CHAPTER XXVIII.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 hadnever 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 areMarian—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 greatjoy 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 questionuntil 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 askonequestion, and sayonething,” said Alice, “and I won’t talk another word till morning. When you are ready mayItell 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 allher 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 afew 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, thatherwas you, and thathewas 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 meansSatan’s unaccountables,” and Alice’s voice dropped to a whisper at what she fancied to be profanity.
Marian could understand why Isabel should do sucha 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—thatthe 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.