CHAPTER II.
ALICE.
"As I approached the cottage door, my attention was arrested by a low, mournful voice, singing in sad and subdued tones, a ditty which seemed the spontaneous outpouring of a wounded spirit. The words were several times repeated, and I noted them down as I leant upon the trunk of the old tree. Out of sight, but within a few feet of the songstress, whose face was hidden from me by the thick foliage of the glorious old tree, in whose broad-spreading branches, I had played and frolicked when a boy.
""THE SONG.
I once was happy, blithe and gay, No maiden"s heart was half so light; I cannot sing, for well a-day!
My morn of bliss is quenched in night.
I cannot weep--my brain is dry, Deep woe usurps the voice of mirth The sunshine of youth"s cloudless sky Has faded from this goodly earth.
My soul is wrapped in midnight gloom, And all that charmed my heart before, Droops earthward to the silent tomb, Where darkness dwells for evermore."
"The voice ceased. I stepped from my hiding-place. Alice rose from the bench beside the door; the work on which she was employed fell from her hand, and she stood before me wild and wan--the faded spectre of past happiness and beauty.
""Good heavens! Alice, Can this be you?"
""I may return the compliment," she said, with a ghastly smile. "Can this be Philip? Misery has not been partial, or your brow wears its mark in vain."
""Unhappy sister of an unhappy brother!" I cried, folding her pa.s.sive form to my heart, "I need not ask why you are altered thus."
"The fire which had been burning in my brain for some weeks, yielded to softer emotions. My head sunk upon her shoulder, and I wept long and bitterly.
"Alice regarded me with a curious and mournful glance, but shed no tears.
""Alice! That villain has deceived you?"
"She shook her head.
""It is useless to deny facts so apparent. Do you love him still?"
"She sighed deeply. "Yes, Philip. But he has ceased to love me."
""Deserted you?"
"Her lip quivered. She was silent.
""The villain! his life shall answer for the wrong he has done you!"
"The blood rushed to her pale, wasted cheeks, her eyes flashed upon me with unnatural brilliancy, and grasping my arm, she fiercely and vehemently replied--
""Utter that threat but once again, and we become enemies for life. If he has injured me and made me the wreck you see--it is not in the way you think. To destroy him would drive me to despair. It would force me to commit an act of desperation. I will suffer no one to interfere between me and the man I love. I am strong enough to take my own part--to avenge myself, if need be. I can bear my own grief in silence, and therefore beg that you will spare your sympathy for those who weep and pule over misfortune. I would rather be reproached than pitied for sorrows that I draw upon myself."
"She sat down trembling with excitement, and tried to resume her former occupation. Presently the needle dropped from her hand, and she looked wistfully up in my face:--
""Philip, what brought you here?"
""An unwelcome visitor, I fear."
""Perhaps so. People always come at the worst times, and when they are least wanted."
""Do you include your brother in that sweeping common-place term--has he become to you as one of the people? Ah, Alice."
""We have been no more to each other for the last three years, Philip.
Your absence and long silence made me forget that I had a brother. Few could suppose it, from the little interest you ever expressed for me."
""I did not think of you, or love you the less."
""Mere words. Love cannot brook long separation from the object beloved. It withers beneath neglect, and without personal intercourse droops and dies. While you were happy and prosperous you never came near us; and I repeat again--what brings you now?"
""I have been unfortunate, Alice; the dupe of villains who have robbed me of my property, while my own folly has deprived me of self-respect and peace of mind. Ill and heart-sick, I could not resist the strong desire to return to my native place to die."
""There is no peace here, Philip," said she, in a low soft voice. "I too, would fain lie down on the lap of mother earth and forget my misery. But we are too young--too wretched to die. Death comes to the good and happy, and cuts down the strong man like the flower of the field; but flies the wretch who courts it, and grins in ghastly mockery on the couch of woe. Take my advice, Philip Mornington, lose no time in leaving this place. Here, danger besets you on every side."
""Why, Alice, do you think I fear the puny arm of Theophilus Moncton--the base betrayer of innocence."
""Why Theophilus. Spare your reproaches, Philip; we shall quarrel seriously if you mention that name with disrespect to me--I cannot, and will not bear it. It was not him I meant. You have offended our grandmother by your long absence, Dinah loves you not. It is her anger I would warn you to shun."
""And do you think I am such a coward, as to tremble and fly from the malice of a peevish old granny?"
""You laugh at my warning, Philip. You may repent rashness when too late. The fang of the serpent is not deadened by age, and the rancour in the human heart seldom diminishes, with years. Dinah never loved you, and absence has not increased the strength of her affection."
""I am not come to solicit charity, Alice. I have still enough to pay the old woman handsomely for board and lodging until my health returns, or death terminates my sufferings. If Dinah takes me--a fact I do not doubt--she loves money. Where is she now?"
""In the village, I expect her in every minute."
""And Miss Moncton?" I said, hesitating, and lowering my voice. "How is she?"
""I don"t know," returned Alice, carelessly, "the Hall is no longer open to me."
""That tells its own tale," said I sorrowfully.
""The tale may be false, in spite of probability," returned she fiercely. "No one should dare openly condemn another without sufficient evidence."
""They need not go far for that," said I.
""That is your opinion."
""On most conclusive evidence."
""How charitable."
""How true, Alice."