University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
FREDERIC AND ALICE VISIT MARIAN'S OLD HOME.

“Frederic,” said Alice, about six weeks before Marian's
arrival at Riverside, “who hired that Mrs. Merton
to take care of you when you were sick at the
hotel?”

“The proprietor, I suppose,” returned Frederic.

Alice continued:

“But who told him of her?”

“I don't know,” said Frederic. “She was from the
country, I believe.”

“Yes, yes,” returned Alice; “but some person must
have recommended her, and if you can ascertain who
that person was, you may find Mrs. Merton, and learn
something of Marian.”

“I wonder I never thought of that before,” said
Frederic, adding, “that if Alice had her sight he believed
she would have discovered Marian ere this.”

“I know I should,” was her answer; and after a
little further conversation, it was decided that Frederic
should go to New York, and learn, if possible, who
first suggested Mrs. Merton as a nurse.

This was not so easy a matter as he had imagined it
to be, for though Frederic himself was well remembered
at the hotel, where he was now a frequent guest,
scarcely any one could recall Mrs. Merton distinctly,
and no one seemed to know how she came there, until
a servant, who had been in the house a long time,
spoke of Martha Gibbs, and then the proprietor suddenly

remembered that she had recommended Mrs.
Merton as being a friend of hers.

“But who is Martha Gibbs, and where is she now?”
Frederic asked; and the servant replied that

“Her home used to be in Woodstock, Conn.;” and
with this item of information Frederic wrote to her
friends, inquiring where she was.

To this letter there came ere long an answer, saying
that Mrs. John Jennings lived in —, a small town
in the interior of Iowa. Accordingly the next mail
westward from Yonkers carried a letter to said Mrs.
Jennings, asking where the woman lived who had
nursed Mr. Raymond through that dangerous fever.
This being done, Frederic and Alice waited impatiently
for a reply, which was long in coming, for Mr.
Jennings' log tenement was several miles from the
post-office, where he seldom called, and it was more
than a week ere the letter reached him. Even then it
found him so engrossed in the arrival of his first-born
son and heir, that for two or three days longer it lay
unopened in the clock-case, ere he thought to look at
it.

“I don't know what it means, I'm sure,” he said,
taking it to his wife, who, having never heard of the
death of her old friend, replied, “Why, he wants to
know where Mrs. Burt lives. Just write on a piece of
paper: `East — street, No. —, third story; turn to
your right; door at the head of the stairs.' I wonder
if he's never been there yet?”

John was not an elaborate correspondent, and he
simply wrote down his better half's direction, saying
nothing whatever of Mrs. Burt herself, and thus conveying
to Frederic no idea that Merton was not the
real name.

“A letter from Iowa,” said Frederic to Alice, as he
came in from the office, on the very night when Marian
was walking slowly past what was once her home.
“I have the street and number, and to-morrow I am
going there.”

“And I am going, too,” cried Alice. Won't Marian
be surprised to see us both. I hope she'll come
to the door herself; and Frederic, if she does, you'll
kiss her, won't you, and act like you was glad, for if
you don't, may be she won't come back with us.”

“I will do right,” answered Frederic, adding in a
low tone, “Perhaps she will not be there.”

“Yes, she will,” was Alice's positive reply, “or if
she's not, somebody can tell us where she is. Only to
think, we shall see her to-morrow. I do wish it would
hurry, and I'm glad Miss Grey is not coming until the
day after. It will be so nice to have them both here.
Do you suppose they'll like each other, Marian and
Miss Grey?”

“I dare say they will,” returned Frederic, smiling
at the little girl's enthusiasm, and hoping she might
not be disappointed.

Anon, a shadow clouded Alice's face, and observing
it, Frederic passed his hand over her hair, saying,
“What is it, birdie?”

“Frederic,” said Alice, creeping closely to the side
of the young man, “Isn't Miss Grey very beautiful?”

“Mr. Gordon and Ben say so,” returned Frederic,
and Alice continued:

“Don't be angry with me, but you loved Isabel the
best because she was the handsomest, and now you
won't love Miss Grey better than Marian, will you, and
you'll be Marian's husband right off, won't you?”

“When Marian comes here, it will be as my wife,”
said Frederic, and with this answer Alice was satisfied.

“I wish it would grow dark faster,” she said, for she
could tell when it was night; and Frederic, while listening
to the many different ways she conjured up for
them to meet Marian, became almost as impatient as
herself for the morrow, when his renewed hopes might,
perhaps, be realized.

The breakfast next morning was hurried through, for
neither Alice nor Frederic could eat, and Mrs. Russell,

when she saw how much was left untouched, congratulated
herself upon its answering for the hired man's
dinner, and thus giving her a nice long time for sewing.

“It isn't a bit likely Miss Grey will come to-day,”
said Alice, as she followed Frederic to the carriage;
and, confident of this, they gave Miss Grey no further
thought, but went on their way in search of Marian.
When they reached New York, Frederic, who had
some business to transact, left Alice in the parlor at
the Astor, where she sat with her face to the window,
just as though she could see the passers-by; and, as
she sat there, a party who were leaving glanced hastily
in, all seeing the little figure by the window, and
one thinking to herself, “She wears her hair combed
back, as Alice used to do!”

Then the group passed on, while over the face of the
blind girl there flitted for an instant a wondering, bewildering
expression, for her quick ear had caught the
sound of a voice which, it seemed to her, she had heard
before—not there—not in New York—but far away,
at Redstone Hall. What was it? Who was it? She
bent her head to listen, hoping to hear it again, but it
came no more, for Marian Grey had left the house,
and was passing up Broadway. It was not long ere
Frederic returned, and, taking Alice's hand, he led her
into the street, and entered a Third avenue car.

“We are on the right track, I think,” he said; “for
it was this way she went with the man described by
Sarah Green.”

Alice gave a sigh of relief, and, leaning against
Frederic, rather enjoyed the pleasant motion of the
car, although she wished it would go faster.

“Won't we ever get there?” she asked, as they plodded
slowly on, stopping often to take in a passenger,
or set one down.

“Yes, by and by,” said Frederic, encouragingly.
“I am not quite certain of the street, myself, but I
shall know it when I see the name, of course;” and he

looked anxiously out as they passed along. “Here it
is!” he cried, at last; and, seizing Alice's arm, he
rather dragged than led her from the car, and out upon
the crossing. “Why,” he exclaimed, gazing eagerly
around him, “I have been here before—down this
very street;” and his eye wandered involuntarily in
the direction of the window where once the white-fringed
curtain hung.

It was gone now, as was the rose geranium. The
kitten, too, was gone, and the small hand resting on
it; while in their place appeared the heads of two or
three dirty children, looking across the way, and making
wry faces at similar dirty children in the window
opposite. Frederic saw all this, and it affected him
unpleasantly, causing him to feel as if he had parted
from some old friend. But no; where was that? It
must be in this locality; and he wondered how one
accustomed to the luxuries of Redstone Hall could
live in this place so long.

“I've found it!” he said, as his eye caught the number;
and now, that he believed himself near to what
he had sought so long, he was more impatient than
Alice herself.

He could not wait for her uncertain footsteps, and
pale with excitement, he caught her in his arms and
hurried up the narrow stairs, which many a time had
creaked to Marian's tread. The third story was reached
at last, and he stood panting by the door, where Mr.
Jennings had said that he must stop. It was open, and
the greasy, uncarpeted floor, of which he caught a
glimpse, looked cheerless and uninviting, but it did
not keep him back a moment, and he advanced into
the room, which, by the three heads at the window,
he knew was the same where the white curtain once
had hung, and where now the glaring August sunlight
came pouring in, unbroken and unsubdued.

At the sight of a stranger one of the heads turned
toward him and a little voice said:

“Ma's out washin', she is, and won't be home till
night.”

There was a cold, heavy feeling of disappointment
settling round Frederic's heart, for nothing there seemed
at all like what he remembered of the neat, tidy Mrs.
Merton, but he nerved himself to ask:

“What is your mother's name?”

“Bunce, and my pa is in the Tombs,” was the
reply.

“How long have you lived here?” was the next
question, asked with a colder, heavier heart.

“Next Christmas a year,” said the little girl, and
catching Frederic's arm, Alice whispered,

“Do let's go out into the open air.”

But Frederic did not move—there was a spell upon
him, and for several moments it kept him there in the
very room where Marian had wept so many tears for
him, and where, in her desolation, she had asked that
she might die when the greatest sorrow she had ever
known came upon her—the sorrow brought by Isabel's
cruel letter. There close to where he stood was the
door of the little room where for weeks and months
she had lain, tossing in her feverish pain, while over
her Ben Burt kept his tireless watch, nor asked for
greater reward than to know that she would live. And
was there nothing to tell him of all this—nothing to
whisper that the one he sought had been there once,
but was waiting for him now in his own home! No,
there was nothing but dark, cheerless poverty staring
him in the face, and with a sigh he turned away, and
knocking at other doors, asked for the former occupants
of those front rooms. Nearly all the present
tenants had moved there since Mrs. Burt's death, and
none knew aught of her save one rather decent-looking
woman, who said “she remembered the folks well,
though they held their heads above the likes of her.
She'd seen them comin' in and out and had peeked
into their room, so she knew they was well to do.”

“Was their name Merton? and did a young girl

live with them?” asked Frederic; and the woman
replied:

“Merton sounds some like it, though I'd sooner say
'twas Burton, or something like that. I never even
so much as passed the time of day with 'em, for I tell
you they felt above me; but the girl was a jewel—so
trim and genteel like.”

“That was Marian,” whispered Alice; and Frederic
continued:

“Where are they now?”

“Bless you,” returned the woman. “One on 'em
is in Heaven, and the Lord only knows where t'other
one went to.”

Alice's hand, which lay in Frederic's, was clutched
with a painful grasp; and the perspiration gathered
about the young man's white lips as he stammered
out:

“Which one is dead? Not the girl? You dare
not tell me that?”

“I dare if it was so,” returned the woman; “but
'twant; 'twas the old one—the one I took to be the
mother; though I have heard a story about the girl's
comin' here long time ago, before I moved here. I
was away when the woman died, and when I got back
the rooms was empty, and the boy and girl was gone;
nobody knows where; and I haint seen 'em since.”

Frederic was too much interested in Marian to hear
anything else, and he paid no attention to her mention
of a boy. Marian was all he wished to find, but it was
in vain that he questioned and cross-questioned the
woman. She had given all the information she could;
and with an increased feeling of disappointment he
left her, glancing once more into the room where he
was sure Marian had lived. Alice, too, was willing to
stop there now; and when Frederic told her of the
geranium and the kitten he had once seen in the window,
a smile mingled with her tears, and she wished
she had them now, especially the kitten! She did not
know that the matronly-looking cat, which, behind the

broken stove, was purring sleepily, was the same Maltese
kitten Marian had fondled so often. At the time
of leaving she had given it to an acquaintance near
by, but pussy preferred her old haunts, and returning
to them, persisted in remaining there until the arrival
of the new comers, who took her in, and she now daily
shared the meagre fare of the three children by the
window. Intuitively, as it were, she felt that Alice
was a lover of her race, and she came towards her,
purring loudly, and rubbing against her side.

“Lands sake,” exclaimed the woman. “Here's the
very cat the young girl used to tend so much. I know
it by the white spot between its eyes. I found it mewing
and making an awful noise by the door when I
came back; and though I ain't none of your cat
women, I flung it a bone or two till them folks came,
and the children kept it to torment, I 'spect, just as
young ones will. I see one of 'em with a string round
its neck t'other day a chokin' it most to death.”

“Oh, Frederic,” and Alice's face expressed what she
wished to say, while she caught up the animal in her
arms.

Frederic understood her, and speaking to the oldest
of the children, he said, “Will you give me your
cat?”

“No, no,” the three set up at once, and Alice whispered,
“Buy her, Frederic, won't you?”

“Will you let me have her for fifty cents?” he
asked, showing the silver coin.

“No, no,” and the youngest began to cry.

“Give more,” said Alice, and Frederic continued,
“Fifty cents a piece, then. You can buy a great many
cakes and crackers with it”—

“And candy,” suggested Alice.

The youngest began to show signs of relenting, as
did the second, but the third persisted in saying “No.”

“Offer her more,” was whispered in a low voice,
and glancing around the poorly furnished room, Frederic
took out his purse and said, “You shall have a

dollar a piece, but part of it must be saved for your
mother,—besides that, this little girl is blind,” and he
laid his hand on Alice's head.

This last argument would have been sufficient without
the dollar, for it touched a chord of pity in the
heart of that child of poverty, and coming closer to
Alice she looked at her curiously, saying, “Can't you
see a bit more'n I can with my eyes shut?” and she
closed her own by way of experimenting.

“Not a bit,” returned Alice, “but I love kitty just
the same, because she used to belong to a dear friend
of mine. May I have her?”

“Ye-es,” came half reluctantly from the lips of the
child, as she extended her hand for the money.

“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Alice when they were at a
safe distance from the house. “I was afraid they'd
take it back,” and she held fast to the kitten, which
made no effort to escape, but lay in her arms, singing
occasionally as if well pleased with the exchange.

This, however, Frederic knew would not continue
until they reached home, and stepping into a shop
which they were passing, he bought a covered basket,
in which the cat was placed and the lid secured, a proceeding
not altogether satisfactory to the prisoner.
Alice, too, was equally distressed, and when she learned
that Frederic could not go home until night, she insisted
upon his getting her a room at the Astor, where
she could let her treasure out without fear of its escaping.
Frederic complied with her request, and in her
delight with her new pet, she half forgot how disappointed
she had been in the result of their visit. But
not so with Frederic. He felt it keenly, for never had
his hopes of finding Marian been raised to a higher
pitch than that morning, and even now he could not
give it up. Leaving Alice at the hotel he went back
again to the street and made the most minute inquiries,
but all to no purpose. He could not obtain the least
clue to her, and he retraced his steps with a feeling

that she was as really lost to him as if Sarah Green's
letter had been true and Marian resting in her grave.

“Why had that letter been written?” he asked himself
again and again.

Somebody knew of Marian, and there was a mystery
connected with it—a mystery of wrong it might me.
Perhaps she could not come back, even though she
wanted to, and his pulses quickened with painful rapidity
as he thought of all the imaginary terrors which
might surround the lost one. It was indeed a sad reflection,
and his spirits were unusually depressed,
when just before sunset he took Alice by one hand,
the basket in the other, and started for home.

“I didn't think we should come back alone,” said
Alice, when at last they reached the depot at Yonkers,
and she was lifted into the carriage waiting for them.
“It's dreadful we couldn't find her, but I am so glad
we've got the cat;” and she guarded the basket carefully,
as if it had contained the diamonds of India.

Frederic did not care to talk, and folding his arms,
he leaned moodily back in his carriage, evincing no
interest in anything until as they drew near home, the
driver said to Alice:

“Guess who's come?”

“Oh, I don't know—Dinah, may be,” was Alice's
reply, and then Frederic smiled at the preposterous
idea.

“No; guess again,” said the driver. “Somebody
as handsome as a doll.”

“Miss Grey!” cried Alice, almost upsetting her
basket in her delight.

Eagerly she questioned John, and then replied,
“I'm so glad, though I was going to fix her room so
nice to-morrow—but no matter, it's always pleasant
up there. How lonesome she must have been all
day with nothing but the garden, the books, and the
piano.”

“She has been homesick,” I guess,” said John, “for

I seen her cryin', I thought, out under a tree in the
garden.”

“Poor thing!” sighed Alice. “She won't be home-sick
any more when we get there; will she, Frederic?
I wonder if she likes cats!” And as by this
time they had stopped at their own gate, the little
girl went running up the walk, shaking the basket
prodigiously, and inciting its contents to such violent
struggles that in the hall the lid came off, and bounding
from its confinement, the cat ran into the parlor,
where, trembling with fright, it crouched as for protection,
at the feet of Marian Grey.