked feet were kind to her. Uncle Peter petted her, and even Miss
Grundy had more than once admitted that "she was about as good as
young ones would average." Billy, too, had promised to remain and work
for Mr. Parker during the summer, intending with the money thus earned
to go the next fall and winter to the Academy in Wilbraham. Jenny was
coming back ere long, and Mary's step was light and buoyant as she
tripped singing about the house, unmindful of Miss Grundy's
oft-expressed wish that "she would stop that clack," or of the
anxious, pitying eyes Sal Furbush bent upon her, as day after day the
faithful old creature rocked and tended little Alice.
"No," said she, "I cannot tell her. She'll have tears enough to shed
by and by, but I'll double my diligence, and watch little Willie more
closely." So night after night, when Mary was sleeping the deep sleep
of childhood, Sally would steal noiselessly to her room, and bending
over the little wasting figure at her side, would wipe the cold sweat
from her face, and whisper in the unconscious baby's ear messages of
love for "the other little Willie, now waiting for her in Heaven."
At last Mary could no longer be deceived, and one day when Alice lay
gasping in Sally's lap she said, "Aunt Sally isn't Alice growing
worse? She doesn't play now, nor try to walk."
Sally laid her hand on Mary's face and replied, "Poor child, you'll
soon be all alone, for Willie's going to find his mother."
There was no outcry,--no sudden gush of tears, but nervously clasping
her hands upon her heart, as if the shock had entered there, Mary sat
down upon her bed, and burying her face in the pillow, sat there for a
long time. But she said nothing, and a careless observer might have
thought that she cared nothing, as it became each day more and more
evident that Alice was dying. But these knew not of the long nights
when with untiring love she sat by her sister's cradle, listening to
her irregular breathing, pressing her clammy hands, and praying to be
forgiven if ever, in thought or deed, she had wronged the little one
now leaving her.
And all this time there came no kind word or message of love from
Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy had told her so. "Oh,
if she would only come and see her;" said Mary, "it wouldn't seem half
so bad."
"Write to her," said Sal; "peradventure that may bring her."
Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a leaf from her
writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote hurriedly, "Ella, dear
Ella, won't you come and see little Alice once before she dies? You
used to love her, and you would now, if you could see how white and
beautiful she looks. Oh, do come. Mrs. Campbell will let you, I know."
This note, which was blurred and blotted with tears was carried by
Billy, who was going to the village, and delivered to Mrs. Campbell
herself. Perhaps the proud woman remembered the time when her own
darling died, or it may be that conscience upbraided her for caring so
much for one orphan and utterly neglecting the other two. Be that as
it may, her tears fell upon the paper and mingled with Mary's as she
replied, "Ella shall come this afternoon."
But before afternoon a drizzling shower came on, and Mary watched and
wept in vain, for Ella did not come. The next morning was bright and
beautiful as April mornings often are, and at as early an hour as was
consistent with Mrs. Campbell's habits, her carriage was before the
door, and herself and Ella seated within it. The little lady was not
in the best of humors, for she and her maid had quarrelled about her
dress; Ella insisting upon a light-blue merino, and the maid proposing
a plain delaine, which Ella declared she would not wear. Mrs.
Campbell, to whom the matter was referred, decided upon the delaine,
consequently Ella cried and pouted, saying she wouldn't go, wondering
what Alice wanted to be sick for, or any way why they should send for
her.
Meantime in and around the poor-house there was for once perfect
silence. Sal Furbush had been invisible for hours,--the girl with
crooked feet trod softly as she passed up and down the stairs,--Uncle
Peter's fiddle was unstrung, and, securely locked in his fiddle box,
was stowed away at the bottom of his old red chest,--and twice that
morning when no one saw her, Miss Grundy had stolen out to Patsy's
grave. Mary was not called to wash the dishes, but up in her own room
she sat with her head resting upon the window sill, while the sweet,
fresh air of the morning swept over her face, lifting the hair from
her flushed brow. Billy Bender was standing near her, his arm thrown
around her, and his lips occasionally pressing her forehead.
Suddenly there was the sound of carriage wheels, and he whispered in
her ear, "Ella is coming."
Hastily running down the stairs, Mary met her sister in the doorway,
and throwing her arms around her neck, burst into tears. Ella would
gladly have shaken her off, for she felt that her curls were in danger
of being mussed, and she had besides hardly recovered from her pet.
But Mary firmly held her hand, and led her on through the long hall,
into a room which they usually denominated "the best room."
There, upon the table, lay a little stiffened form. The blue eyes were
closed, and the long eyelashes rested upon the marble cheek, and in
the waxen hands, folded so carefully over the other, there was a
single snow-drop. No one knew who placed it there, or whence it came.
Gently Mary laid back the thin muslin covering, saying as she did so,
"Allie is dead. I've got no sister left but you!" and again her arms
closed convulsively about Ella's neck.
"You kind of choke me!" said Ella, trying to get free, and it was not
until Mrs. Campbell, thoroughly ashamed of her want of feeling, took
her hand and placed it on Alice's cold cheek, asking her if she were
not sorry her little sister was dead, that she manifested any emotion
whatever. Then, as if something of her better nature were roused, her
lip trembled for a moment, and she burst into a violent fit of
weeping.
"It is hardly natural that she should feel it as deeply as Mary," said
Mrs. Campbell to Billy Bender, who was present.
He made no reply, but he never forgot that scene; and when years after
he met with Ella on terms of perfect equality,--when he saw her
petted, flattered, and admired, he turned away from the fawning
multitude, remembering only the April morning when she stood by the
dead body of her sister.
During all this time no trace of Sal Furbush had been seen, and at
last a strict search was instituted but to no effect, until Billy, who
chanced to be passing the dark closet under the garret stairs, heard
her whispering to herself, "Yes, little Willie's dead, and Sally's got
_three_ in Heaven now."
Entering the place, he found her crouched in one corner, her hair
hanging down her back, and her eyes flashing with unusual brightness.
"Why, Sally," said he, "what are you here for?"
"To save the credit of the house," was her ready reply. "When the
other Willie died, they chained me in this dungeon, and thinking they
might do so again, I concluded to come here quietly wishing to save
all trouble and confusion, for the utmost decorum should be preserved
in the house of death."
"Poor woman," said Billy kindly, "no one wishes you to stay here. Come
with me,"--and he took her hand to lead her forth.
But she resisted him, saying, that "fasting and solitude were nature's
great restoratives."
"She has showed her good sense for once," said Miss Grundy, on hearing
of Sally's whereabouts, "but' ain't the critter hungry?" and owing to
some newly touched chord of kindness, a slice of toast and a cup of
hot tea erelong found entrance into the darksome cell.
Strange to say, too, the hand which brought it was not repulsed,
though very demurely and in seeming earnestness was the question
asked, "Mrs. Grundy, haven't you met with a change?"
The next day was the funeral. At first there was some talk of burying
the child in the same inclosure with Patsy; but Mary plead so
earnestly to have her laid by her mother, that her request was
granted, and that night when the young spring moon came out, it looked
quietly down upon the grave of little Alice, who by her mother's side
was sweetly sleeping.