University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
TELLING ALICE.

One by one the bright November days went by and
the hazy Indian Summer light faded from the Kentucky
hills, where now the December sun was shining
cold and clear. And as the weeks passed away, there
hung over Redstone Hall a dark, portentous cloud,
and they who had waited so eagerly the coming of the
holidays trembled lest the merry Christmas song
should prove a funeral dirge for the pet and darling of
them all. Alice was dying, so the physician said,
while Dinah, too, had prophesied that ere the New
Year came the eyes which never in this world had
looked upon the light would be opened to the glories
of the better land.

For many weary days and nights the fever flame
had burned in the young girl's veins, but it had left
her now, and like a fragile lily she lay among her pillows,
talking of Heaven and the grave as something
very near to her. Noiselessly Marian trod across the
floor, holding back her breath and speaking in soft
whispers, lest she should disturb the little sufferer
whose side she never for a moment left except to take
the rest she absolutely needed. Frederic, too, often
shared her vigils, feeling almost as anxious for one
as for the other. Both were very dear to him, and
Marian, as she witnessed his tender care of Alice, and
his anxiety for herself lest her stength should be over-tasked,
felt more aud more that he was worthy of her
love. Alice, too, appreciated his goodness, as she had

never done before, and once when he sat alone with
her, and Marian was asleep, she passed her hand caressingly
over his face and said:

“Dear Frederic, you have been so kind to me, that
I am sure God has some good in store for you.”

Then as she remembered what would probably be
the greatest good to him, she continued, “I know
what's in your heart, and I pity you so much, but
there is light ahead; I've thought strange things, and
dreamed strange dreams since I lay here so sick,
and as I once was certain Marian was alive, so now I'm
almost certain that she's dead.”

“Hush, Alice, hush,” said Frederic, laying his head
upon the pillow beside her, but Alice did not heed
him, and she continued—

“I never saw her in this world, and maybe I shan't
know her right away, though next to mother, I reckon
she'll be the first to welcome me to Heaven, if she's
there, and I know she is, or we should have heard
from her. I shall tell her of her old home, Frederic; tell
her how we mourned for her when we thought that
she was dead. I don't know what it was that made
her go away, but I shall tell her you repented of the
act, and how you looked for her so long, and that if
you had found her you would have loved her, sure.
That will not be a lie, will it, Frederic?”

“No, darling, no,” was the faintly spoken answer,
and Alice continued:

“Then, when I have explained all, I'll steal away
from Heaven, just long enough to come and tell you
she is there. You'll be in the library, maybe, and
I reckon 'twill be dark, though if you'd any rather,
I'll come in the daytime, and when you feel
there's somebody near, somebody you can't see, you
may know that it is me come to say that you are free
to love the other Marian.”

“Don't, Alice, don't,” said Frederic, for it made his
heart bleed afresh to hear her talk of what he had no
hope would ever be.

But Alice's faith was stronger, and to Marian Grey
she sometimes talked in a similar strain, saying “she
knew she should meet the other one in Heaven,” and
Marian, while listening to her, felt that she must undeceive
her. “It may possibly make her better,” she
thought, and when, at last, the Christmas eve had
come, and it was her turn to watch that night, she determined
to tell her, if she fancied that she had
strength to bear it, One by one, the family servants
retired, and when at last they were alone, Marian
drew her chair close beside the bed, wondering how
she should commence, and what effect it would have
upon the little girl, who erelong awoke, and said to
her:

“I've been dreaming of Marian, and I thought she
looked like you do — but she don't of course; and I
wonder how I'll know her from my mother, for she, too,
was young when she died. If it were you, Miss Grey, I
could tell you so easily, for I should look among the
brightest angels there, and the one who sang the sweetest
song and had the fairest face, would certainly be
Marian Grey: but the other Marian—how shall I know
her—think?”

Leaning forward so that her hot cheek touched the
pale one of the sick girl, Marian said:

“Wouldn't you know her by her voice?”

“I'm afraid not,” answered Alice; “I thought you
were she at first when I heard you speak.”

“How is it now, darling?” Marian asked, in a voice
so tremulous that Alice started, and her white face
flushed as she replied: “You are not like her now, except
at times, and then—it's all so queer. There's a
mystery about you, Miss Grey—and seems sometimes
just like I didn't know what to think—you puzzle me
so!”

“Shall I tell you, Alice? Have you strength to hear
who and what I am?” Marian asked; and Alice answered
eagerly;

“Yes—tell me—do?”

“And you'll promise not to faint, nor scream, nor
reveal it to anybody, unless I say you may?”

“It must be something terrible to make me faint or
scream!”

“Not terrible, dearest, but strange!” and sitting
down upon the bed, Marian wound her arm around the
little girl.

It was a hazardous thing the telling that secret then.
but Marian did not realize what she was doing, and in
as calm a voice as she could command, she began:

“People call me Marian Grey, but that is not my
name!”

“Not Marian Grey!” and the brown eyes flashed
wonderingly. “Who are you, then, Marian what?”

Marian did not reply to this question, but said instead:
“I had seen you before that night at Riverside.”

“Seen me where?” and the little fingers trembled
with an indefinable dread of the shock which she instinctively
felt was waiting for her.

“I had seen you many times,” said Marian, “and that
is why my voice is familiar. Put your hand upon my
face again, and maybe you will know it.”

“I can't, I can't! you frighten me so!” gasped Alice,
and Marian continued:

“I must have changed much, for they who used to
know me have never suspected that I am in their
midst again—none but Bruno. Do you remember my
power over him? Bruno and I were playmates together.”

Marian paused and gazed earnestly at the child, who
lay panting in her arms, her face upturned and the
blind eyes fixed upon hers with an intensity she had
never before seen equalled. In the deep stillness of
the room she could hear the loud beating of Alice's
heart, and see the bed-clothes rise and fall with every
throb.

“Alice,” she said at last, “don't you know me now?'
and in her voice there was a world of yearning tenderness
and love.

“Yes,” and over the marble face there shone a smile
of almost seraphic sweetness. “You are Marian—
my Marian—Frederic's Marian—Dinah's Marian—
All of us Marian!” and with a low, hysterical cry the
blind girl crept close to the bosom of her long lost
friend.

Stretching out her feeble arms she wound them
round Marian's neck, and raising herself upon her elbow,
kissed her lips, her cheek, her forehead, her hair,
whispering all the time, “Blessed Marian—precious
Marian—beautiful Marian—our Marian—Frederic's,
and mine, and everybody's. Oh, I don't want to go to
heaven now: I'd rather stay with you. Call him—call
Frederic, quick, and tell him? Why haven't you told
him before? Ho, Frederic, come here!” and the feeble
voice raised to its highest pitch, went ringing
through the room and penetrated even to the adjoining
chamber, where, since Alice's illness, Frederic had
slept.

“Alice,” said Marian, “if you love me, you will not
tell him now. I am not ready yet.”

“What if I should die?” Alice asked, and Marian
replied:

“You won't die. I almost know you won't. Promise,
Alice, promise,” she continued, as she heard Frederic's
step in the hall without.

“How can I—how can I? It will choke me to
death!” was Alice's answer, and the next moment
Frederic had crossed the threshold of the door.

“What is it, Miss Grey?” he asked. “Didn't you
call?”

“Alice is rather excited, that's all,” said Marian,
“and you can go back. We do not wish to disturb
you.”

“Frederic,” came a faint whisper from the bedside,
and knowing that farther remonstrance was useless,
Marian stood like a rock, while Frederic advanced toward
the child, who lay with her head thrown back,
the great tears rolling down her cheeks, and the great

joy of what she had heard, shining out all over her
little face.

“Did you want me, birdie?” he asked, but ere he
had ceased speaking, Marian was at his side.

Alice knew that she was there, and she pressed both
hands upon her lips to force back the secret she had
been forbidden to divulge.

“Is she delirious?” Frederic asked, and shaking her
head, Alice whispered: “No, no, but happy, so happy.
Oh, Frederic, I don't want to die! Must I? If I take
a heap of Doctor's stuff, will I get well, think?”

“I hope so,” said Frederic, his suspicious of insanity
rapidly increasing.

“Give me your hand,” she continued, “and yours,
too, Miss Grey.”

Both were extended, and joining them together she
said, “Love her, Frederic. Love her all you want to.
You may—you may. It isn't wicked. Oh, Marian,
Marian.”

The last word was a whisper, and as it died away,
Marian seized Frederic's arm, and said, beseechingly:
“Please leave the room, Mr. Raymond. You see she
is excited, and I can quiet her best alone. Will you
go?”

The brown eyes looked reproachfully at her and entreatingly
at him, but neither heeded the expression,
and with a feeling that he scarcely understood what
the whole proceeding meant, and why he had been
called in if he must be summarily dismissed, Frederic
went out, leaving Marian alone with Alice.

“Why didn't you let me tell him?” the latter asked,
and Marian replied, “I shall tell him by and by:
but I am not ready yet, and you must not betray me.”

“I'll try,” said Alice, “but 'tis so hard. I had to
bite my tongue to keep the words from coming. Where
have you beeen? Why didn't you come to us before.
How came you so beautiful—so grand?” Alice asked,
all in the same breath.

But Marian absolutely refused to answer the question

until she had become quiet and been refreshed
with sleep.

“All in good time, dearest,” she said, “but you
must rest now. You are wearing out too fast, and you
know you do not want to die.”

This was the right chord to touch, and it had the desired
effect.

“Let me ask one question, and say one thing,” said
Alice, “and I won't talk another word till morning.
When you are ready may I tell Frederic, if I ain't
dead?”

“Yes, darling,” was the ready answer, and winding
her arms round Marian's neck, the blind girl continued:
“Isn't it almost morning?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And when it is, won't it be Christmas day?”

“Yes, but you have asked three questions, instead of
one.”

“I know—I know; but what I want to say is this:
“I wished my Christmas gift might be Marian, and it
is. Last year it was of a beautiful little pony, but
you are worth ten hundred million ponies. Oh, I'm
so glad—so glad,” and on the childish face there was a
look of perfect happiness.

Even after she shut her eyes and tried to sleep her
lips continued to move, and Marian could hear the
whispered words: “Our own Marian—our blessed
Marian.”

The excitement was too much for Alice, and when
next morning the physician came, he pronounced her
worse than she had been the previous night.

“But I ain't going to die,” said Alice resolutely;
“I can't die now,” and it was this very determination
on her part which did more to save her life than all
the doctor's drugs or Dinah's wonderful tears.

For many days she seemed hovering between life
and death, while Marian never for a moment left her,
and Alice was more quiet when she was sitting by,
holding her feverish hand; she seemed to have lost all

her desire to tell, for she never made any attempt so to
do, though she persisted in calling her teacher Marian,
and a look of pain always flitted over her face when
she heard her addressed as Miss Grey. Sometimes she
would start up, and winding her arms around her neck
would whisper in her ear, “Are you Marian for sure
—our Marian, I mean?”

“Yes, Marian Lindsey, sure,” would be the answer,
and the little girl would fall away again into a half
unconscious state, a smile of joy wreathing her white
lips, and an expression of peace resting on her face.

At last, just as the New Year's morning dawned, she
woke from a deep, unbroken sleep, and Marian and
Frederic, who watched beside her, knew that she was
saved. There were weeks of convalescence, and Dinah
often wondered at Alice's patience in staying so long
and willingly in the chamber where she had suffered so
much. But to Alice that sick room was a second paradise
and Marian the bright angel whose presence made all
the sunlight of her life.

Gradually as she could bear it, Marian told her everything
which had come to her since she left Redstone
Hall, and Alice's eyes grew strangely bright when she
heard that the bracelet she had always prized so much
was made from Marian's hair, and that Ben's visit to
Kentucky was all a plan of his to see if Frederic were
married.—Greatly was she shocked when she heard of
the letter which had almost taken Marian's life.

“Frederic never did that cruel thing,” she knew.

“But 'twas in his hand-writing,” said Marian, “and
until the mystery is cleared away, I cannot forgive
him.”

For a long time Alice sat absorbed in thought, then
suddenly starting forward, she cried: “I know, Marian.
I know now, Isabel did it. I'm sure she did. I
remember it all so plain.

“Isabel,” repeated Marian: “how could she? What
do you mean?”

“Why,” returned Alice, “You say you sent it a

few weeks after you went away, and I remember so
well Frederic's going to Lexington one day, because
that was the time it came to me that you were not
dead. It was the first morning, too, that Isabel heard
my lessons, and she scolded because I didn't remember
quick, when I was thinking all the time of you,
and my heart was aching so. For some reason, I can't
tell what, I showed her that note you left for me. You
remember it; don't you? It read:

“Darling Alice! Precious Alice: If my heart were
not already broken, it would break in leaving you.”

“Yes, yes; I remember,” said Marian, and Alice
continued:

“She said your hand-writing was queer, when she
gave me back the note. That evening, Josh came
back from Frankfort with a heap of letters for Frederic,
and one of them I know was from you. I was
standing out under the big maple tree thinking of you,
when Isabel came and asked to take the note again,
and I let her have it. Ever so long after, I started to
go into the library, for I heard somebody rustling
papers, and I didn't know but Dud was doing mischief.
Just as I got to the door, I heard a voice like Isabel's
only sounded scared like, exclaim, `It is from her,
but he shall never see it, never;' or something like
that, and when I called to her she wouldn't answer me
until I got close to her, and then she laughed as if she
was choked, and said she was trying to frighten me.
Marian, that her was you, and that he was Frederic.
She copied his writing, and sent the letter back because
she wanted Frederic herself.”

“Could she do such a thing,” said Marian more to
herself than to Alice, who replied:

“She can do anything; for Dinah says she's one of
the —, I reckon that I'll skip that word in there, because
it's almost swearing, but it means Satan's unaccountables,”
and Alice's voice dropped to a whisper at
what she fancied to be profanity.

Marian could understand why Isabel should do such

a wicked thing even better than Alice, and after reflecting
upon it for a time, she accepted it as a fact,
and even suggested the possibility of Isabel's having
been the author of the letter from Sarah Green.

“She was! she was!” cried Alice, starting to her
feet! “It's just like her—for she thought Frederic
would surely want to marry her then. I know she
wrote it, and managed to get it to New York somehow;”
and as is often the case poor Isabel was compelled
to bear more than her share of the fraud, for
Marian, too, believed that she had been in some way
implicated with the letter from Sarah Green.

“And I may tell Frederic now—mayn't I?” said
Alice. “Suppose we set to-morrow, when he's in the
library among the letters. He'll wonder what I'm
coming in there for, all wrapped up in shawls. But
he'll know plenty quick, for it will be just like me
to tell it all at once, and he will be so glad. Don't
you wish it was to-morrow now?”

Marian could not say she did, for she had hoped for
more decisive demonstration of affection on Frederic's
part ere she revealed herself to him, but Alice was so
anxious, and had waited so patiently, that she at last
consented, and when at supper she met Frederic as
usual, she was conscious of a different feeling towards
him than she had ever experienced before. He seemed
unusually dejected, though exceedingly kind to her,
talking but little, it is true, but evincing, in various
ways, the interest he felt in her, and even asking her
to sit with him awhile ere returning to Alice's chamber.
There was evidently something on his mind
which he wished to say, but whatever it might have
been, seven o'clock found it still unsaid, and as Alice
retired at that hour, Marian arose to go.

“Must you leave me?” he said, rising too, and accompanying
her to the door. “Yes, you must!” and
Marian little guessed the meaning these three words
implied.

She only felt that she was not indifferent to him—

that the story Alice was to tell him on the morrow
would be received with a quiet kind of happiness at
least—that he would not bid her go away as she once
had done before—and with the little blind girl, she,
too, began to think the morrow would never come.