University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
ALICE.

As spring advanced, Alice began to droop, and Sally's quick
eye detected in her infallible signs of decay. But she
would not tell it to Mary, whose life now seemed a comparatively
happy one. Mr. and Mrs. Parker were kind to her,—
the pleasant-looking woman and the girl with crooked feet
were kind to her. Uncle Peter petted her, and even Miss
Grundy had more than once admitted that “she was about
as good as young ones would average.” Billy, too, had promised
to remain and work for Mr. Parker during the summer,
intending with the money thus earned to go the next
fall and winter to the Academy in Wilbraham. Jenny was
coming back ere long, and Mary's step was light and buoyant
as she tripped singing about the house, unmindful of
Miss Grundy's oft-expressed wish that “she would stop that
clack,” or of the anxious, pitying eyes Sal Furbush bent
upon her, as day after day the faithful old creature rocked
and tended little Alice.

“No,” said she, “I cannot tell her. She'll have tears
enough to shed by and by, but I'll double my diligence, and
watch little Willie more closely.” So night after night,
when Mary was sleeping the deep sleep of childhood, Sally
would steal noiselessly to her room, and bending over the little
wasting figure at her side, would wipe the cold sweat
from her face, and whisper in the unconscious baby's ear

messages of love for “the other little Willie, now waiting
for her in Heaven.”

At last Mary could no longer be deceived, and one day
when Alice lay gasping in Sally's lap she said, “Aunt Sally,
isn't Alice growing worse? She doesn't play now, nor try
to walk.”

Sally laid her hand on Mary's face and replied, “Poor
child, you'll soon be all alone, for Willie's going to find his
mother.”

There was no outcry,—no sudden gush of tears, but nervously
clasping her hands upon her heart, as if the shock
had entered there, Mary sat down upon her bed, and burying
her face in the pillow, sat there for a long time. But she
said nothing, and a careless observer might have thought
that she cared nothing, as it became each day more and more
evident that Alice was dying. But these knew not of the
long nights when with untiring love she sat by her sister's
cradle, listening to her irregular breathing, pressing her clammy
hands, and praying to be forgiven if ever, in thought or
deed, she had wronged the little one now leaving her.

And all this time there came no kind word or message
of love from Ella, who knew that Alice was dying, for Billy
had told her so. “Oh, if she would only come and see her,”
said Mary, “it wouldn't seem half so bad.”

“Write to her,” said Sal; “peradventure that may bring
her.”

Mary had not thought of this before, and now tearing a
leaf from her writing-book, and taking her pen, she wrote
hurriedly, “Ella, dear Ella, won't you come and see little
Alice once before she dies? You used to love her, and you
would now, if you could see how white and beautiful she looks.
Oh, do come. Mrs. Campbell will let you, I know.”

This note, which was blurred and blotted with tears,

was carried by Billy, who was going to the village, and delivered
to Mrs. Campbell herself. Perhaps the proud woman
remembered the time when her own darling died, or it may
be that conscience upbraided her for caring so much for one
orphan and utterly neglecting the other two. Be that as it
may, her tears fell upon the paper and mingled with Mary's
as she replied, “Ella shall come this afternoon.”

But before afternoon a drizzling shower came on, and
Mary watched and wept in vain, for Ella did not come. The
next morning was bright and beautiful as April mornings
often are, and at as early an hour as was consistent with Mrs.
Campbell's habits, her carriage was before the door, and herself
and Ella seated within it. The little lady was not in
the best of humors, for she and her maid had quarrelled about
her dress; Ella insisting upon a light-blue merino, and the
maid proposing a plain delaine, which Ella declared she would
not wear. Mrs. Campbell, to whom the matter was referred,
decided upon the delaine, consequently Ella cried and pouted,
saying she wouldn't go, wondering what Alice wanted to
be sick for, or any way why they should send for her.

Meantime in and around the poor-house there was for
once perfect silence. Sal Furbush had been invisible for
hours,—the girl with crooked feet trod softly as she passed
up and down the stairs,—Uncle Peter's fiddle was unstrung,
and, securely locked in his fiddle box, was stowed away at
the bottom of his old red chest,—and twice that morning,
when no one saw her, Miss Grundy had stolen out to Patsy's
grave. Mary was not called to wash the dishes, but up in
her own room she sat with her head resting upon the window
sill, while the sweet, fresh air of the morning swept over her
face, lifting the hair from her flushed brow. Billy Bender
was standing near her, his arm thrown around her, and his
lips occasionally pressing her forehead.

Suddenly there was the sound of carriage wheels, and he
whispered in her ear, “Ella is coming.”

Hastily running down the stairs, Mary met her sister in
the doorway, and throwing her arms around her neck, burst
into tears. Ella would gladly have shaken her off, for she
felt that her curls were in danger of being mussed, and she
had besides hardly recovered from her pet. But Mary firmly
held her hand, and led her on through the long hall, into a
room which they usually denominated “the best room.”

There, upon the table, lay a little stiffened form. The
blue eyes were closed, and the long eyelashes rested upon
the marble cheek, and in the waxen hands, folded so carefully
over the other, there was a single snow-drop. No one
knew who placed it there, or whence it came. Gently Mary
laid back the thin muslin covering, saying as she did so, “Allie
is dead. I've got no sister left but you!” and again her
arms closed convulsively about Ella's neck.

“You kind of choke me!” said Ella, trying to get free,
and it was not until Mrs. Campbell, thoroughly ashamed of
her want of feeling, took her hand and placed it on Alice's
cold cheek, asking her if she were not sorry her little sister
was dead, that she manifested any emotion whatever.
Then, as if something of her better nature were roused, her
lip trembled for a moment, and she burst into a violent fit
of weeping.

“It is hardly natural that she should feel it as deeply as
Mary,” said Mrs. Campbell to Billy Bender, who was present.

He made no reply, but he never forgot that scene; and
when years after he met with Ella on terms of perfect equality,—when
he saw her petted, flattered, and admired, he
turned away from the fawning multitude, remembering only

the April morning when she stood by the dead body of her
sister.

During all this time no trace of Sal Furbush had been
seen, and at last a strict search was instituted, but to no
effect, until Billy, who chanced to be passing the dark closet
under the garret stairs, heard her whispering to herself,
“Yes, little Willie's dead, and Sally's got three in Heaven
now.”

Entering the place, he found her crouched in one corner,
her hair hanging down her back, and her eyes flashing with
unusual brightness.

“Why, Sally,” said he, “what are you here for?”

“To save the credit of the house,” was her ready reply.
“When the other Willie died, they chained me in this dungeon,
and thinking they might do so again, I concluded to
come here quietly, wishing to save all trouble and confusion,
for the utmost decorum should be preserved in the house of
death.”

“Poor woman,” said Billy kindly, “no one wishes you
to stay here. Come with me,”—and he took her hand to
lead her forth.

But she resisted him, saying, that “fasting and solitude
were nature's great restoratives.”

“She has showed her good sense for once,” said Miss
Grundy, on hearing of Sally's whereabouts, “but ain't the
critter hungry?” and owing to some newly touched chord of
kindness, a slice of toast and a cup of hot tea erelong found
entrance into the darksome cell.

Strange to say, too, the hand which brought it was not
repulsed, though very demurely and in seeming earnestness
was the question asked, “Mrs. Grundy, haven't you met with
a change?”

The next day was the funeral. At first there was some

talk of burying the child in the same inclosure with Patsy;
but Mary plead so earnestly to have her laid by her mother,
that her request was granted, and that night when the young
spring moon came out, it looked quietly down upon the grave
of little Alice, who by her mother's side was sweetly sleeping.