University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
FREDERIC AND ALICE.

All the day long Frederic had thought of Marian
—thought of the little blue-eyed girl, who just six
weeks before went away from him to die. To die.
Many, many times he said that to himself, and as often
as he said it, he thought, “perhaps she is not dead,”
until the belief grew strong in him that somewhere he
should find her, that very day it might be. He wished
he could, and take her back to Redstone Hall, where
she would be a barrier between himself and the beautiful
temptation which it was so hard for him to resist.
Manfully had he struggled against it, going always
from its presence when the eyes of lustrous black
looked softly into his own, and when he heard, as he
often did, the full rich-toned voice singing merry
songs, he stopped his ears lest the sweet music should
touch a chord which he said was hushed forever.

“It might have been,” he thought sometimes to
himself, but the time was past, and even if Marian
were dead, he must not take another to share the
wealth so generously given up. And Marian was dead,
he had always believed until to-day, when she seemed
to be so near, that on his return at night to Redstone
Hall he had a half presentiment that he might find her
there, or at least some tidings of her.

All about the house was dark, but on the piazza a
little figure was standing, and as its dim outline was
revealed to him, he said, involnntarily: “That may be
Marian, and I am glad, or at least I will be glad,” and

he was hurrying on, when a light from the hall streamed
out upon the figure, and he saw that it was Alice waiting
for him. Still the impression was so strong that
after kissing her, he asked if no one had been at the
Hall that day.

“No one,” she answered, and with a vague feeling
of disappointment, he led her into the house.

Alice's heart was full that night, for accidentally she
had heard old Hetty and Lyd discussing the probable
result of Isabel's sojourn among them, and the very
idea shocked her, as if they had trampled on Marian's
grave.

“I'll tell Frederic,” said she to herself, “and ask
him is he going to marry her,” and when after his supper
he went into the library to read the letters which
Mrs. Huntington told him were there, she followed
him thither.

It was not Frederic's nature to pet or notice children
much, but in his sorrow he had learned to love
the little helpless girl dearly, and when he saw her
standing beside him with a wistful look upon her face,
he smoothed her soft brown hair and said: “What
does my blind bird want?”

“Take me in your lap,” said Alice, “so I can feel
your heart beat and know if you tell me true.”

He complied with her request, and laying her head
against his bosom, she began, “be we much related?”

“Second cousins, that's all.”

“But you love me, don't you?”

“Yes, very much.”

“And I love you a heap,” returned the little girl.
“I didn't use to, though—till Marian went away.
Frederic, Marian isn't dead!” and, lifting up her head,
Alice looked at him with a truthful, earnest look,
which seemed to say that she believed what she asserted.

Frederic gasped a short, quick breath, and Alice
continued, “wouldn't it be very wicked for you to love
anybody else. I don't mean me—because I'm a little

blind girl—but to love somebody and marry them with
Marian alive?”

“Certainly it would be wicked,” he replied; and
Alice continued, “Aunt Hetty said you were going to
marry Isabel, and it almost broke my heart. I never
thought before that Marian wasn't dead, but I knew
it then. I felt her right there with us, and I've felt
her ever since. Dinah, too, said it seemed to her just
like Marian was alive, and that she hoped you wouldn't
make—perhaps I ought not to tell you, but you don't
care for Dinah—she hoped you wouldn't make a fool
of yourself. Frederic, do you love Isabel Huntington?”

“Yes,” dropped in voluntarily from the young man's
lips, for there was something about that old little child
which wrung the truth from him.

“Did you love her before you married Marian?”

“Yes,” he said again, for he could not help himself.

There was silence a moment, and then Alice, who
had been thinking of what he told her once before,
said, interrogatively, “Marian found it out, and that
was why she thought you didn't love her and went
away?”

“That was one reason, but not the principal one.”

“Do you think Isabel as good as Marian?”

“No, not as good—not as good,” and Frederic was
glad that he could pay this tribute to the lost one.

After a moment Alice spoke again:

“Frederic, do you believe Marian is dead?”

“I have always thought so,” he answered, and Alice
replied: “But you don't know for certain; and I want
you to promise that until you do you won't make love
to Isabel, nor marry her, nor anybody else, will you,
Frederic?” and putting both her little hands upon his
forehead, she pushed back his hair and waited for an
answer.

Many times the young man had made that resolution,
but the idea of thus promising to another was
unpleasant, and he hesitated for a time; then he said:

“Suppose we never can know for certain—would
you have me live all my life alone?”

“No,” said Alice, “and you needn't, either; but I'd
wait ever so long, ten years, anyway, and before that
time she'll come, I'm sure. Dinah says maybe she
will, and that perhaps we shan't know her, she'll be so
changed—so handsome,” and as if the power of prophecy
were on her, Alice pictured a beautiful woman
who might come to them sometime as their lost Marian,
and Frederic, listening to her, felt more willing
to promise than he had been before.

A glow of hope was kindled within his own bosom,
and when she finished he said to her:

“I will wait, Alice—wait ten years for Marian.”

Blessed Alice! When the mother, whose grave
was grass-grown now and sunken, first knew her only
child was blind, she murmured against the dealings of
Providence, and in the bitterness of her heart asked:

“Why was my baby born? and what good can it
ever do?”

She who had questioned thus was dead, while the
good the little girl was to do was becoming, each day,
more and more apparent. Helpless and blind though
she was, she would keep the strong man from falling,
and when his heart grew faint with hope deferred, her
gentle, earnest words would cheer him on to wait a little
longer. Marian was not dead to her, and so sure
of it did she seem that when the interview was ended,
and Frederic was left alone, he bowed his head reverently
and said:

“If Marian be, indeed, alive, will the good Father
send me some tidings of her, and so keep me from
sin?”

Oh! could the writing desk before him have told
how only that afternoon there had lain upon its velvet
cover a message from the lost one—a sweet, child-like
petition for him to take her back, even though he
could not love her—he would have gone for her then,
and, bringing her to the home which was not his, but

hers, he would have placed her between himself and
the temptation, yielding to her all honor and respect
until his heart should say it loved her. But the time
was not yet, and he must suffer longer—must pass
through deeper waters; while Marian, too, must be
molded and changed into a bride who, far better than
the queenly Isabel, could do the honors of Redstone
Hall.