FREDERIC AND ALICE.
All the day long Frederic had thought of Marian—thought of the little
blue-eyed girl, who just six weeks before went away from him to die. To
die. Many, many times he said that to himself, and as often as he said
it, he thought, “perhaps she is not dead,” until the belief grew strong
in him that somewhere he should find her, that very day it might be. He
wished he could, and take her back to Redstone Hall, where she would be
a barrier between himself and the beautiful temptation which it was so
hard for him to resist. Manfully had he struggled against it, going
always from its presence when the eyes of lustrous black looked softly
into his own, and when he heard, as he often did, the full rich-toned
voice singing merry songs, he stopped his ears lest the sweet music
should touch a chord which he said was hushed forever.
“It might have been,” he thought sometimes to himself, but the time was
past, and even if Marian were dead, he must not take another to share
the wealth so generously given up. And Marian was dead, he had always
believed until to-day, when she seemed to be so near, that on his return
at night to Redstone Hall he had a half presentiment that he might find
her there, or at least some tidings of her.
All about the house was dark, but on the piazza a little figure was
standing, and as its dim outline was revealed to him, he said,
involuntarily: “That may be Marian, and I am glad, or at least I will be
glad,” and he was hurrying on, when a light from the hall streamed out
upon the figure, and he saw that it was Alice waiting for him. Still the
impression was so strong that after kissing her, he asked if no one had
been at the Hall that day.
“No one,” she answered, and with a vague feeling of disappointment, he
led her into the house.
Alice’s heart was full that night, for accidentally she had heard old
Hetty and Lyd discussing the probable result of Isabel’s sojourn among
them, and the very idea shocked her, as if they had trampled on Marian’s
grave.
“I’ll tell Frederic,” said she to herself, “and ask him is he going to
marry her,” and when after his supper he went into the library to read
the letters which Mrs. Huntington told him were there, she followed him
thither.
It was not Frederic’s nature to pet or notice children much, but in his
sorrow he had learned to love the little helpless girl dearly, and when
he saw her standing beside him with a wistful look upon her face, he
smoothed her soft brown hair and said: “What does my blind bird want?”
“Take me in your lap,” said Alice, “so I can feel your heart beat and
know if you tell me true.”
He complied with her request, and laying her head against his bosom, she
began, “be we much related?”
“Second cousins, that’s all.”
“But you love me, don’t you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“And I love you a heap,” returned the little girl. “I didn’t use to,
though—till Marian went away. Frederic, Marian isn’t dead!” and, lifting
up her head, Alice looked at him with a truthful, earnest look, which
seemed to say that she believed what she asserted.
Frederic gasped a short, quick breath, and Alice continued, “wouldn’t it
be very wicked for you to love anybody else. I don’t mean me—because I’m
a little blind girl—but to love somebody and marry them with Marian
alive?”
“Certainly it would be wicked,” he replied; and Alice continued, “Aunt
Hetty said you were going to marry Isabel, and it almost broke my heart.
I never thought before that Marian wasn’t dead, but I knew it then. I
felt her right there with us, and I’ve felt her ever since. Dinah, too,
said it seemed to her just like Marian was alive, and that she hoped you
wouldn’t make—perhaps I ought not to tell you, but you don’t care for
Dinah—she hoped you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself. Frederic, do you
love Isabel Huntington?”
“Yes,” dropped involuntarily from the young man’s lips, for there was
something about that old little child which wrung the truth from him.
“Did you love her before you married Marian?”
“Yes,” he said again, for he could not help himself. There was silence a
moment, and then Alice, who had been thinking of what he told her once
before, said, interrogatively, “Marian found it out, and that was why
she thought you didn’t love her and went away?”
“That was one reason, but not the principal one.”
“Do you think Isabel as good as Marian?”
“No, not as good—not as good,” and Frederic was glad that he could pay
this tribute to the lost one.
After a moment Alice spoke again:
“Frederic, do you believe Marian is dead?”
“I have always thought so,” he answered, and Alice replied: “But you
don’t know for certain; and I want you to promise that until you do you
won’t make love to Isabel, nor marry her, nor anybody else, will you,
Frederic?” and putting both her little hands upon his forehead, she
pushed back his hair and waited for an answer.
Many times the young man had made that resolution, but the idea of thus
promising to another was unpleasant, and he hesitated for a time; then
he said:
“Suppose we never can know for certain—would you have me live all my
life alone?”
“No,” said Alice, “and you needn’t, either; but I’d wait ever so long,
ten years, anyway, and before that time she’ll come, I’m sure. Dinah
says maybe she will, and that perhaps we shan’t know her, she’ll be so
changed—so handsome,” and as if the power of prophecy were on her, Alice
pictured a beautiful woman who might come to them sometime as their lost
Marian, and Frederic, listening to her, felt more willing to promise
than he had been before.
A glow of hope was kindled within his own bosom, and when she finished
he said to her:
“I will wait, Alice—wait ten years for Marian.”
Blessed Alice! When the mother, whose grave was grass-grown now and
sunken, first knew her only child was blind, she murmured against the
dealings of Providence, and in the bitterness of her heart asked:
“Why was my baby born? and what good can it ever do?”
She who had questioned thus was dead, while the good the little girl was
to do was becoming, each day, more and more apparent. Helpless and blind
though she was, she would keep the strong man from falling, and when his
heart grew faint with hope deferred, her gentle, earnest words would
cheer him on to wait a little longer. Marian was not dead to her, and so
sure of it did she seem that when the interview was ended, and Frederic
was left alone, he bowed his head reverently and said:
“If Marian be, indeed, alive, will the good Father send me some tidings
of her, and so keep me from sin?”
Oh! could the writing desk before him have told how only that afternoon
there had lain upon its velvet cover a message from the lost one—a
sweet, childlike petition for him to take her back, even though he could
not love her—he would have gone for her then, and, bringing her to the
home which was not his, but hers, he would have placed her between
himself and the temptation, yielding to her all honor and respect until
his heart should say it loved her. But the time was not yet, and he must
suffer longer—must pass through deeper waters; while Marian, too, must
be molded and changed into a bride who, far better than the queenly
Isabel, could do the honors of Redstone Hall.