FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN’S OLD HOME.
“Frederic,” said Alice, about six weeks before Marian’s arrival at
Riverside, “who hired that Mrs. Merton to take care of you when you were
sick at the hotel?”
“The proprietor, I suppose,” returned Frederic.
Alice continued:
“But who told him of her?”
“I don’t know,” said Frederic. “She was from the country, I believe.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Alice; “but some person must have recommended her,
and if you can ascertain who that person was, you may find Mrs. Merton,
and learn something of Marian.”
“I wonder I never thought of that before,” said Frederic, adding, “that
if Alice had her sight he believed she would have discovered Marian ere
this.”
“I know I should,” was her answer; and after a little further
conversation, it was decided that Frederic should go to New York, and
learn, if possible, who first suggested Mrs. Merton as a nurse.
This was not so easy a matter as he had imagined it to be, for though
Frederic himself was well remembered at the hotel, where he was now a
frequent guest, scarcely any one could recall Mrs. Merton distinctly,
and no one seemed to know how she came there, until a servant, who had
been in the house a long time, spoke of Martha Gibbs, and then the
proprietor suddenly remembered that she had recommended Mrs. Merton as
being a friend of hers.
“But who is Martha Gibbs, and where is she now?” Frederic asked; and the
servant replied that
“Her home used to be in Woodstock, Conn.;” and with this item of
information Frederic wrote to her friends, inquiring where she was.
To this letter there came ere long an answer, saying that Mrs. John
Jennings lived in ——, a small town in the interior of Iowa. Accordingly
the next mail westward from Yonkers carried a letter to said Mrs.
Jennings, asking where the woman lived who had nursed Mr. Raymond
through that dangerous fever. This being done, Frederic and Alice waited
impatiently for a reply, which was long in coming, for Mr. Jennings’ log
tenement was several miles from the post-office, where he seldom called,
and it was more than a week ere the letter reached him. Even then it
found him so engrossed in the arrival of his first-born son and heir,
that for two or three days longer it lay unopened in the clock-case, ere
he thought to look at it.
“I don’t know what it means, I’m sure,” he said, taking it to his wife,
who, having never heard of the death of her old friend, replied, “Why,
he wants to know where Mrs. Burt lives. Just write on a piece of paper:
‘East —— street, No. —, third story; turn to your right; door at the
head of the stairs.’ I wonder if he’s never been there yet?”
John was not an elaborate correspondent, and he simply wrote down his
better half’s direction, saying nothing whatever of Mrs. Burt herself,
and thus conveying to Frederic no idea that Merton was not the real
name.
“A letter from Iowa,” said Frederic to Alice, as he came in from the
office, on the very night when Marian was walking slowly past what was
once her home. “I have the street and number, and to-morrow I am going
there.”
“And I am going, too,” cried Alice. “Won’t Marian be surprised to see us
both. I hope she’ll come to the door herself; and Frederic, if she does,
you’ll kiss her, won’t you, and act like you was glad, for if you don’t,
maybe she won’t come back with us.”
“I will do right,” answered Frederic, adding in a low tone, “Perhaps she
will not be there.”
“Yes, she will,” was Alice’s positive reply, “or if she’s not, somebody
can tell us where she is. Only to think, we shall see her to-morrow. I
do wish it would hurry, and I’m glad Miss Grey is not coming until the
day after. It will be so nice to have them both here. Do you suppose
they’ll like each other, Marian and Miss Grey?”
“I dare say they will,” returned Frederic, smiling at the little girl’s
enthusiasm, and hoping she might not be disappointed.
Anon, a shadow clouded Alice’s face, and observing it, Frederic passed
his hand over her hair, saying, “What is it, birdie?”
“Frederic,” said Alice, creeping closely to the side of the young man,
“Isn’t Miss Grey very beautiful?”
“Mr. Gordon and Ben say so,” returned Frederic, and Alice continued:
“Don’t be angry with me, but you loved Isabel the best because she was
the handsomest, and now you won’t love Miss Grey better than Marian,
will you, and you’ll be Marian’s husband right off, won’t you?”
“When Marian comes here, it will be as my wife,” said Frederic, and with
this answer Alice was satisfied.
“I wish it would grow dark faster,” she said, for she could tell when it
was night; and Frederic, while listening to the many different ways she
conjured up for them to meet Marian, became almost as impatient as
herself for the morrow, when his renewed hopes might, perhaps, be
realized.
The breakfast next morning was hurried through, for neither Alice nor
Frederic could eat, and Mrs. Russell, when she saw how much was left
untouched, congratulated herself upon its answering for the hired man’s
dinner, and thus giving her a nice long time for sewing.
“It isn’t a bit likely Miss Grey will come to-day,” said Alice, as she
followed Frederic to the carriage; and, confident of this, they gave
Miss Grey no further thought, but went on their way in search of Marian.
When they reached New York, Frederic, who had some business to transact,
left Alice in the parlor at the Astor, where she sat with her face to
the window, just as though she could see the passers-by; and, as she sat
there, a party who were leaving glanced hastily in, all seeing the
little figure by the window, and _one_ thinking to herself, “She wears
her hair combed back, as Alice used to do!”
Then the group passed on, while over the face of the blind girl there
flitted for an instant a wondering, bewildering expression, for her
quick ear had caught the sound of a voice which, it seemed to her, she
had heard before—not there—not in New York—but far away, at Redstone
Hall. What was it? Who was it? She bent her head to listen, hoping to
hear it again, but it came no more, for Marian Grey had left the house,
and was passing up Broadway. It was not long ere Frederic returned, and,
taking Alice’s hand, he led her into the street, and entered a Third
avenue car.
“We are on the right track, I think,” he said; “for it was this way she
went with the man described by Sarah Green.”
Alice gave a sigh of relief, and, leaning against Frederic, rather
enjoyed the pleasant motion of the car, although she wished it would go
faster.
“Won’t we ever get there?” she asked, as they plodded slowly on,
stopping often to take in a passenger, or set one down.
“Yes, by and by,” said Frederic, encouragingly. “I am not quite certain
of the street, myself, but I shall know it when I see the name, of
course;” and he looked anxiously out as they passed along. “Here it is!”
he cried, at last; and, seizing Alice’s arm, he rather dragged than led
her from the car, and out upon the crossing. “Why,” he exclaimed, gazing
eagerly around him, “I have been here before—down this very street;” and
his eye wandered involuntarily in the direction of the window where once
the white fringed curtain hung.
It was gone now, as was the rose geranium. The kitten, too, was gone,
and the small hand resting on it; while in their place appeared the
heads of two or three dirty children, looking across the way, and making
wry faces at similar dirty children in the window opposite. Frederic saw
all this, and it affected him unpleasantly, causing him to feel as if he
had parted from some old friend. But no; where was that? It must be in
this locality; and he wondered how one accustomed to the luxuries of
Redstone Hall could live in this place so long.
“I’ve found it!” he said, as his eye caught the number; and now, that he
believed himself near to what he had sought so long, he was more
impatient than Alice herself.
He could not wait for her uncertain footsteps, and pale with excitement,
he caught her in his arms and hurried up the narrow stairs, which many a
time had creaked to Marian’s tread. The third story was reached at last,
and he stood panting by the door, where Mr. Jennings had said that he
must stop. It was open, and the greasy, uncarpeted floor, of which he
caught a glimpse, looked cheerless and uninviting, but it did not keep
him back a moment, and he advanced into the room, which, by the three
heads at the window, he knew was the same where the white curtain once
had hung, and where now the glaring August sunlight came pouring in,
unbroken and unsubdued.
At the sight of a stranger one of the heads turned toward him and a
little voice said:
“Ma’s out washin’, she is, and won’t be home till night.”
There was a cold, heavy feeling of disappointment settling round
Frederic’s heart, for nothing there seemed at all like what he
remembered of the neat, tidy Mrs. Merton, but he nerved himself to ask:
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Bunce, and my pa is in the Tombs,” was the reply.
“How long have you lived here?” was the next question, asked with a
colder, heavier heart.
“Next Christmas a year,” said the little girl, and catching Frederic’s
arm, Alice whispered,
“Do let’s go out into the open air.”
But Frederic did not move—there was a spell upon him, and for several
moments it kept him there in the very room where Marian had wept so many
tears for him, and where, in her desolation, she had asked that she
might die when the greatest sorrow she had ever known came upon her—the
sorrow brought by Isabel’s cruel letter. There close to where he stood
was the door of the little room where for weeks and months she had lain,
tossing in her feverish pain, while over her Ben Burt kept his tireless
watch, nor asked for greater reward than to know that she would live.
And was there nothing to tell him of all this—nothing to whisper that
the one he sought had been there once, but was waiting for him now in
his own home! No, there was nothing but dark, cheerless poverty staring
him in the face, and with a sigh he turned away, and knocking at other
doors, asked for the former occupants of those front rooms. Nearly all
the present tenants had moved there since Mrs. Burt’s death, and none
knew aught of her save one rather decent-looking woman, who said “she
remembered the folks well, though they held their heads above the likes
of her. She’d seen them comin’ in and out and had peeked into their
room, so she knew they was well to do.”
“Was their name Merton? and did a young girl live with, them?” asked
Frederic; and the woman replied:
“Merton sounds some like it, though I’d sooner say ’twas _Burton_, or
something like that. I never even so much as passed the time of day with
’em, for I tell you they felt above me; but the girl was a jewel—so trim
and genteel like.”
“That was Marian,” whispered Alice; and Frederic continued:
“Where are they now?”
“Bless you,” returned the woman. “One on ’em is in Heaven, and the Lord
only knows where t’other one went to.”
Alice’s hand, which lay in Frederic’s, was clutched with a painful
grasp; and the perspiration gathered about the young man’s white lips as
he stammered out:
“Which one is dead? Not the girl? You dare not tell me that?”
“I dare if it was so,” returned the woman; “but ’twant; ’twas the old
one—the one I took to be the mother; though I have heard a story about
the girl’s comin’ here long time ago, before I moved here. I was away
when the woman died, and when I got back the rooms was empty, and the
boy and girl was gone; nobody knows where; and I haint seen ’em since.”
Frederic was too much interested in Marian to hear anything else, and he
paid no attention to her mention of a boy. Marian was all he wished to
find, but it was in vain that he questioned and cross-questioned the
woman. She had given all the information she could; and with an
increased feeling of disappointment he left her, glancing once more into
the room where he was sure Marian had lived. Alice, too, was willing to
stop there now; and when Frederic told her of the geranium and the
kitten he had once seen in the window, a smile mingled with her tears,
and she wished she had them now, especially the kitten! She did not know
that the matronly-looking cat, which, behind the broken stove, was
purring sleepily, was the same Maltese kitten Marian had fondled so
often. At the time of leaving she had given it to an acquaintance near
by, but pussy preferred her old haunts, and returning to them, persisted
in remaining there until the arrival of the new comers, who took her in,
and she now daily shared the meagre fare of the three children by the
window. Intuitively, as it were, she felt that Alice was a lover of her
race, and she came towards her, purring loudly, and rubbing against her
side.
“Lands sake,” exclaimed the woman. “Here’s the very cat the young girl
used to tend so much. I know it by the white spot between its eyes. I
found it mewing and making an awful noise by the door when I came back;
and though I ain’t none of your cat women, I flung it a bone or two till
them folks came, and the children kept it to torment, I ’spect, just as
young ones will. I see one of ’em with a string round its neck t’other
day a chokin’ it most to death.”
“Oh, Frederic,” and Alice’s face expressed what she wished to say, while
she caught up the animal in her arms.
Frederic understood her, and speaking to the oldest of the children, he
said, “Will you give me your cat?”
“No, no,” the three set up at once, and Alice whispered, “Buy her,
Frederic, won’t you?”
“Will you let me have her for fifty cents?” he asked, showing the silver
coin.
“No, no,” and the youngest began to cry.
“Give more,” said Alice, and Frederic continued, “Fifty cents a piece,
then. You can buy a great many cakes and crackers with it”—
“And candy,” suggested Alice.
The youngest began to show signs of relenting, as did the second, but
the third persisted in saying “No.” “Offer her more,” was whispered in a
low voice, and glancing around the poorly furnished room, Frederic took
out his purse and said, “You shall have a dollar a piece, but part of it
must be saved for your mother,—besides that, this little girl is blind,”
and he laid his hand on Alice’s head.
This last argument would have been sufficient without the dollar, for it
touched a chord of pity in the heart of that child of poverty, and
coming closer to Alice she looked at her curiously, saying, “Can’t you
see a bit more’n I can with my eyes shut?” and she closed her own by way
of experimenting.
“Not a bit,” returned Alice, “but I love kitty just the same, because
she used to belong to a dear friend of mine. May I have her?”
“Ye-es,” came half reluctantly from the lips of the child, as she
extended her hand for the money.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Alice when they were at a safe distance from the
house. “I was afraid they’d take it back,” and she held fast to the
kitten, which made no effort to escape, but lay in her arms, singing
occasionally as if well pleased with the exchange.
This, however, Frederic knew would not continue until they reached home,
and stepping into a shop which they were passing, he bought a covered
basket, in which the cat was placed and the lid secured, a proceeding
not altogether satisfactory to the prisoner. Alice, too, was equally
distressed, and when she learned that Frederic could not go home until
night, she insisted upon his getting her a room at the Astor, where she
could let her treasure out without fear of its escaping. Frederic
complied with her request, and in her delight with her new pet, she half
forgot how disappointed she had been in the result of their visit. But
not so with Frederic. He felt it keenly, for never had his hopes of
finding Marian been raised to a higher pitch than that morning, and even
now he could not give it up. Leaving Alice at the hotel he went back
again to the street and made the most minute inquiries, but all to no
purpose. He could not obtain the least clue to her, and he retraced his
steps with a feeling that she was as really lost to him as if Sarah
Green’s letter had been true and Marian resting in her grave.
“Why had that letter been written?” he asked himself again and again.
Somebody knew of Marian, and there was a mystery connected with it—a
mystery of wrong it might be. Perhaps she could not come back, even
though she wanted to, and his pulses quickened with painful rapidity as
he thought of all the imaginary terrors which might surround the lost
one. It was indeed a sad reflection, and his spirits were unusually
depressed, when just before sunset he took Alice by one hand, the basket
in the other, and started for home.
“I didn’t think we should come back alone,” said Alice, when at last
they reached the depot at Yonkers, and she was lifted into the carriage
waiting for them. “It’s dreadful we couldn’t find her, but I am so glad
we’ve got the cat;” and she guarded the basket carefully, as if it had
contained the diamonds of India.
Frederic did not care to talk, and folding his arms, he leaned moodily
back in his carriage, evincing no interest in anything until as they
drew near home, the driver said to Alice:
“Guess who’s come?”
“Oh, I don’t know—Dinah, may be,” was Alice’s reply, and then Frederic
smiled at the preposterous idea.
“No; guess again,” said the driver. “Somebody as handsome as a doll.”
“Miss Grey!” cried Alice, almost upsetting her basket in her delight.
Eagerly she questioned John, and then replied, “I’m so glad, though I
was going to fix her room so nice to-morrow—but no matter, it’s always
pleasant up there. How lonesome she must have been all day with nothing
but the garden, the books, and the piano.”
“She has been homesick, I guess,” said John, “for I seen her cryin’, I
thought, out under a tree in the garden.”
“Poor thing!” sighed Alice. “She won’t be homesick any more when we get
there; will she, Frederic? I wonder if she likes cats!” And as by this
time they had stopped at their own gate, the little girl went running up
the walk, shaking the basket prodigiously, and inciting its contents to
such violent struggles that in the hall the lid came off, and bounding
from its confinement, the cat ran into the parlor, where, trembling with
fright, it crouched as for protection, at the feet of Marian Grey.