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 strength should be overtasked, felt more and 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: