“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 handwriting,” 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: