University of Virginia Library

19. XIX.
THE SHADOW.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 273. In-line Illustration. Image of a man and small woman or girl walking in the driving rain. The man has his arm around the girl.]

OF the real life of Alice, all
this time, but little can be
told. She was so patient, so
quiet, so still, that those who
were with her most knew
almost nothing of what was
passing in her mind. A veil
seemed to be dropped not only
over her vision, but also to
muffle and enfold her other
senses from contact with the
outward world. To those who
watched her with interest — to Martin, Leviston and Miss Tomes
— she appeared to be walking in a dream.

But, while the blind orphan seemed to others only to dream,
she lived perhaps the most real life of them all. During the
hours when she sat speechless and motionless by Martin's side,
while he wrote, — with her soft blue eyes closed, and with a
sweet spiritual light in her sad, half-smiling face, — the inner
world was open to her sight, and she saw forms and pictures of
deep significance, which even the proud intellect of her companion
might have failed to comprehend.

Alice grew more and more a dreamer, day by day. The
shadows we call things, which her mortal eyes beheld not, became,
as it were, transparent to her subtle sense. She felt that all this
goodly world was fluent and transitory; that there was no fixity,
no solidity, anywhere; and that soul was the only substance, the
only reality. In that poor boarding-house she lived a pure and
exalted life. Her chamber was transmuted into a paradise of
heavenly fruits and flowers. Her thoughts assumed celestial
shapes, and conversed with her, appearing so bright and clear, that
often she believed herself standing in the company of angels.
Sometimes, when Martin spoke to her, she did not seem to hear
his words; but the spirit of his thoughts she saw as pictures,
exceedingly brilliant and beautiful.

The young man's passion for Sophronia Dabney was a circumstance
which had much to do with developing this faculty of inner
sight in Alice. Her thoughts were driven interiorly by his neglect.
From the pain his estrangement caused her she turned to the
healing streams which flowed melodiously through the happy valleys
of the unseen world. There was a barrier between them now.
They could not meet as they had met. In vain did the affectionate
child endeavor to approach him; in vain did he open his
arms and his heart; there was a strange power somewhere, which
irresistibly repelled her spirit from his, ofttimes shooting her
through and through with pains.

This singular conduct gave Martin no little uneasiness. But
one day, after much puzzling of his brains, he exclaimed, with a
sudden start, “The poor child is jealous!”

Having made this sage discovery, he endeavored to atone for
his past neglect by the tenderest attentions, and ceased to tell her
about his adored Sophronia. But his efforts to pacify and soothe

her were of no avail. Sometimes, when he did not see Miss Dabney
for several days, the child would be able to get quite near
him, and she would say, “You are yourself now, and I love you,
O, so much!” Then suddenly the strange repulsion would drive
her from him. She would writhe in his arms, and tear herself
from him, and throw herself weeping upon the floor.

“What is the matter, my poor child?” Martin would ask,
lifting her up in the gentlest manner. “Do you hate me
again?”

“I do not hate you. I want to be near you, — I want to love
you. But you are not my brother Martin to-night. You are
some one else.”

By what subtle powers of perception she was thus enabled to
divine where he had been, and with whom, Martin could not
guess. But so it always was. If he but met Sophronia in the
street, and pressed her hand, the sensitive Alice knew it the moment
he entered the room where she was, although he opened not
his mouth to speak.

“You do not like to have me see Miss Dabney, do you?” he
said to her, one day.

She made no answer, but her pure brow darkened with the
shadow of that name, and she began to shiver.

“Tell me — tell me truly, now,” pleaded Martin, in loving
tones; “for I wish to know all about it.”

“No, no! I can't tell you. Don't ask me!” exclaimed Alice,
nervously. “Don't mind me at all.”

Martin insisted, kindly but firmly, and at length she told him
all. When he came from seeing Miss Dabney, he brought with
him an influence from her; the blind girl could not explain what
it was; she only knew that she felt it, and that it gave her pain

It was so strong, even, she imagined, as to affect the spirit of his
sketches. It seemed to her that he never wrote so truthfully and
sweetly when under that influence as at other times; and Alice
was a wonderful little critic. Yet she was nothing, she declared,
weeping, after the confession. She did not mean to tell him all
this, and he must not remember a word that she had said. It was
wrong for her to feel so about Miss Dabney; but she hoped he
would forgive her for what she could not help.

“I only want you to be happy, my dear, dear brother!” she
exclaimed, with earnest affection. “O, I would wish to die to-night,
if I stood in the way of your happiness. So never think
of me, — you won't, will you? Only let me be your little sister,
and love you, — that is all I want.”

One evening, about this time, Mr. Toplink burst into the room
with a shout, while the young man was sitting with Alice in the
twilight, before the glowing grate. His shrill voice made the child
shudder, and Martin looked up with an expression of irritation
which Mr. Toplink was too good-natured to perceive.

“What 'll you give?” he cried, brandishing something in the
air above Martin's head. “What do you say, Merry? Do you
want a letter enough to pay the enormous sum of two cents for
it?”

“A letter? You 've no letter for me, have you?”

“It an't for anybody else. Postage prepaid; but it was advertised,
and it cost me two cents to get it out of the office.”

Martin fumbled in his pocket, and produced the stipulated
sum; then Alice held the letter, while he lighted a lamp.

“When I look over the advertised list,” said the animated
Toplink, “I always look for all the names I know. There 's
Tomes, and Longstalk, and old Dodge, and Winksworth, and

Flinks, and a dozen others, I always look for regularly, and bring
up their letters, when there is any. Mowle — I look for him,
too; but, mind ye, I don't bring him any more letters. I
brought him one last summer, — paid for it, you know, — and,
don't ye believe, I han't got that postage out of him to this day.
Well, I come up with him afterwards — rather. I saw a letter
advertised for Rev. Abraham Mowle, — but I did n't say anything,
— I kept it to myself, and laughed in my sleeve over it, till
Saturday night; when says I, `By the way, Mr. Mowle,' says I,
`there 's a letter advertised for you; but, as I did n't happen to
have any cents in my pocket, I could n't take it from the office.'
Then off he started in his odd way, making the biggest fuss in the
world, — the old woman, in her old-fashioned cap, went to the
door to see him off, and charged him not to overdo himself, and
my-deared him a dozen times before he was out of hearing; and
you 'd better believe I laid off and laughed! The fun of it was,
he found the post-office shut up, just as I knew it would be by the
time he got there. Of course he come back without the letter, all
exhausted, and his voice all gone, so that he could only just groan.
You should have seen his wife fawn over him, and fan him with
her handkerchief! Well, he worried about that letter till Monday,
— he was too pious to have it taken out Sunday morning, —
and kept saying to his wife, `My dear, I can't think who that
letter is from; can you guess, my dear? I should n't wonder if it
was from so and so, should you?' He was afraid somebody was
dead; or there was money in the letter, and somebody would take
it from the office and rob him; or there was a medical prescription
in it, which he should have had last week, — as if his life was
sacrificed by the delay! Well, sir, there was a jolly time about
that letter, which, after all,” cried Toplink, chuckling excessively,
“turned out to be nothing but a doctor's bill from somewhere up
country. You never saw a man so mad in all your life!”

While Mr. Toplink was talking, Martin, impatient to get at the
contents of the letter, broke the seal. To his surprise, he found
the missive written in a graceful feminine hand; and, still more to
his surprise, — to say nothing of his agitation and alarm, — he
learned from it that his uncle, Colonel Merrivale, of Summer Hill,
lay at the point of death, — that he had a matter of importance to
communicate to him alone, and desired to see him before it was
too late.

Martin crushed the letter together in his hands, and, eagerly
snatching up his hat, made some unintelligible inquiry concerning
the time when the cars started.

“You an't going off so, I hope,” cried the good-humored Toplink,
enjoying the excitement of the scene with keen relish.

“There 's not a moment to lose. My futhre depends upon it,
— I must see my uncle before he dies.”

“But who knows that he han't been dead a week already?
The letter has laid in the post-office four or five days, at any rate.
Let 's look at the mail-mark. January — twenty something; it
looks like twenty-seven. We are into February now, you know.”

“And my uncle may have died, and the secret with him! But
it is possible — he may have lingered along till now. There is
all the more need of haste.”

“But you 'll find that there is no train out till morning,” observed
the delighted Toplink.

After this stunning announcement, Martin cooled down a little,
collected his scattered senses, and set himself about preparing for
the journey in a rather more practical manner than he had at first
thought of doing. He also had time to bestow some attention

upon Alice, who was much distressed, and whom he had quite
forgotten in his excitement.

“How long will you be away?” asked the child, timidly, after
Mr. Toplink had gone down to supper.

“Probably not long,” replied Martin, “Not more than a
couple of days, at the furthest.”

“I wish I could think it would be so!” exclaimed Alice, weeping
almost wildly. “But something tells me that you are to be
separated from me. I am going to lose you! O, don't let it
be so, will you?”

He pledged his life that he would never desert her, let what
would occur.

“O, you are so good! I do believe you will not, my dear
brother! But there is a Shadow — it stands between you and
me, and its face is very stern, and it puts a hand upon your
breast and one upon mine, and holds us from each other. Is
it something that is going to separate us? Tell me again that it
shall not be so!”

Martin reässured her, and took her in his arms. Long time he
talked to her with comforting words; and gradually she grew
calm, and nearer and nearer still she nestled to his bosom, and
closer still her arms embraced his neck.

“I see it again,” she said, softly, after a long silence.

“What do you see again, — the Shadow?”

“No — the cross. You bear it bravely now! But there
comes on a storm, — it grows dark; the tempest beats your face,
and there are rocks and chasms to pass, and the mountain looks
black before you, in the night.”

“Is that all the picture?”

“There is more, but a veil hides it from my sight. How

strange these visions are! What is this cross I see so many
times?”

“You who see it, and know so much about it,” said Martin,
“should be able to tell what it is.”

Alice made no reply; but for some minutes she was very still;
she scarcely breathed. At length her right arm, which encircled
Martin's neck, began to move, and her intelligent hand stole softly
between his collar and his throat, and crept around towards his
left shoulder, gliding along upon his smooth flesh. She seemed
quite unconscious what she was doing; but her companion started,
and shuddered, and held his breath with suspense. Then, when
her hand had ceased to move, and her delicate finger touched a
spot low down on his neck, his heart beat with heavy and painful
throbs, and cold sweat-drops glistened on his brow.

“What is it?” he asked, in a quick, agitated tone of voice.

She gently pressed the spot, ceased weeping, and murmured,
“O, my brother! O, my dear, dear brother!” as if from very
sympathy her heart were breaking. Then tenderly he withdrew
her hand, and looked down upon her sweet, sorrowful face with
an expression of intense pain and yearning.

“Why do you weep?” he asked.

“Did I put my hand on your neck just now? Forgive me,”
said Alice; “I did not know what I was doing. I thought I
was on the mountain with you. I touched the cross, but I could
not lift it, for it seemed a part of you.”

The conversation was abruptly terminated at this point by the
arrival of Leviston and Toplink. Alice dried her tears; and
Martin, agitated by what had taken place, waited impatiently for
the departure of his friends, in order to see what more she would
have to say. When he was once more alone with the child, however,

she had quite forgotten the cross, and neither thought nor
vision came to her mind concerning it.

“I am going out a little while now, Alice,” he said, after sitting
some minutes by her side. “You had better go to bed soon,
and try to sleep.”

“I will, dear brother,” cheerfully replied the child. “I know
where you are going, but I shall not be so naughty to-night as I
have been sometimes. I will go to bed as soon as you are gone.
You will be sure and let me see you in the morning, won't
you?”

“See me, my poor child?” said Martin, sadly, as he held her in
his arms. The expression, which was one she often made use of,
struck him with peculiar force at that time; and the thought it
suggested, that she had never seen him yet, and could never see
him with her natural eyes, caused his sympathies to gush forth;
and, with a fresh resolve, warmed and vitalized by the love he
bore her, he vowed inwardly to provide for her and protect her
with his life.

Alice went to bed, as she had promised to do, when he was
gone. But no soft slumber came to soothe her troubled soul. She
was awake when Miss Tomes entered the chamber, stepping
lightly to avoid disturbing her. She heard Martin return home
from visiting the fair Sophronia, an hour later. She knew when
the boozy Winksworth, groping his way up stairs at one o'clock,
went plunging into Mr. Mowle's room, mistaking it for his own.
Still she could not sleep. She was haunted by the Shadow she
had seen standing, like Fate, between her and Martin. It lay
down by her side, and put its cheek to hers, and kissed her with
its cold and ghostly lips.

On the following day the Shadow was with her still. It rose up

with her at dawn; it moved beside her when she left the chamber;
she felt its embrace when Martin bade her cheerfully “good-by,”
and departed on his journey. It remained with her when he
was gone, and its paralyzing presence would not let her weep.

It was with her when Mr. Leviston and the good Miss Tomes
spoke comforting words to cheer her; it stood between her and
them. It was with her when Mrs. Wormlett, in one of her cross
moods, scolded her for moping. It was with her when she sat
listening to the shouting and moaning of the gale, to the beating
and sifting of the snows against the window-panes, — for it was a
stormy day. It was with her when the fire-bells rang out their
alarm, faintly heard above the roar and clatter of the storm. It
was with her, chill and grim, as she sat thinking of Martin far
away, and trembling for his safety.

It was with her when, in her mind's eye, she saw her poor lost
father struggling in the windy streets. It stood before her, and
waved its boding hands above her head, as she beheld him hurrying
on, breasting the tempest and the sharp volleys of snow. It
grew darker and darker as he approached her from afar, with
outstretched arms; darker still,— but it was like a dream, — when
he reached the very house in which she was, and demanded his
child; still darker, and still more deathly dark, — it was like a
frightful dream, — when he came tottering through the hall, and
up the stairs, and into the chamber, and clasped her in his weak
and shaking arms.

“O, my father!” she cried out, in anguish, starting from that
dream, “is it you — is it you? My father! — my dearest,
dearest father!”

“My child! — my Alice!” faltered the broken voice of Caleb
Thorne.

Mrs. Wormlett, who, with much opposition and many high
words, had admitted the haggard stranger and followed him to the
chamber, stepped back and watched him, suspiciously, from without
the door.

“It is you, father! — it is indeed you!” burst forth the blind
girl once again; and, weeping, and sobbing, and clinging to his
neck, she buried her face in his tattered, snowy clothes, and lay
there, convulsed and speechless, until the stricken father feared
that the shock had killed her.

“Speak to me, Alice! speak to me!” pleaded the wretched
man. “O, God! what have I done! You must not die, — do
not let me murder you, my child.”

“O, no, no, my dear father!” articulated Alice. “I am so
glad — so glad!”

“Glad — after all that has passed?” said Caleb, with remorseful
passion. “But you do not know what a fiend I have
been! You would hate your father, Alice, if you did.”

“O, no, no, no!” again burst forth the child. “I am so glad,
— I love you so, dear father!”

“Love me — love a brute like me!” said Caleb, in a hollow
voice, shaking as with a palsy. “But you do not know all.” He
pressed her to his heart and wept aloud. “I am not worthy to
touch you, my pure and blessed darling. But forgive me. I will
atone for all the past. I am well now; I am strong; I will live
and labor for you. Come!”

He arose, tottering to his feet, and endeavored to lift her in his
arms.

“What do you mean?” she cried, in piteous accents. “Where
will we go? Why do you take me away?”

“This is no place for you,” replied Caleb, huskily. “They

wish to keep you from me, and make you hate me. Come
away!”

“No, no, dear father! they have been good to me — they have
let me love you, — O, father! do not take me away!”

“They have deceived your tender heart, my Alice. They are
wolves that would devour you, my poor lamb! Come, we must
not stay.”

“But the storm!” said Alice, in her despair — “how it howls
and beats! You will not let me perish in the storm!”

“I will bear you in my arms. I will keep you from the cold,”
replied the shattered man. “Do not fear.”

“It is cruel, — it is cruel, dear father, — for you do not understand!
My brother Martin, — he has been so good and kind to
me, — you don't know! You will not take me from him!”
pleaded the distressed child. “You will let me be with him,
won't you?”

“Yes, yes,” said Caleb, hastily. “We will send for him to
come and see us in our new home.”

“But we have no home now, have we? O, let us stay here!
I am afraid to go, dear father! Let me stay.”

“You tear my heart, when you talk so, Alice. I see you
dread me, and love me no more. You dislike and fear me.”

“I love you, — I do not dread, or dislike, or fear you!” cried
the child, with vehemence, embracing the broken man. “But my
brother Martin — I cannot think of leaving him. Are you sure
I shall be with him again some time?”

Caleb's brow became contracted and dark at the sound of Martin's
name. But, to pacify his child, he promised her what she
asked. Then, with tears and trembling, she groped her way to the
closet to find her outer garments, and quietly put them on.

“Where did you get this?” asked the jealous father, clutching
her shawl.

“Mr. Leviston gave it to me. O, don't take it away! let me
wear it, father; it is so cold, and the storm beats so!”

“Well, well,” muttered Caleb, desisting. “But make
haste.”

“And Mr. Leviston — I shall meet him again, too, shall I
not? He has been so kind to me! Dear father, can't we wait
until he comes?”

“This is a new hood, — where did you get it, Alice?”

“Miss Tomes made it for me, — the good Miss Tomes. O
dear! I wish you would let me wait until she comes. She has been
so kind to me, all along! Dear father, can't we wait?”

“Are you ready?” said Caleb Thorne, quickly. “Come, my
child. There, there! don't cry. I am afraid you are not happy
at meeting your father again.”

“I am happy. We will go now,” murmured Alice, trying to
dry her tears.

Caleb Thorne made no reply, but hastened down the stairs,
leading his child. His manner was fearful; and Mrs. Wormlett,
still suspicious, and not a little alarmed, followed him, with words
of sharp remonstrance, to the door. But he gave her a fierce and
jealous look, drawing the child closely to him, with his protecting
arm around her form; and, satisfied that he had stolen nothing,
she suffered him to depart. Then out into the storm went Alice,
with the Shadow by her side, holding her hand; for the Shadow
and her father seemed one; and the angry tempest smote her face
and tossed her shawl away, and blew her curls out wildly, and
flung back her hood; and the snows spun round and round her in

swift eddies, and stung her tender cheek, and sifted into her neck
and bosom, and filled her little shoes.

“We cannot go, father!” She gasped for breath, and strove in
vain to speak loud enough for him to hear. “The storm — it
strangles me, father.”

He heard her not; but, wrapping the shawl around her once
again, shielded and sustained her with his arm, and staggered
forth to struggle with the tempest, in the night.

Ah, what a night! Through every street and alley swept the
storm. Into poor tenements it burst, sifting its snows and blowing
its chill breath through every crack and crevice. It swooped
down upon the easy coal-merchant, going from his rich-freighted
wharf to his comfortable home, consoling himself for the keen
lashes and rude buffets, that hit him in the face, with pleasant
contemplations of the high price of fuel. It almost blew away the
poor shop-girl, exposed in the uproarious streets. It smote alike
the saint and the sinner, the wealthy stock-holder and the shivering
wretch in poverty's patches and rags.

It followed with its fury the half-crazed father, flying with his
child. It whirled around them, and trampled over them, and
sprang up fierce and strong before them, and piled the obstructing
drifts about their feet.

“Father! father!” moaned Alice, in a lull of the tempest.
“I shall die! I cannot walk. I can hardly breathe. The snow
shoots into my face like needles. Let us go back, and wait; O,
do, father, do!”

Caleb Thorne, alarmed and anxious, glanced up at the darkened
sky, and looked forward into the misty gloom. There was
a deep trouble in his haggard face. The fire in his hollow eyes
flickered as with doubt.

“A little further, my child!” he cried, summoning all his
energies once more. “I know the way. We shall be at rest very
soon. Cover your face with my coat, and cling to me with all
your might.”

At that moment, a whirlwind traversed the streets. It
descended with clamor and gloom, on tempestuous wings. Caleb
Thorne and Alice were enveloped in the cloud of whirling and
rushing snow. Their cries were muffled as with the mantle of
death. The father's arm became too weak for his child's support;
she sank down, smothering, in the drift; and the storm
swept over her.

The shock threw Caleb upon his knee. But he was up again
in a moment; affrighted and bewildered, he looked around him
for his child, who lay half-buried in the waves of snow at his side.

“Never mind, my Alice!” he cried. “One more trial, darling!
There is an oyster-house close by. We will go in and rest, and
brush the snow from our clothes; we will warm ourselves, and
eat something, and prepare for a fresh start. Come, my poor
child.”

“I cannot, father. But don't mind me,” gasped Alice. “Go
and let me perish. It will not be much matter, dear father.
Leave me — leave me here.”

Caleb Thorne gave utterance to some hoarse words which were
lost in the rush of the gale, and, lifting Alice in his arms, bore
her swiftly through the street. He reached the oyster-house; he
touched the latch; the storm hurled the door open before him;
and, falling forward, he sank with his unconscious burden on the
floor.

Then once more, in a sort of trance, the blind girl saw the

Shadow. It stood over her, and chafed her temples, and warmed
her hands, and brushed the snow from her tangled hair; it wore
her father's form, it had her father's look; but it was the same
relentless Shadow still, standing between her and Martin.