“Oh, Mr. Lauderdale, Arthur said I might tell you,” said Alice. “Papa! you heard what he said about papa? I ought to write and tell him what has happened. Perhaps I ought to tell you from the beginning,” she continued, after composing herself a little. “We left home without his consent—indeed, he did not know. For dear Arthur,” said the poor girl, turning her appealing eyes from one to the other, could not approve of his ways. “He did something that Arthur thought was wrong. I cannot tell you about it,” said Alice through her tears; “it did not make so much difference to me. I think I ought to write and tell him, and that Arthur forgave him at the last. Oh, tell me, please, what do you think I should do?”
“If you would like to go home, I’ll take you home,” said Lauderdale. “He did not mean ony harm, poor callant, but he’s left an awfu’ burden on you.”
“Go home!” said Alice, with a slight shudder. “Do you think I ought—do you think I must? I do not care for myself; but Mrs. Meredith, you know—” she added with a momentary blush; and then the friends began to perceive another unforeseen lion in the way.
“Out of my own head,” said Lauderdale, who took the whole charge of this business on himself, and would not permit Colin to interfere, “I wrote your father a kind of a letter. If you are able to hear the—the event—which has left us a’ mourning—named in common words, I’ll read you what I have written. Poor bairn, you’re awfu’ young and awfu’ tender to have such affairs in hand! Are you sure you are able to bear it, and can listen to what I have said?”
“Ah, I have borne it,” said poor Alice. “I cannot deceive myself, nor think Arthur is still here. What does it matter then about saying it? Oh, yes, I can bear anything—there is only me to be hurt now, and it doesn’t matter. It was very kind of you to write. I should like to know what you have said.”
Colin, who could do nothing else for her, put forward the arm-chair with the cushions towards the table, and Sora Antonia put down the “Garden of the Soul” and drew a little nearer with her heavy, firm step, which shook the house. She comprehended that something was going on which would tax the Signorina’s strength, and brought her solid, steady succour to be in readiness. The pale little girl turned and smiled upon them both, as she took the chair Colin had brought her. She was herself quite steady in her weakness and grief and loneliness. Sora Antonia was not wanted there; and Colin drew her aside to the window, where she told him all about the fireworks that were to be in the evening, and her hopes that after a while the Signorina would be able to “distract herself” a little and recover her spirits; to which Colin assented dutifully, watching from where he stood the pale looks of the friendless young woman—friendless beyond disguise or possible self-deception, with a stepmother whom she blushed to mention reigning in her father’s house. Colin’s thoughts were many and tumultuous as he stood behind in the window, watching Alice and listening to Sora Antonia’s description of the fireworks. Was it possible that perhaps his duty to his neighbour required from him the most costly of all offerings, the rashest of all possible actions? He stood behind, growing more and more excited in the utter quiet. The thought that had dawned upon him under the ilex-trees came nearer and grew more familiar, and as he looked at it he seemed to recognise all that visible machinery of Providence bringing about the great event which youth decides upon so easily. While this vision grew before his mind, Alice was wiping off the tears which obliterated Lauderdale’s letter even to her patient eyes; for, docile and dutiful as she was, it was yet terrible to read in calm distinct words, which put the matter beyond all doubt, the announcement of “what had happened.” This is what Lauderdale had said:—
“Sir,—It is a great grief to me to inform you of an event for which I have no way of knowing whether you are prepared or not. Your son, Arthur Meredith, has been living here for the last three months in declining health, and on Thursday last died in great comfort and constancy of mind. It is not for me, a stranger, to offer vain words of consolation, but his end was such as any man might be well content to have, and he entered upon his new life joyfully, without any shadow on his mind. As far as love and friendship could soothe the sufferings that were inevitable, he had both; for his sister never left his bedside, and myself and my friend Colin Campbell were with him constantly, to his satisfaction. His sister remains under our care. I who write am no longer a young man, and know what is due to a young creature of her tender years; so that you may satisfy yourself she is safe until such time as you can communicate with me, which I will look for as soon as a reply is practicable, and in the meantime remain,
“Your son’s faithful friend and mourner,
“W. Lauderdale.”
Alice lingered over this letter, reading it, and crying, and whispering to Lauderdale a long time, as Colin thought. She found it easier, somehow, to tell her story fully to the elder man. She told him that Mrs. Meredith had “come home suddenly,” which was her gentle version of a sad domestic history,—that nobody had known of her father’s second marriage until the stepmother arrived, without any warning, with a train of children. Alice’s mild words did not give Lauderdale any very lively picture of the dismay of the household at the unlooked-for apparition, but he understood enough to condemn Arthur less severely than he had been disposed to do. This sudden catastrophe had happened just after the other misery of the bank failure, which had ruined so many; and poor Meredith had no alternative between leaving his sister to the tender mercies of an underbred and possibly disreputable stepmother, or bringing her with him when he retired to die; and Alice, though she still cried for “poor papa,” recoiled a little from the conclusion of Lauderdale’s letter. “I have enough to live upon,” she said, softly, with an appealing glance at her companion. “If you were to say that I was quite safe, would not that be enough?” and it was very hard for Lauderdale to convince her that her father’s judgment must be appealed to in such a matter. When she saw he was not to be moved on this point, she sighed and submitted; but it was clearly apparent that as yet, occupied as she was by her grief, the idea that her situation here was embarrassing to her companions or unsuitable for herself had not occurred to Alice. When she retired, under the escort of Sora Antonia, the two friends had a consultation over this perplexing matter; and Lauderdale’s sketch—filled in, perhaps, a little from his imagination—of the home she had left, plunged Colin into deeper and deeper thought. “No doubt he’ll send some answer,” the philosopher said. “He may not be worthy to have the charge of her, but he’s aye her father. It’s hard to ken whether it’s better or worse that she should be so unconscious of anything embarrassing in her position; which is a’ the more wonderful, as she’s a real honest woman, and no way intellectual nor exalted. You and me, Colin,” said Lauderdale, looking up in his young companion’s face, “must take good care that she does not find it out from us.”
“Of course,” said Colin, with involuntary testiness; “but I do not see what her father has to do with it,” continued the young man. “She cannot possibly return to such a home.”