TELLING ALICE.
One by one the bright November days went by and the hazy Indian Summer
light faded from the Kentucky hills, where now the December sun was
shining cold and clear. And as the weeks passed away, there hung over
Redstone Hall a dark, portentous cloud, and they who had waited so
eagerly the coming of the holidays trembled lest the merry Christmas
song should prove a funeral dirge for the pet and darling of them all.
Alice was dying, so the physician said, while Dinah, too, had prophesied
that ere the New Year came the eyes which never in this world had looked
upon the light would be opened to the glories of the better land.
For many weary days and nights the fever flame had burned in the young
girl’s veins, but it had left her now, and like a fragile lily she lay
among her pillows, talking of Heaven and the grave as something very
near to her. Noiselessly Marian trod across the floor, holding back her
breath and speaking in soft whispers, lest she should disturb the little
sufferer whose side she never for a moment left except to take the rest
she absolutely needed. Frederic, too, often shared her vigils, feeling
almost as anxious for one as for the other. Both were very dear to him,
and Marian, as she witnessed his tender care of Alice, and his anxiety
for herself lest her strength should be overtasked, felt more and more
that he was worthy of her love. Alice, too, appreciated his goodness, as
she had never done before, and once when he sat alone with her, and
Marian was asleep, she passed her hand caressingly over his face and
said:
“Dear Frederic, you have been so kind to me, that I am sure God has some
good in store for you.”
Then as she remembered what would probably be the greatest good to him,
she continued, “I know what’s in your heart, and I pity you so much, but
there is light ahead; I’ve thought strange things, and dreamed strange
dreams since I lay here so sick, and as I once was certain Marian was
alive, so now I’m almost certain that she’s dead.”
“Hush, Alice, hush,” said Frederic, laying his head upon the pillow
beside her, but Alice did not heed him, and she continued—
“I never saw her in this world, and maybe I shan’t know her right away,
though next to mother, I reckon she’ll be the first to welcome me to
Heaven, if she’s there, and I know she is, or we should have heard from
her. I shall tell her of her old home, Frederic; tell her how we mourned
for her when we thought that she was dead. I don’t know what it was that
made her go away, but I shall tell her you repented of the act, and how
you looked for her so long, and that if you had found her you would have
loved her, sure. That will not be a lie, will it, Frederic?”
“No, darling, no,” was the faintly spoken answer, and Alice continued:
“Then, when I have explained all, I’ll steal away from Heaven, just long
enough to come and tell you she is there. You’ll be in the library,
maybe, and I reckon ’twill be dark, though if you’d any rather, I’ll
come in the daytime, and when you feel there’s somebody near, somebody
you can’t see, you may know that it is me come to say that you are free
to love the other Marian.”
“Don’t, Alice, don’t,” said Frederic, for it made his heart bleed afresh
to hear her talk of what he had no hope would ever be.
But Alice’s faith was stronger, and to Marian Grey she sometimes talked
in a similar strain, saying “she knew she should meet the other one in
Heaven,” and Marian, while listening to her, felt that she must
undeceive her. “It may possibly make her better,” she thought, and when,
at last, the Christmas eve had come, and it was her turn to watch that
night, she determined to tell her, if she fancied that she had strength
to bear it. One by one, the family servants retired, and when at last
they were alone, Marian drew her chair close beside the bed, wondering
how she should commence, and what effect it would have upon the little
girl, who erelong awoke, and said to her:
“I’ve been dreaming of Marian, and I thought she looked like you do—but
she don’t of course; and I wonder how I’ll know her from my mother, for
she, too, was young when she died. If it were you, Miss Grey, I could
tell you so easily, for I should look among the brightest angels there,
and the one who sang the sweetest song and had the fairest face, would
certainly be Marian Grey: but the other Marian—how shall I know
her—think?”
Leaning forward so that her hot cheek touched the pale one of the sick
girl, Marian said:
“Wouldn’t you know her by her voice?”
“I’m afraid not,” answered Alice; “I thought you were she at first when
I heard you speak.”
“How is it now, darling?” Marian asked, in a voice so tremulous that
Alice started, and her white face flushed as she replied: “You are not
like her now, except at times, and then—it’s all so queer. There’s a
mystery about you, Miss Grey—and seems sometimes just like I didn’t know
what to think—you puzzle me so!”
“Shall I tell you, Alice? Have you strength to hear who and what I am?”
Marian asked; and Alice answered eagerly;
“Yes—tell me—do?”
“And you’ll promise not to faint, nor scream, nor reveal it to anybody,
unless I say you may?”
“It must be something terrible to make me faint or scream!”
“Not terrible, dearest, but strange!” and sitting down upon the bed,
Marian wound her arm around the little girl.
It was a hazardous thing the telling that secret then, but Marian did
not realize what she was doing, and in as calm a voice as she could
command, she began:
“People call me Marian Grey, but that is not my name!”
“Not Marian Grey!” and the brown eyes flashed wonderingly. “Who are you,
then, Marian what?”
Marian did not reply to this question, but said instead: “I had seen you
before that night at Riverside.”
“Seen me where?” and the little fingers trembled with an indefinable
dread of the shock which she instinctively felt was waiting for her.
“I had seen you many times,” said Marian, “and that is why my voice is
familiar. Put your hand upon my face again, and maybe you will know it.”
“I can’t, I can’t! You frighten me so!” gasped Alice, and Marian
continued:
“I must have changed much, for they who used to know me have never
suspected that I am in their midst again—none but Bruno. Do you remember
my power over him? Bruno and I were playmates together.”
Marian paused and gazed earnestly at the child, who lay panting in her
arms, her face upturned and the blind eyes fixed upon hers with an
intensity she had never before seen equalled. In the deep stillness of
the room she could hear the loud beating of Alice’s heart, and see the
bed-clothes rise and fall with every throb.
“Alice,” she said at last, “don’t you know me now?” and in her voice
there was a world of yearning tenderness and love.
“_Yes_,” and over the marble face there shone a smile of almost seraphic
sweetness. “You are _Marian_—my Marian—Frederic’s Marian—Dinah’s
Marian—_All of us Marian!_” and with a low, hysterical cry the blind
girl crept close to the bosom of her long lost friend.
Stretching out her feeble arms she wound them round Marian’s neck, and
raising herself upon her elbow, kissed her lips, her cheek, her
forehead, her hair, whispering all the time, “Blessed Marian—precious
Marian—beautiful Marian—our Marian—Frederic’s, and mine, and
everybody’s. Oh, I don’t want to go to heaven now: I’d rather stay with
you. Call him—call Frederic, quick, and tell him. Why haven’t you told
him before? Ho, Frederic, come here!” and the feeble voice raised to its
highest pitch, went ringing through the room and penetrated even to the
adjoining chamber, where, since Alice’s illness, Frederic had slept.
“Alice,” said Marian, “if you love me, you will not tell him now. I am
not ready yet.”
“What if I should die?” Alice asked, and Marian replied:
“You won’t die. I almost know you won’t. Promise, Alice, promise,” she
continued, as she heard Frederic’s step in the hall without.
“How can I—how can I? It will choke me to death!” was Alice’s answer,
and the next moment Frederic had crossed the threshold of the door.
“What is it, Miss Grey?” he asked. “Didn’t you call?”
“Alice is rather excited, that’s all,” said Marian, “and you can go
back. We do not wish to disturb you.”
“Frederic,” came a faint whisper from the bedside, and knowing that
farther remonstrance was useless, Marian stood like a rock, while
Frederic advanced toward the child, who lay with her head thrown back,
the great tears rolling down her cheeks, and the great joy of what she
had heard, shining out all over her little face.
“Did you want me, birdie?” he asked, but ere he had ceased speaking,
Marian was at his side.
Alice knew that she was there, and she pressed both hands upon her lips
to force back the secret she had been forbidden to divulge.
“Is she delirious?” Frederic asked, and shaking her head, Alice
whispered: “No, no, but happy, so happy. Oh, Frederic, I don’t want to
die! Must I? If I take a heap of Doctor’s stuff, will I get well,
think?”
“I hope so,” said Frederic, his suspicions of insanity rapidly
increasing.
“Give me your hand,” she continued, “and yours, too, Miss Grey.”
Both were extended, and joining them together she said, “Love her,
Frederic. Love her all you want to. You may—you may. It isn’t wicked.
Oh, Marian, Marian.”
The last word was a whisper, and as it died away, Marian seized
Frederic’s arm, and said, beseechingly: “Please leave the room, Mr.
Raymond. You see she is excited, and I can quiet her best alone. Will
you go?”
The brown eyes looked reproachfully at her and entreatingly at him, but
neither heeded the expression, and with a feeling that he scarcely
understood what the whole proceeding meant, and why he had been called
in if he must be summarily dismissed, Frederic went out, leaving Marian
alone with Alice.
“Why didn’t you let me tell him?” the latter asked, and Marian replied,
“I shall tell him by and by: but I am not ready yet, and you must not
betray me.”
“I’ll try,” said Alice, “but ’tis so hard. I had to bite my tongue to
keep the words from coming. Where have you been? Why didn’t you come to
us before. How came you so beautiful—so grand?” Alice asked, all in the
same breath.
But Marian absolutely refused to answer the question until she had
become quiet and been refreshed with sleep.
“All in good time, dearest,” she said, “but you must rest now. You are
wearing out too fast, and you know you do not want to die.”
This was the right chord to touch, and it had the desired effect.
“Let me ask _one_ question, and say _one_ thing,” said Alice, “and I
won’t talk another word till morning. When you are ready may _I_ tell
Frederic, if I ain’t dead?”
“Yes, darling,” was the ready answer, and winding her arms round
Marian’s neck, the blind girl continued: “Isn’t it almost morning?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And when it is, won’t it be Christmas day?”
“Yes, but you have asked three questions, instead of one.”
“I know—I know; but; what I want to say is this: I wished my Christmas
gift might be Marian, and it is. Last year it was of a beautiful little
pony, but you are worth ten hundred million ponies. Oh, I’m so glad—so
glad,” and on the childish face there was a look of perfect happiness.
Even after she shut her eyes and tried to sleep her lips continued to
move, and Marian could hear the whispered words: “Our own Marian—our
blessed Marian.”
The excitement was too much for Alice, and when next morning the
physician came, he pronounced her worse than she had been the previous
night.
“But I ain’t going to die,” said Alice resolutely; “I can’t die now,”
and it was this very determination on her part which did more to save
her life than all the doctor’s drugs or Dinah’s wonderful tears.
For many days she seemed hovering between life and death, while Marian
never for a moment left her, and Alice was more quiet when she was
sitting by, holding her feverish hand; she seemed to have lost all her
desire to tell, for she never made any attempt so to do, though she
persisted in calling her teacher Marian, and a look of pain always
flitted over her face when she heard her addressed as Miss Grey.
Sometimes she would start up, and winding her arms around her neck would
whisper in her ear, “Are you Marian for sure—our Marian, I mean?”
“Yes, Marian Lindsey, sure,” would be the answer, and the little girl
would fall away again into a half unconscious state, a smile of joy
wreathing her white lips, and an expression of peace resting on her
face.
At last, just as the New Year’s morning dawned, she woke from a deep,
unbroken sleep, and Marian and Frederic, who watched beside her, knew
that she was saved. There were weeks of convalescence, and Dinah often
wondered at Alice’s patience in staying so long and willingly in the
chamber where she had suffered so much. But to Alice that sick room was
a second paradise and Marian the bright angel whose presence made all
the sunlight of her life.
Gradually as she could bear it, Marian told her everything which had
come to her since she left Redstone Hall, and Alice’s eyes grew
strangely bright when she heard that the bracelet she had always prized
so much was made from Marian’s hair, and that Ben’s visit to Kentucky
was all a plan of his to see if Frederic were married.—Greatly was she
shocked when she heard of the letter which had almost taken Marian’s
life.
“Frederic never did that cruel thing,” she knew.
“But ’twas in his handwriting,” said Marian, “and until the mystery is
cleared away, I cannot forgive him.”
For a long time Alice sat absorbed in thought, then suddenly starting
forward, she cried: “I know, Marian. I know now, Isabel did it. I’m sure
she did. I remember it all so plain.”
“Isabel,” repeated Marian: “how could she? What do you mean?”
“Why,” returned Alice, “You say you sent it a few weeks after you went
away, and I remember so well Frederic’s going to Lexington one day,
because that was the time it came to me that you were not dead. It was
the first morning, too, that Isabel heard my lessons, and she scolded
because I didn’t remember quick, when I was thinking all the time of
you, and my heart was aching so. For some reason, I can’t tell what, I
showed her that note you left for me. You remember it; don’t you? It
read:
“Darling Alice! Precious Alice: If my heart were not already broken, it
would break in leaving you.”
“Yes, yes; I remember,” said Marian, and Alice continued:
“She said your handwriting was queer, when she gave me back the note.
That evening, Josh came back from Frankfort with a heap of letters for
Frederic, and one of them I know was from you. I was standing out under
the big maple tree thinking of you, when Isabel came and asked to take
the note again, and I let her have it. Ever so long after, I started to
go into the library, for I heard somebody rustling papers, and I didn’t
know but Dud was doing mischief. Just as I got to the door, I heard a
voice like Isabel’s only sounded scared like, exclaim, ‘It is from her,
but he shall never see it, never;’ or something like that, and when I
called to her she wouldn’t answer me until I got close to her, and then
she laughed as if she was choked, and said she was trying to frighten
me. Marian, that _her_ was you, and that _he_ was Frederic. She copied
his writing, and sent the letter back because she wanted Frederic
herself.”
“Could she do such a thing,” said Marian more to herself than to Alice,
who replied:
“She can do anything; for Dinah says she’s one of the ——, I reckon that
I’ll skip that word in there, because it’s almost swearing, but it means
_Satan’s unaccountables_,” and Alice’s voice dropped to a whisper at
what she fancied to be profanity.
Marian could understand why Isabel should do such a wicked thing even
better than Alice, and after reflecting upon it for a time, she accepted
it as a fact, and even suggested the possibility of Isabel’s having been
the author of the letter from Sarah Green.
“She was! she was!” cried Alice, starting to her feet! “It’s just like
her—for she thought Frederic would surely want to marry her then. I know
she wrote it, and managed to get it to New York somehow;” and as is
often the case poor Isabel was compelled to bear more than her share of
the fraud, for Marian, too, believed that she had been in some way
implicated with the letter from Sarah Green.
“And I may tell Frederic now—mayn’t I?” said Alice. “Suppose we set
to-morrow, when he’s in the library among the letters. He’ll wonder what
I’m coming in there for, all wrapped up in shawls. But he’ll know plenty
quick, for it will be just like me to tell it all at once, and he will
be so glad. Don’t you wish it was to-morrow now?”
Marian could not say she did, for she had hoped for more decisive
demonstration of affection on Frederic’s part ere she revealed herself
to him, but Alice was so anxious, and had waited so patiently, that she
at last consented, and when at supper she met Frederic as usual, she was
conscious of a different feeling towards him than she had ever
experienced before. He seemed unusually dejected, though exceedingly
kind to her, talking but little, it is true, but evincing, in various
ways, the interest he felt in her, and even asking her to sit with him
awhile ere returning to Alice’s chamber. There was evidently something
on his mind which he wished to say, but whatever it might have been,
seven o’clock found it still unsaid, and as Alice retired at that hour,
Marian arose to go.
“Must you leave me?” he said, rising too, and accompanying her to the
door. “Yes, you must!” and Marian little guessed the meaning these three
words implied.
She only felt that she was not indifferent to him—that the story Alice
was to tell him on the morrow would be received with a quiet kind of
happiness at least—that he would not bid her go away as she once had
done before—and with the little blind girl, she, too, began to think the
morrow would never come.