University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
HUGH AND ALICE.

Three weeks had passed away since that memorable
ride. Mr. Liston after paying to the proper recipients the
money due for Mosside, had returned to Boston, leaving
the neighborhood to gossip of Alice's generosity, and to
wonder how much she was worth. It was a secret yet
that Lulu and Muggins were hers, but the story of Rocket
was known, and numerous were the surmises as to what
would be the result of her familiar intercourse with Hugh.
Already was the effect of her presence visible in his gentleness
of manner, his care to observe all the little points
of etiquette never practiced by him before, and his attention
to his own personal appearance. His trousers were no
longer worn inside his boots, or his soft hat jammed into
every conceivable shape, while Ellen Tiffton, who came
often to Spring Bank, and was supposed to be good authority,
pronounced him almost as stylish looking as any man
in Woodford.

It is strange how much dress and a little care as to its
adjustment can do for one. It certainly did wonders for
Hugh, who knew how much he was improved, and to whose
influence he owed it, just as he knew of the mighty love

he bore this gentle girl, working so great a good at Spring
Bank.

To Hugh, Alice was every thing, and sometimes the
thought crossed his mind that possibly he might win her
for himself, but it was repudiated as soon as formed, for it
could not be, he said, that one like Alice Johnson should
ever care for him; and so, between hope and a kind of
blissful despair, Hugh lived on until the evening of the day
when Adah left Spring Bank for Terrace Hill. She had
intended going immediately after the sale at Mosside, but
Willie had been ailing ever since, and that had detained
her. But now she was really gone; Hugh had accompanied
her to Frankfort, seeing her safely off, and spending the
entire day in town, so that it was rather late when he returned
to Spring Bank. Being unusually fatigued Mrs.
Worthington had already retired and as Alice was not in
sight, Hugh sat down alone by the parlor fire.

He was sorry Adah was gone and he missed her sadly,
but it was not so much of her he was thinking as of Alice.
During the last few days she had puzzled him greatly.
Her manner had been unusually kind, her voice unusually
soft and low when she addressed him, while several
times he had met her eyes fixed upon him with an
expression he could not fathom, and which had made his
heart beat high as hope whispered of what might perhaps
be, in spite of all his fears. Poor Hugh! he never dreamed
that Alice's real feelings towards him during those
few days were those of pity, as she saw how silent and
moody he grew, and attributed it to his grief at parting
with Adah. She was of course very dear to him, she
supposed, and Alice's kind heart went out toward him
with a strong desire to comfort him, to tell him how she,
as far as possible, would fill Adah's place. Had she dreamed
of his real feelings, she never would have done what
she did, but she was wholly unconscious of it, and so
when, late that night, she returned to the parlor in quest

of something she had left, and found him sitting there
alone, she paused a moment on the threshold, wondering
if she had better join him or go away. His back was toward
her, and he did not hear her light step, so intently
was he gazing into the burning grate, and trying to frame
the words he should say if ever he dared tell Alice Johnson
of his love.

There was much girlish playfulness in Alice's nature,
and gliding across the carpet, she clasped both her hands
before his eyes, and exclaimed —

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Hugh started as suddenly as if some apparition had
appeared before him, and blushing guiltily, clasped and
held upon his face the little soft, warm hands which did
not tremble, but lay still beneath his own. It was Providence
which sent her there, he thought; Providence indicating
that he might speak, and he would.

“I am glad you have come. I wish to talk with you,”
he said, drawing her down into a chair beside him, and
placing his arm lightly across its back. “What sent you
here, Alice? I supposed you had retired,” he continued,
bending upon her a look which made her slightly uncomfortable.

But she soon recovered, and answered laughingly —

“I came for my scissors, and finding you here alone,
thought I would startle you, but you have not told me
yet of what you were thinking.”

“Of the present, past and future,” he replied; then,
letting his hand drop from the back of the chair upon
her shoulder, he continued, “May I talk freely with you?
May I tell you of myself, what I was, what I am, what I
hope to be?”

His hand upon her shoulder made Alice a little uneasy;
but he had put it there in such a quiet, matter of course
way, that he might think her prudish if she objected.
Still her cheeks burned, and her voice was not quite
steady, as, rising from her seat, she said,

“I like a stool better than this chair. I'll bring it and
sit at your feet. There, now I am ready;” and seating
herself at a safe distance from him, Alice waited for him
to commence.

But Hugh was in no hurry then; that little act of
hers had chilled him somewhat. Perhaps she did not
like his arm around her, perhaps she never would,
and that was the saddest thought of all. She had never
looked to him as she did to-night, sitting there beside
him with the firelight falling upon her bright fair hair,
curling so gracefully about her forehead and neck.

On the high mantel a large mirror was standing, and
glancing towards it, Hugh caught the reflection of both
their figures, and with his usual depreciation of himself,
felt the contrast bitterly. This beautiful young girl
could not care for him; it were folly to think of it, and
he sat for a moment silent, forgetting that Alice was
waiting for him to speak. She grew tired of waiting at
last, and turning her eyes upon him, said gently,

“You seem unhappy about something. Is it because
Adah has gone? I am sorry, too; but, Hugh, I will do
what I can to fill her place. I will be the sister you
need so much. Don't look so wretched; it makes me feel
badly to see you.”

Alice's sympathy was getting the better of her again,
and she moved her stool nearer to Hugh, while she involuntarily
laid her hand upon his knee. That decided
him; and while his heart throbbed almost to bursting, he
began by saying,

“I am in rather a gloomy mood to-night, I'll admit. I
do feel Adah's leaving us very much; but that is not all.
I have wished to talk with you a long time — wished to
tell you how I feel. May I, Alice? — may I open to you
my whole heart, and show you what is there?”

For a moment Alice felt a thrill of fear — a dread of
what the opening of his heart to her might disclose.

Then she remembered Golden Hair, whose name she had
never heard him breathe, save as it passed his delirious
lips. It was of her he would talk; he would tell her of
that hidden love whose existence she felt sure was not
known at Spring Bank. Alice would rather not have
had this confidence, for the deep love-life of such as
Hugh Worthington seemed to her a sacred thing; but he
looked so white, so care-worn, so much as if it would be
a relief, that Alice answered at last:

“Yes, Hugh, you may tell, and I will listen.”

She moved her stool still nearer to him, beginning now
to feel anxious herself to hear of one whose very memory
had influenced Hugh for good.

So sure was Alice that it was Golden Hair of whom he
would talk, that when, by way of a commencement, he
said to her, “Can you guess what I would tell you?” she
answered involuntarily:

“I guess it is of somebody you have loved, or do love
still.”

There was no tremor in her voice, no flush in her cheek,
no drooping of the long lashes to cover her confusion;
and yet deluded Hugh believed she knew his secret, and
alas! believed his love reciprocated; else why should she
thus encourage him to go on! It was the happiest moment
Hugh had ever known, and for a time he could not
speak, as he thought how strange it was that a joy so
perfect as this should come to be his lot. Poor, poor
Hugh!

He began at last by telling Alice of his early boyhood,
uncheered by a single word of sympathy save as it came
from dear Aunt Eunice, who alone understood the wayward
boy whom people thought so bad.

“Then mother and Ad. came to Spring Bank, and
that opened to me a new era. In my odd way, I loved
my mother so much — but Ad. — say, Alice, is it wicked
in me if I can't love Ad.?”

“She is your sister,” was Alice's reply; and Hugh rejoined:

“Yes — my sister. I'm sorry for it, even if it's wicked
to be sorry. I tried to do my best with her — tried to be
as gentle as I could; but she did not understand me.
She gave me back only scorn and bitter words, until my
heart closed up against her, and I harshly judged all others
by her — all but one; and Hugh's voice grew very
low and tender in its tone, while Alice felt that now he
was nearing the Golden Hair.

“Away off in New England there was a pure white
blossom growing, a blossom so pure, so fair, that very
few were worthy even so much as to look upon it, as
day by day it unfolded some new beauty. There was
nothing to support this flower but a single parent stalk,
which snapped asunder one day, and Blossom was left
alone. It was a strange idea, transplanting it to another
soil; for the atmosphere of Spring Bank was not suited
to such as she. But she came, and, as by magic, the
whole atmosphere was changed — changed at least to one
— the bad, wayward Hugh, who dared to love this fair
young girl with a love stronger than his life. For her he
would do anything, and beneath her influence he did improve
rapidly. He was conscious of it himself — conscious
of a greater degree of self-respect — a desire to be what
she would like to have him.

“She was very, very beautiful; more so than anything
Hugh had ever looked upon. Her face was like an angel's
face, and her hair — much like yours, Alice;” and he laid
his hand on the bright head, now bent down, so that he
could not see that face so like an angel's.

The little hand, too, had slidden from his knee, and,
fast-locked within the other, was buried in Alice's lap, as
she listened with throbbing heart to the story Hugh was
telling.

“In all the world there was nothing so dear to Hugh as

this young girl. He thought of her by day and dreamed
of her by night, seeing always in the darkness her face,
with its eyes of blue bending over him — hearing the music
of her voice, like the falling of distant water, and even
feeling the soft touch of her hands as he fancied them
laid upon his brow. She was good, too, as beautiful; and
it was this very goodness which won on Hugh so fast,
making him pray often that he might be worthy of her
— for, Alice, he came at last to dream that he could win
her; she was so kind to him — she spoke to him so softly,
and, by a thousand little acts, endeared herself to him
more and more.

“Heaven forgive her if she misled him all this while;
but she did not. It were worse than death to think she
did — to know I've told her this in vain — have offered her
my heart only to have it thrust back upon me as something
she does not want. Speak, Alice! in mercy, speak!
Can it be that I'm mistaken?”

Something in her manner had wrung out this cry of fear,
and now, bending over her as she sat with her face buried
in her lap he waited for her answer. It had come like a
thunderbolt to Alice, that she, and not Golden Hair, was
the subject of his story — she the fair blossom growing
among the New England hills. She did not guess that
they were one and the same, for Hugh would not have
her swayed ever so slightly by gratitude.

Alice saw how she had led him on, and her white lips
quivered with pain, for, alas! she did not love him as he
should be loved, and she could not deceive him, though
every fibre of her heart bled and ached for him. Lifting
up her head at last she exclaimed,

“You don't mean me, Hugh? Oh, you don't mean
me?”

“Yes, darling,” and he clasped in his own the hand
raised imploringly toward him. “Yes, darling, I mean
you. I love you and you must be mine. I shall die without

you. You can mould me at your will. You can
teach me the narrow way I want to find, Alice, more
than you guess. We will walk it hand in hand, yours
the stronger one at first, mine the stronger last, when
I've been taught by you. Will you, Alice, will you be
my wife, my darling, my idol? I know I have no
money, just as I know you do not care for that. You
will not prize me less for daring to ask you, an heiress, to
be mine. I have no money, no position, but I have willing
hands and a loving heart, which will answer in their
stead. Will you be my wife?”

Alice had never before heard a voice so earnest, so full
of meaning, as the one now pleading with her to be what
she could not be, and a pang keener than any she had
ever felt, or believed it possible for her to feel, shot
through her heart as the dread conviction was forced
upon her that she was to blame for all this. She had
misled him, unwittingly, it is true, but that did not help
him now; the harm, the wrong were just the same, and
they loomed up before her in all their appalling magnitude.
What could she do to atone? Alas! there was
nothing except to be what he asked, and that she could not
do. She could not be Hugh's wife. She would as soon
have married her brother, if she had one. But she must
do something, and sliding from her stool she sank upon
her knees — her proper attitude — upon her knees before
Hugh, whom she had wronged so terribly, and burying
her face in Hugh's own hands, she sobbed,

“Oh, Hugh, Hugh, you don't know what you ask. I
love you dearly, but only as my brother — believe me,
Hugh, only as a brother. I wanted one so much — one
of my own, I mean; but God denied that wish, and gave
me you instead. I did not like you at first — that is, before
I saw you. I was sorry you were here, but I got
over that. I pitied first, and then I came to like or love
you so much, but only as my brother; and if I let you

see that love, it was because it is my nature to caress
those whom I love — because I thought you understood
that 'twas only as my brother. I cannot be your wife.
I — oh, Hugh, forgive me for making you so unhappy.
I'm sorry I ever came here, but I cannot go away. I've
learned to love my Kentucky home. Let me stay just
the same. Let me really be what I thought I was, your
sister. You will not send me away?”

She looked up at him now, but quickly turned away,
for the expression of his white, haggard face was more
than she could bear, and she knew there was a pain,
keener than any she had felt, a pang which must be terrible,
to crush a strong man as Hugh was crushed.

“Forgive me, Hugh,” she said, as he did not speak, but
sat gazing at her in a kind of stunned bewilderment.
“You would not have me for your wife, if I did not love
you?”

“Never, Alice, never!” he answered; “but it is not any
easier to bear. I don't know why I asked you, why I
dared hope that you could think of me. I might have
known you could not. Nobody does. I cannot win their
love. I don't know how.”

He put her gently from him, and arose to leave the room,
but something mastered his will, and brought him back
again to where she knelt, her face upon his chair, as she
silently prayed to know just what was right. Something
she had said about his sending her away rang in his ears,
and he felt that the knowing she was gone would be the
bitterest dreg in all the bitter cup, so he said to her, entreatingly
—

“Alice, I know you cannot be my wife — I do not expect
it now, but I want you here all the same. Promise
that you will stay, at least until my rival claims you.”

Alice neither looked up nor moved, only sobbed piteously,
and this more than aught else helped Hugh to
choke down his own sorrow for the sake of comforting

her. The sight of her distress moved him greatly, for he
knew it was grief that she had so cruelly misled him.

“Alice, darling,” he said again, this time as a mother
would soothe her child. “It hurts me more to see you
thus than your refusal did. I am not wholly selfish in
my love. I'd rather you should be happy than to be happy
myself. I would not for the world take to my bosom
an unwilling wife. I should be jealous even of my own
caresses, jealous lest the very act disgusted her more and
more. You did not mean to deceive me. It was I that
deceived myself. I forgive you fully, and ask you to forget
that to-night has ever been. It cut me sorely at first,
Alice, to hear you tell me so, but I shall get over it; the
wound will heal.”

He said this falteringly, for the wound bled and throbbed
at every pore, but he would comfort her. She should
not know how much he suffered. “The wound will heal.
Even now I am feeling better, can almost see my way
through the darkness.”

Poor Hugh! He mentally asked forgiveness for that
falsehood told for her. He could not see his way through,
— his brain was giddy, and his soul sick with that dull
dreadful pain which is so hard to be borne, but he could
hide his misery, for her sake, and he would.

“Please, don't cry,” he said, stooping over her, and
lifting her tenderly up. “I shall get over it. A man can
bear better than a woman, and even if I should not, I
would rather have loved and lost you, than not to have
known and loved you at all. The memory of what might
have been will keep me from much sin. There, darling,
let me wipe the tears away, let me hear you say you are
better.”

“Oh, Hugh, don't, you break my heart. I'd rather
you should scorn or even hate me for the sorrow I have
brought. Such unselfish kindness will kill me,” Alice

sobbed, for never had she been so touched as by this insight
into the real character of the man she had refused.

He would not hold her long in his arms, though it were
bliss to do so, and putting her gently in the chair, he leaned
his own poor sick head upon the mantel, while Alice
watched him with streaming eyes and an aching heart,
which even then half longed to give itself into his keeping.
She did not love him with a wife-like love, she knew
but she might in time, and she pitied him so much. And
Hugh had need for pity. He had tried to quiet her; had
said it was no matter, that he should get over it, that he
need not care, but the agony it cost him to say all this
was visible in every feature, and Alice looked at him with
wondering awe as he stood there silently battling with
the blow he would not permit to smite him down.

At last it was Alice's turn to speak, hers the task to
comfort. The prayer she had inwardly breathed for guidance
to act aright had not been unheard, and with a
strange calmness she arose, and laying her hand on Hugh's
arm, bade him be seated, while she told him what she had
to say. He obeyed her, sinking into the offered chair,
and then standing before him, she began,

“You do not wish me to go away, you say. I have no
desire to go, except it should be better for you. Even
though I may not be your wife, I can, perhaps, minister to
your happiness; and, Hugh, we will forget to-night, and
be to each other what we were before, brother and sister.
There must be no particular perceptible change of manner,
lest others should suspect what has passed between
us. Do you agree to this?”

He bowed his head, and Alice drew a step nearer to
him, hesitating a moment ere she continued.

“You speak of a rival. But believe me, Hugh, you
have none, there is not a man in the wide world whom I
like as much as I do you, and Hugh — ” the little hand
pressed more closely on Hugh's shoulder, while Alice's

breath came heavily, “And, Hugh, it may be, that in time
I can conscientiously give you a different answer from
what I did to-night. I may love you as your wife should
love you; and — and, if I do, I'll tell you so at the proper
time.”

There was a gleam of sunshine now to illumine the
thick darkness, and, in the first moments of his joy Hugh
wound his arm around the slight form, and tried to bring
it nearer to him. But Alice stepped back and answered,

“No, Hugh, that would be wrong. It may be I shall
never come to love you save as I love you now, but I'll
try — I will try,” and unmindful of her charge to him
Alice parted the damp curls clustering around his forehead,
and looked into his face with an expression which
made his heart bound and throb with the sudden hope,
that even now she loved him better than she supposed.

It was growing very late, and the clock in the adjoining
room struck one ere Alice bade Hugh good night, saying
to him,

“No one must know of this. We'll be just the same
to each other as we have been.”

“Yes, just the same, if that can be,” Hugh answered,
and so they parted, Alice to her room, where, in the solitude,
she could pray for that guidance without which she
was nothing, and Hugh to his, where he, too, prayed, this
night with a greater earnestness than ever he had done
before — not for Golden Hair to come back, as of old,
but that he might be led into the path she trod, and so
be worthy of her, should the glad time ever come when
she might be his.

Hugh had not yet learned the faith which asks for
good, that God shall be glorified rather than our own desires
fulfilled; but he who prays, ever so imperfectly, is
better for it, because the very act of praying implies a
faith in somebody to hear; and so soothed into comparative
quiet by the petition offered, Hugh fell into a quiet

slumber, and slept on undisturbed until Muggins came to
wake him.