But Isabel was never intended for a teacher, and she found it very tedious reading the same thing over and over, particularly as Alice seemed inattentive and not at all inclined to remember. At last she said, impatiently, “For the pity’s sake how many more times must I read it. Can’t you learn anything?”
“Don’t—don’t speak so,” sobbed Alice. “I’m thinking of Marian, and how she used to be with me. It’s just six weeks to-day since she went away. Oh, I wish she’d come back. Do you believe she’s dead?”
Isabel was interested in anything concerning Marian, and closing the book, she began to question the child, asking her among other things, “if Marian did not leave a letter for Mr. Raymond, and if she knew what was in it.”
“No one knows,” returned the child; “he never told—but here’s mine,” and drawing from her bosom the soiled note, she passed it to Isabel, who scrutinized it closely, particularly the handwriting.
“Of course she’s dead, or she would have been heard from ere this,” said she, passing the note back to Alice, who, not feeling particularly comforted, made but little progress in her studies that morning, and both teacher and pupil were glad when the lessons of the day were over.
Before starting for Lexington, Frederic had sent Josh on some errand to Frankfort, and just after dinner the negro returned. Isabel was still alone upon the piazza when he came up, and as she was expecting news from New Haven, she asked if he stopped at the post-office.
“Ye-e-us’m,” began the stuttering negro, “an’ I d-d-d-one got a h-h-eap on ’em, too,” and Josh gave her six letters—one for herself and five for Frederic.
Hastily breaking the seal of her own letter, she read that their matters at home were satisfactorily arranged—a tenant had already been found for their house, and their furniture would be safely stowed away. Hearing her mother in the hall, she handed the letter to her and then went to the library to dispose of Frederic’s. As she was laying them down she glanced at the superscriptions, carelessly, indifferently, until she came to the last, the one bearing the New York post-mark; then, with a nervous start she caught it up again and examined it more closely, while a sickening, horrid fear crept through her flesh—her heart gave one fearful throb and then lay like some heavy, pulseless weight within her bosom. Could it be that she had seen that handwriting before? Had the dead wife returned to life, and was she coming back to Redstone Hall? The thought was overwhelming, and for a moment Isabel Huntington was tempted to break that seal and read. But she dared not, for her suspicion might be false; she would see Alice’s note again, and seeking out the child she asked permission to take the letter which Marian had written. Alice complied with her request, and darting away to the library Isabel compared the two. They were the same. There could be no mistake, and in the intensity of her excitement, she felt her black hair loosening at its roots.
“It is from her, but he shall never see it, never!” she exclaimed aloud, and her voice was so unnatural that she started at the sound, and turning saw Alice standing in the door with an inquiring look upon her face, as if asking the meaning of what she had heard.
Isabel quailed beneath the glance of that sightless child, and then sat perfectly still, while Alice said, “Miss Huntington, are you here? Was it you who spoke?”